Isle Knight

C3hP

2018-05-01T20:30:00.001-07:00

The great American humorist Mark Twain said that it is better to keep your mouth shut and be presumed an idiot than to open it and remove all doubt. This is why public speaking terrifies me and the mere fact that I now stand before you should speak volumes about what I will do for my children. And in the course of my fatherhood, I have done heroic feats for them. Like replacing baby diapers bursting with unspeakable contents. Like enduring mindless homilies just so I can sit close to them for one continuous hour every Sunday. Like risking heart attack to climb mountains because this seems to be their only concept of a family weekend. Now, I’m actually speaking before an audience of hundreds. Wearing a suit. In the middle of summer.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is tempting to tell you of the telenovela that is my life with Amman but I risk her displeasure and she just might rush into making a grandfather out of me. Instead, I shall speak about my own observations on how my long-suffering wife has endured me for 21 excruciating years. This, in the fervent hope that our newlyweds may glean a few lessons from my story. Most of us know that Amman and Carlo have been together for a couple of years now and they are hopefully past honeymoon stage and are overcoming adjustment period. But what they have learned so far about married life is the very small tip of a very large iceberg and yet this may delude them into thinking that marriage is a walk in the park. It is not. So, for them I shall paint a more realistic—others may say bleak—picture of married life if only for contrast in perspective.

FIVE ESSENTIALS IN MARRIAGE

Mr. and Mrs. Rafael Carlo Tuazon

Amman and Carlo, the first thing a couple needs to make their marriage work—and last—is COMMITMENT. But this is farthest from the wedding vows you have just threatened each other with. Believe me, those are the last things you will remember when you are deeply hurt or hopping mad. Not long ago, when you unleashed at me your intent to get married, I asked you one difficult question and, lest you have forgotten, I now repeat myself. In your mind, what is the gravest sin that your spouse can do against you and if in fact this is committed, what will you do? The answer is best kept to yourself but it shall define the depth of your commitment to the sacrament that you have just entered into. Your answer will tell you of the daunting work ahead of you in order to cobble together a successful marriage.

Once unconditionally committed, you must learn HUMILITY—the virtue from which many others emanate. With humility in your heart, you will know sacrifice and marriage is nothing if not one gargantuan and endless sacrifice. Humility allows acceptance of human frailty, makes forgiving possible and, most importantly, endows the sinner the courage to seek forgiveness. Humility defeats anger and therefore prevents hurtful words from being said and thoughtless decisions from being made. It enables a person to look at things from the other’s perspective and makes him talk less and listen more. In short, humility is just what Carlo needs to accept that Amman will always be right.

No human relationship, least of all marriage, is possible without HONESTY because it is the child of respect and the parent of trust. Many of us however mistake the absence of lies as total honesty and find no guilt in withholding vital truths that may otherwise change the whole story. This creates inhibitions between husband and wife because real conjugal communication can only flourish if complete honesty is the premise for both spouses. Only in this environment are they able to share dreams, admit feelings of inadequacy and together find solutions to problems. They are able to openly discuss issues about marital intimacy and thus nurture a healthy physical relationship. The expression of gratitude is easy and so is giving credit where credit is due. True and complete honesty converts a marriage into friendship.

It’s not whimsical that I began this speech with a quotation from Mark Twain for laughter often tides me over life’s bad surprises. Goodness knows the many times when only my sense of HUMOR has prevented me from driving an icepick down my wife’s throat and I’m positive she has darker imaginings of how to get rid of her worthless husband. Luckily, her sense of humor is keener than mine. It is therefore a testament to your sense of humor, Carlo, if one day you find yourself adding horns, fangs and tail to the image of Amman tattooed on your forearm. But please don’t complicate your problems by using indelible ink. However, marriage counselling may already be imperative when you begin scouring the internet for poison that cannot be detected in post-mortem autopsy. This brings me to what Mr. Twain said about marriage and I quote him again. “The only qualification for getting married should be insanity.”

But, I dread to tell you, my children, that there will be times when bitter tears shall drown out even the loudest laughter, when proven betrayal shall confirm dubious honesty, when pride shall get in the way of healing wounded hearts and when leaving shall seem a whole lot better than staying. The stage that is a marriage seems to be God’s favorite venue for his painful tragicomedies and trials in varying degrees of difficulty are not just a possibility in any marriage. They are a certainty. Luckily for all of us, God has also provided every married couple with an unfailing escape towards a happy ending: PRAYER. Amman and Carlo, when everything else seems to have failed, pray.

In closing, ladies and gentlemen, I wish to thank all of you brave souls for battling through all that Saturday traffic to let us know how much you care for this family. Thank you for quietly marinating in your own sweat during the long wedding mass and the even longer picture-taking afterwards. And thank you for not stoning this idiot offstage. Please indulge me a bit longer as I now address myself exclusively to my eldest child, my lovely daughter, first of three beautiful dreams fulfilled.

My dear Amman, I wonder if you know how lucky you are. This is so for many reasons including of course getting this fine gentleman to agree to become your husband. You are luckier than most of us for one singular reason: you have three mothers. First, there is your biological mother who risked her own to give you your very life. Then there is your grandmother who gives you more love than anyone else can. And lastly, there is your stepmother who accepted you wholeheartedly and who considers you her very own. All these three women deserve your undying gratitude.

In the eleven years that you and I have come to truly know each other, I think it is safe to claim that I have made you feel how much I love you. What remains doubtful is if I have said and done enough to let you know how proud I am of you. So tonight in the presence of all this people, let me unequivocally declare how proud this father is of his daughter. Again, there are many reasons why but for tonight let me just focus on one thing. I’m proud of you for knowing what you want and for fighting for it even if it means fighting with me. But I’m prouder that you also work for what you want and that you know how to enjoy it once you have it.

One Father’s Day, not too long ago, you gifted me with this dainty little box. Inside it were small pieces of paper on which were written quotations from famous people about fathers and fatherhood. My favorite quotation there was attributed to George Bernard Shaw and it said “He is a truly successful father whose children run to his arms even if his hands are empty.” Now, it’s fairly certain that I will grow old a poor man but I do so happily being secure in the belief that you, Amman, your brother Trei and your sister Jeg will continue to run into my arms even when my hands are empty.

18 Advices To Trei As He Turns 18

2017-09-20T22:43:00.001-07:00

1. Study hard for the stock knowledge necessary to become a topnotch professional. Study smart to suck up to the prof and get high marks.

2. Party harder but always remain sober enough to know—and to be able to flee—when things are getting out of hand.

3. Even when things do get out of hand, always respect women. But when they try to disrespect you, please cooperate.

4. Always respect your elders if only because I’m one of them.

5. Find at least one older mentor whose intellect you respect and whose character you wish to emulate; his opinion will be invaluable when the girlfriend misses a period.

6. Worry less about what goes into your mouth than what goes out of it. The first can only weaken your own body but the second may break another person’s heart.

7. Learn from your mistakes. Learn from the lessons of life. Learn and learn and never think yourself too smart for any more learning.

8. Always aspire for a position of leadership and never shy away from responsibility.

9. Discern true friends from false ones. In your moments of triumph, the first step aside so you may bask in the limelight; the second jostle for camera range. In your most painful hour, true friends will silently cry beside you; the false ones need to bring the dog to the vet.

10. Laugh at yourself and laugh at the world. More importantly, laugh with the world when it laughs at you. This is the best way to have the last laugh.

11. Find a God to worship and remember that, whatever you conceive Him to be, God is a funny chap. After all, He created you.

12. Youth runs out really fast so while your hands are strong and your feet are fast, dare for adventure. Breaking an arm in soccer is admirable but doing that while climbing Everest or wrestling a tamaraw are far worthier of hospital bills.

13. Never do anything just because everyone else is doing it. Be the lemming that asks "Why are we doing this again?" while the rest of the pack are busy hurling themselves off a cliff.

14. Indulge! Eat even the recipes of gluttons and drink even the potables of shamans but always do so in moderation. Then pray like a cloistered nun that your health may not be irreparably damaged.

15. Eat a balanced diet and take care of your body. It's the only one you've got.

16. Love to excess.

17. Postpone homework to admire the sunset. Defeat hangover to embrace the sunrise.

18. Trust your instincts and drive defensively.

A Good Score

2016-11-30T23:08:00.001-08:00

The title of course is a double entendre though perfect was initially written ahead of good. One may be forgiven hifalutin modifiers to describe his score of joyful matrimony knowing the torment all too familiar couples endure so as not to worsen the divorce rate. I wallow in wedded bliss largely because of an angel for a wife but twenty years of marriage to a heavy snorer is not exactly a walk in the park for this light sleeper. It has taught me endless sacrifice, selfless endeavor and limitless understanding—fine qualities I never would have needed had I remained single to begin with.

But my mother—the woman who loved me the most—died on me. Coming home from burying her, I found my apartment strangely dark and empty where before I had always looked forward to this refuge after spending myself in bohemian pursuits. Thirty-four and ravishing (ahem!), I had always viewed my lair with favor being the lovely scene of many of my crimes. But this evening, the loneliness was maddening, the solitude unbearable. I was about to flee and once again find solace in the pleasures of the city night when, lo and behold, Cherry materialized before my very doorstep. I fell into her arms and wept like the Mama’s boy I still am. Then my girlfriend of six years, Cherry had wisely anticipated this moment of vulnerability and, unannounced and uninvited, shrewdly produced herself at the perfect instance.

A few nights later, I proffered a cheap ring (one needs a microscope to get a hint of the

26 October 1996

stone mounted somewhere on the band) acquired on long-term credit and grudgingly ceded my bachelorhood under a full moon. To this day, the UP Sunken Gardens remains hallowed ground to Cherry as setting to her greatest conquest. In the days following, she made sure that my proposal was cast in stone and that turning back on it would be criminally justiciable. Just months later, we were wed in an age-old Malate church on an October afternoon surrounded by family and friends. As I said my vows, a violent thunderstorm ripped about as if the Gods needed to air some grievances. But the weather cleared soon enough for the dreamlike garden reception to proceed amidst the gleaming of a thousand lights and the music of a string quartet.

Chaste all her life, Cherry still needed another night to slake her deprivation, no thanks to her college chums. Unhappy about sharing the newlyweds with the entire guest list, they gatecrashed our first night with their respective mates and the post-reception party in our hotel room raged into the wee hours. When finally left alone to give vent to her pent-up desires, the blushing bride found her dashing groom comatose with drink. I however made up for this booboo a hundredfold in the ensuing honeymoon on a tropical island with turquoise waters licking powdery beaches and endangered deer cavorting in the woods. But my kids will beg me to spare the world its gory details.

Ah, the kids—the happy consequence of unbridled passions. After several years into our marriage, these very short people were toddling about the house perpetually demanding attention from their bigger housemates. They drank a lot of milk and pissed and pooped on a king’s ransom worth of diapers. But they had very smooth buttocks and their morning breath smelled like Mama’s vanilla pudding. One knew peace watching them sleep and it was the closest thing to heaven when they snuggled up to you in the middle of the night because ghouls had visited their dreams. Now, they have morphed into horrid teenagers who regard parents like bacteria (you know, utterly disgusting but essential to life) yet there is nothing in the world I still wouldn’t give for even just one of their hugs.

The children too are incontrovertible proof that, indeed, it has been twenty years since that thunderstorm in Malate. Their rooms are now littered with distressed jeans and vanity kits instead of alphabet blocks and Mickey Mouse slip-ons. The book shelves host Shakespeare and Advanced Algebra and Trigonometry where there used to sit Dr. Seuss and The Early Reader. They have forsaken the toys of childhood in favor of the gadgets of millennials but gracefully accept that the Internet is a sorry substitute for human interaction. And so they engage their parents in post-dinner chats about basketball, current events and the elusiveness of life’s ideals. They have made concrete plans for their immediate future.

22 October 2016

The kids are growing up as our relatives and friends are …well, growing old. Their fading images in our wedding album smile broadly with smooth skins and erect postures. Most of them have retained such attributes but a few ladies now bear on their faces the wonders of cosmetic science while some gentlemen brag of undiminished prowess without due credit to Viagra. We terribly miss those who have gone on to where all of us shall eventually follow and cherish those who have joined our ever-widening sphere of kith and kin. These johnnies-come-lately shall all wonder at one time or another why they did not deserve a better fate.

Doubtless, the people who enrich our life are God’s greatest gift to my marriage and family. But we cannot complain about material deprivations either. In spite of my inadequacy as provider, we eat well, wear nice clothes and live in comfortable dwelling. Two cars sit in the garage and flowers surround the back porch. The kids go to the best schools hereabout and every now and then I allow my blood pressure to skyrocket on account of travel expenses. We cannot complain.

For sure, like everyone else, we have had trials interspersed with our many joys but they have been light, few and far between. A little misfortune here, a ruinous business transaction there or some jealousy somewhere else have rocked our boat but it has always managed to remain afloat. Illness and injury have time and again scared the heck out of my family but not even cancer can intimidate it to cower in surrender. After all, we know that Someone up there has got our backs constantly.

It’s been indeed a good score.

Down Under and Back Again

2016-08-27T13:37:00.004-07:00

Travelling uproots me—mind, body and soul. It deprives me of the comforts of my home, upsets my established routine and complicates my easy lifestyle. To top it all, it wreaks havoc on my eternally precarious financial situation. It’s not easy to enjoy such an experience.

But Florence was getting married in Australia and nothing short of a Martian invasion could have kept the wife and me from attending. Now all grown into a stunning woman, this niece—though far from us all these years—remains to be a slice in the cake of our combined affections. When she was just Orange, a little girl with a devastating smile, Cherry and I were young lovers dating steadily while her parents (my brother Quito and his wife Helen) were promising physicians scrabbling for medical careers. On a few occasions when work conflicted with parenting, the couple solicited Cherry and me to stand in, something we were both happy to do. A ballet recital here, a Catholic confirmation there and Cherry joked that our dating had already borne our panganay.

Now our “eldest” was getting married and this was reason enough to again endure getting uprooted. Soon after hearing of the grand news, the wife booked plane tickets for Sydney (promo seats, of course) and travel requirements were completed posthaste. The local Australian embassy, on the other hand, was not in a terrible hurry to grant us visas and took its sweet time to decide that all five members of my family would not lose themselves in the outback to steal livelihood from aborigines. We missed our budget flight and rebooking fees compromised my children’s education fund a little bit. And this only after a river of tears from my family.

We didn’t know it then but this trip would turn out to be the most providential one my family and I had embarked on.

It was fun too, I must concede (grudgingly?). My photo library now overflows with family selfies taken around the Opera House, through the narrow streets of The Rocks and in the lovely nooks of the Botanical Gardens. Strolling along Bondi Beach could have been great sightseeing had the sunbathers, blond and buxom, dispensed with their tiny bikinis altogether for a seamless tan. The amazing hike beside the cascades and under the trees of the Blue Mountains should be my favorite but Florence, her then fiancé Carlos and another niece, Carmi, made sure I got immersed—pun unintended—deep in the thriving Australian beer culture. Few treats can beat artisanal beer maintained at a useful level in one’s bloodstream.

The wedding itself was unforgettable. A stretch limo ferried the glowing bride to the quaint church where I felt instantly at home upon seeing ad majorem dei gloriam on the altar backdrop. No wonder the Ateneo partisans in the clan were beaming all throughout the rites while those from the other school kept the cusswords to themselves. During reception, Mario, the best man, stole the show with his laugh-out-loud speech and if I were the father of the bride (who didn’t do too badly himself) I would have avenged getting upstaged by depriving the little fellow of alcohol all night.

By way of a gift, Cherry slipped a few US dollars into an envelope together with a letter that said: “Orange, it is not only on the big occasions that you can count on us; it is specially on the little ones as well. Carlos, take care of our panganay. We had her when we were still dating and she is very special to us. To both of you, as we keep telling our kids, we may not be able to give you the best things in life, but we promise to give you the best of our time.” The bride would later confess being moved to tears by our gift but she didn’t say whether it was because of the letter or the pittance that came with it.

Two nights before our flight home, Cherry was stricken with a bad cough almost certainly due to the sudden transition from the heat of Manila to the chill of Sydney. During coughing spells, she felt strange, intense pains around her right breast and once back home, she immediately had herself checked. Long story short, a malignant lump was found concealed behind her nipple and the breast had to go. The cancer was of the aggressive type but its prompt detection (stage 2A) and excision have resulted in optimistic prognoses. This would not have been possible if Cherry didn’t have the coughs, which she rarely gets without sudden change in weather, which we wouldn’t have undergone if we didn’t go to Sydney. God works in mysterious ways.

Mr. and Mrs. CARLOS GABILA

Carlos and Florence were wed on the 24^th of April 2016, a Sunday before the Anzac holiday, which makes this blog four months overdue. I hadn’t gotten past the second paragraph when the bad news ran roughshod over my home and family. For weeks on end, too much was on my plate and too many things were running through my mind at any given time to be able to write anything resembling the product of a sane mind. Only after kinder, more favorable news had trickled in did I manage to pick up where I left off and rethink these recent events in my little life.

My skin still crawls everytime I remind myself that only by our love did my family receive God’s grace and I dread to imagine what would have happened if Florence were not this dear to Cherry and me.

Isle Knight and You

2016-03-31T12:43:00.000-07:00

The writer is always in perpetual doubt about his work, and sometimes, as it often happens in a country where people do not read, he is consumed by this indescribable dread that he is not read at all – F. Sionil Jose

The Muse now visits rarely—if at all—and each time all too briefly. Two pages of respectable essay has become the hard, frustrating work Papa cautioned about. I’m so glad I don’t write for a living and so thankful that my old man did nothing to point me in that direction. After five years and 45 posts, blogging magic is now fading and the postings have become farther and farther between. Early on, this free and open venue for the detritus in my thoughts invariably inspired the cobbling together of one essay after another but of late the urge easily washes away at the onslaught of indolence.

I have been in this pass before. A tiny spark leads to ardent flame but the fire inside me never burns forever. New Year’s resolutions, hobbies, even jobs and relationships were thrown away as easily as they were picked up once the novelty had worn off. Classic ningas kugon. Commitments, to self and to others, never stood on the way of moving on to newer, more exciting things and discarding the old never provoked the slightest regret. But not so this blog. Quitting cold turkey just doesn’t feel right.

Some transition to a proper closure seems imperative but I can’t exactly put my finger on it. Is it the countless other opinions, worthless to the world as they are, that need to be said? Is it forthcoming events worth the torment of another attempt at writing like Florence’s wedding in Sydney next month and the twenty years of marriage to be celebrated late this coming October? Is it the high possibility that even if this blog ceases to be a preoccupation, every so often a few thoughtfully organized paragraphs will deserve to be posted? Or is it the story (to call it a novel would be presumptuous) in my mind dreaming to be told like flotsam in the ocean waiting to be washed ashore?

Is it some illusion that if I stopped blogging, Isle Knight will actually be missed? That’s of course presuming people actually read me but even Mr. Sionil Jose frets over uncertain readership and he is a National Artist for Literature, for crying out loud! Who in the world actually bothers to read me?

Well, there’s Luigi who claims responsibility for at least half of the 15,229 page views this blog has had thus far (proving that this good friend is just as guilty of the hyperbole he dislikes in my prose). A few others have given me the impression they too read me and their kind comments make me giddy with pleasure though even the most unflattering criticism is music to the ears of this blogger desperate for readers. But will these few interested souls

lose sleep once they are finally spared my frivolity? Doubtless, the world will scarcely miss a heartbeat once this unlamented journal dissipates into blog purgatory.

So, if I stopped blogging, who cares?

I’m happy to know that you most positively will. You who never fail to create a link in your

Facebook page to this blog so your friends can click onto my latest post—never mind that said links almost always start with “Kenn’s take on…” You who correctly inferred that I was Agnes and you were her husband in the two short stories (Coincidences and More Coincidences) I posted here. You who never ask why I have never blogged about you save for passing mentions in articles about other people.

Unlike Mr. Sionil Jose, it bothers me little that this blog has not stunned the world into rapt attention. Yours is all that matters to me. After all, Isle Knight was never meant to impress others but to reinforce our bond because I know you revel in my writings, believe in their righteousness and laugh out loud at my sorry attempts at humor. You seem convinced that human discourse benefits greatly from my insights as much as it does from Nietzsche’s. Hence, I’ve refrained from asking you whether this blog is worth keeping because I know you would say it is and I’d mistake that for world opinion.

This blog is just as much about you as it is about me and it could not be over until I have written about you. It all started with me; it must end with you. But, like writing about Papa, it’s so hard to write about you.

Remember the very first love letter I wrote you ages ago? It reminded you a lot of a Hallmark greeting card but that didn’t stop you from becoming my biggest fan. Your reaction did stop me though from churning out more haphazard schmaltz and I have since become more discerning of what I wrote. I don’t know that my succeeding work showed any improvement but I do know that you have collected in a box everything I have ever put on paper for you. Thought of this unfailingly brings a smile to my lips even as you threaten to show your collection to Jeg one of these days. My profound prayer is for our daughter not to disown me upon discovery of the embarrassment that is her father.

Like previous attempts at blogging about you, this piece too is now on the verge of being dragged to my desktop trash bin which I have already emptied a hundred times. But nothing I write will ever be good enough a tribute to how highly I value your esteem for this frustrated writer. Heck, if I were Da Vinci, even the Mona Lisa would not be good enough. After all, as our love song goes, “if a picture paints a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you?”

Oh, my! Here I go again.

Trip To Baler

2016-01-29T20:56:00.005-08:00

Previously thought ironclad, my resolve against holiday indulgence crumbled in the face of tenacious prodding. Obviously, those who profess to love me like my hedonistic charms more than they care for my physical wellbeing. Chilled beer and tapang kabayo proved irresistible amidst the spirit of the holidays and one sweet bottle led to another which led to countless more. With restraint now soaked in booze, chain-smoking ensued enhancing the flavors of fat, sugar and the other poisons of the season. No one dared to reckon the cost of our recklessness.

Bookended by both yearend eves, the promised drive to Baler needed to be fulfilled. Why my childhood friends had chosen the surfing haven as setting to renew our ties when we didn’t know the first thing about the sport was a mystery until apprised that fairer company had been conscripted. The choice may not have been theirs to begin with, never mind that one of our—uhm—new friends turned out to be not completely of the preferred gender. Lest midlife impropriety be presumed, good, clean fun was all that was expected and was all that was had. My friends and I just needed diversions to avoid tearing at each other’s throats before the weekend was done.

Diversion I certainly needed on the road—being the only driver in the group and being still convalescent from Christmas Day hangover—and was grateful for the mindless chatter, off-key singing and sudden shrieks that kept me awake throughout the long drive. Having the foresight to split our trip into two legs, we drove into Cabanatuan by late afternoon to pass the night. The agony of standstill traffic (something we thought to have left behind in the urban jungle) was eased by signs declaring Hunter Valley Resort was not far away.

We arrived when the gathering dusk had kindly dimmed the tacky landscaping and garden sculpture slandering the natural flora and fauna. This probably explained the temper of one nasty peacock that promptly attacked our vehicle as we drove in. Not to worry, the resort staff assured, that’s normal behavior for this fowl but its instinct to roost soon will keep the car unscathed in the night. Just to move it out of the fenced area, please, before sunup or the little devil will be back meaner. True enough, after one more go at my car, the bird strutted away triumphantly cackling into the bush pleased that the big interloper was a coward. This rude welcome notwithstanding, the food was surprisingly good and the heavy dinner made sleep beckon early. Drinking was organized in one room but I took a rain check and had a good night alone in another.

Photo by Rodolfo Tangan (Panoramio)

The beautiful sounds of the forest slowly ushered me back to wakefulness but thought of the peacock yanked me out of bed. With dew thick in the cold dawn air, I moved the car outside and searched for a quiet breakfast. Just like the previous meal, this one also surprised and even the coffee was outstanding. Two cups and yesterday’s crossword packed from home kept me occupied until my companions tumbled in one by one, all cranky with hangover. Cheered no end by this, I happily declared I was raring to drive up the Caraballo Mountains and down again to the Pacific Ocean. This turned out to be easier said than done. A wrong turn in one small town cost us nearly two hours to return to the same spot and correct our mistake.

The view from up in the mountains was breathtaking but the main bridge linking the poblacion of Baler to the highway had been rendered inaccessible by the last typhoon. No one had thought to inform the tourists pouring into town of this. Asking around, we found the long, roundabout but very scenic alternate route across vast ricefields. The busy town center was suddenly at hand with the ubiquitous tricycles crowding the narrow streets that all seemingly led to Sabang Beach now being endlessly battered by the roaring Pacific surf provoked by peak-season amihan.

All decent accommodations were taken except a suite at Costa Pacifica that cost a lung and a kidney. Persistence led us to more affordable quarters and we finally had lunch at 3:00PM. A quick hop to the Museo De Baler and the Bahay Ni Aurora reminded that I’m not a big fan of museums. There was absolutely nothing else in town but back on the beach it was fun to watch nubile bodies in bikinis tumbling off surfboards. But marriage issues of old friends took precedence over twilight cavorting in the waves with new ones, no matter how young and buxom. Cold beer and easy smoke away from the windy beach inspired hopefully sage advices but one night of course was insufficient for such complicated matters.

The way now more familiar, our return trip was faster and we drove into the smell of New Year’s firecrackers beginning to thicken in the city air. In between our hugs, the kids asked how we found surfing. What can one say but the truth? They cast unbelieving eyes and wondered aloud why grown-ups needed to drive all the way to Baler for beer. Questions like this reassure that investing in expensive education is worth every centavo.

The 80s

2015-12-07T14:04:00.000-08:00

I don’t remember much of the decade mainly due to what I was drinking (which was pretty much everything) but snippets from the lucid intervals hint at a youth happily squandered away.

In 1983, bellbottoms had gone passé but we still wore our hair long and my friends were still getting high to A Horse With No Name, Hotel California and the anthems of our teenage. Mopping up requirements for an engineering diploma, I was already deep in review course for my licensure exams not half-hearted about study for the first time in my life. I was straining at the leash for a career but some idiots killed Ninoy Aquino; the national economy tailspun and jobs went as scarce as a generous father-in-law.

For dearth of options, I agreed to teach basic math to engineering freshmen who couldn’t tell a monomial if it somersaulted into the classroom (though I now think the problem was more instructional competence than class aptitude). Before this daily exercise in futility could kill me, I received my license with flying colors (ahem!), fled the academe and pounded the city streets for another job. Everywhere I went, Bayan Ko resounded, yellow confetti rained down and soon I was a fixture in anti-Marcos people power.

We all know what happened in February 1986. I proudly tell my children nowadays that I did not stand aside and watch history pass me by. I was right in the thick of things—quite literally—as EDSA was being written. I faced down grizzled marines armed to the teeth, chased a tank speeding away and stormed the gates of the dictator’s palace. Courage of course is contagious especially if one is safely ensconced in the middle of a surging throng fronted by nuns toting rosaries, coeds brandishing flowers and paraplegics riding wheelchairs!

All that heroism did not come to naught as under the new dispensation I landed a job with the water agency. Here, I found a new set of friends: single twenty-somethings at the peak of their irresponsibility hesitating at the threshold of careers. We all shared a passion for potent beverage and viewed work as the evil necessary to finance our vice. Being in government, we couldn’t wait for the day to be over so we could party the night away. Our minds addled by the power of spirits, we lost ourselves in the crevices of the city barely aware of our whereabouts. The day after, I'd wake up in strange rooms that reeked of tobacco, alcohol and the passions of last night. Hangover was a lifestyle.

One sunny morning in April 1989, I found myself cradling a baby girl. At 27, I had become an unwed father still dazed and confused by the rapid turn of events. Not long after, I met a skinny, fair-skinned interior designer with bangs who could pass for a Chinatown heiress. I cut my hair, straightened my act and planned my future. Sobering up would take many more years but I was on the way.

The heiress is now my wife patiently planning my daily meals and the baby girl has become a beautiful young woman gladly footing my medical bills. Regular tests show that my youthful indulgences have not compromised my physical wellbeing. The younger kids go to fine schools, ample food waits on the family table and flowers bloom around the lanai.

I got lucky. Damn lucky!

A "Virgin Liver" Gets Hitched

2015-10-22T06:44:00.001-07:00

Something about September makes me feel the hopeless romantic, a September wedding doubly so, a September wedding on a resort island triply so and if anyone could dream up all this for herself, it would be Chari, sweet niece and fellow blogger.

News of the clan’s first wedding in a long time drove its members into a booking frenzy. It is a large one so flights to Tagbilaran and rooms on Panglao Island went instantly fully-booked around the wedding date. The occasion being must-attend and Bohol must-see, Cherry was quick to wangle budget airline seats and dirt-cheap family rooms, happy to hit two birds with one stone and certain the discounted rates would make her miser of a husband less anxious about the family bottom line. There was nothing though that my wife could do about my distaste for flying so on the plane I distracted myself with thoughts of Chari.

MR. AND MRS. JOSE MARIO TAN

Born weeks prematurely, she was the tiniest newborn I had ever seen when Caesar and Aleli first brought her home. A newly-minted civil engineer, I was then staying with my brother and his wife for free bed and board while on the prowl for the first unsuspecting firm that would trust me with a monthly salary. Unprepared for the rigors of the rat race she was too eager to join, baby Chari was in and out of the hospital for the first months of her life keeping her parents deeply worried for their second and, eventually, last offspring. By God’s grace, the baby soon developed a monstrous appetite, famously routed all her medical troubles and, just like big sister Carmi, ballooned into a bouncy, happy little girl.

The sisters—I thought—and their cousins Orange and Farah, showed surprising fondness for Cherry when I began bringing her to family parties. Once promoted from girlfriend to fiancée, Cherry in return conscripted all four teenagers to be junior bridesmaids in our wedding. Hell-bent on invites in the national language, we translated the four girls’ role into Mga Abay na Dalagita. Problem was my US-based best man Rey insisted to have the invitations printed expensively in LA and the first copies proclaimed the girls as Mga Atay na Dalagita. Thus did my junior bridesmaids become “virgin livers”!!!

Time had zipped away and now Chari was marching down the aisle herself as her dashing groom Jim, a strong and confident gentleman if ever I saw one, waited by the altar already misty-eyed. Family and friends, from places near and far, surrounded the lovers as they swapped marriage vows. Beaming like the sun through hers, Chari told Jim “I went to Europe to find myself. Instead I found you.” On the other hand, Jim, the brilliant lawyer, choked and sobbed through his and proceeded to be the comedic relief in his own wedding.

It was a fairytale wedding for a fairytale couple and one imagines the meticulous planning involved—every minor detail considered, each tiny kink ironed out. The event managers and all hands that helped the couple may now take a bow. But this is the easy part. Now that the wedding is out of the way comes the serious business of marriage. This is the far harder part. Can anyone help the newlyweds plan for this, too?

A battle-scarred, battle-tested veteran of marital wars, I know I can’t. Though marriage works for me, it is not something I readily advise two people—no matter how deeply in love—to jump into. After almost 19 years of bumbling about it, marriage remains uncharted territory to this jaded husband. You can’t plan for what is unknown. You have to wing it by the day and accept the bad surprises as they blindside you over coffee. Despite an angel for a wife, I’m not beyond liking to shoot Cherry in the head sometimes and I’m sure she feels the same way more often. Thankfully, the thought of prison is an effective deterrent.

A minefield lies ahead for Jim and Chari but we who love them are kept hopeful knowing that, hand in hand, no two people could be more capable of picking their way through. But it can’t hurt if we wish for them all the strength to bear the trials that are sure to come along the way and pray that may these trials be easy, few and far between.

VARSITY

2015-09-16T16:28:00.002-07:00

Over dinner, Trei casually announces that he has made the final cut to his high school volleyball team. Not content with consistent academic honors since preschool, my son has always nurtured the dream of representing his school in sports competitions. He initially flirted with basketball and then football but, wise beyond his years, he soon realized that the skills requirement—and the talent available—in both sports were way over his league so he focused his energies in training hard with the volleyball team hoping for a slot. He has been found worthy and I’m proud not so much because he has realized his dream but because he persevered on it.

I was never a fan of volleyball but then my goddaughter Jia Morado began devising the nuclear bombs that Alyssa Valdez detonates on the enemy and I got hooked. So I happily promise my son to watch as many of their games as I possibly can even if he isn’t too optimistic about his chances of actually playing. Who cares? Any team finding merit in my son’s athletic gifts (not to mention giving him free Nikes) deserves my undying support. As added incentive, the games shall be held in Adamson University, beloved alma mater and cradle of many memories.

Comes 29 August 2015, the wife and I surrender our precious Saturday to watch the inaugural games of UAAP Season 78 High School Volleyball Tournament. Interestingly, my son’s first varsity match is against his mother’s school on the very floor where his father had quite a few memorable basketball moments himself, ahem. Having heeded the combined counsel of Google Maps and Waze, we arrive two games ahead of the UP-Ateneo match. I decide to walk around.

This young man left in 1983 ….

The quaint church of San Vicente De Paul (right beside Adamson) is exactly as I remember it except, as you enter its frontyard from San Marcelino Street, Torre De Manila looms from behind like a big, ugly bully. The construction site for this “national photobomber” borders one stretch of the covered walk that links school and church to Taft Avenue. So where there used to be a low masonry wall topped by chain-links, there is now corrugated GI fencing completely shutting out ventilation and sunlight from the walkway. A few small shops catering to student needs now line one side of the church where there used to be parish offices, I think. The Marian bookshop and the “Coop” convenience store both remain in brisk business.

…. an old man came home recently

The cafeteria on one side of the main campus has given way to a parking lot for school buses and a good part of the courtyard behind the main building has been roofed over to accommodate an extension of the gym. This and a major makeover of the original gym itself are the only changes I’ve noticed to this side of the university. Inside the arena, it’s still as steamy as before despite huge fans in each corner trying in vain to blow out the humidity. The toilets smell the same.

A walk through the halls of the main building complete my trip down memory lane but time did not allow a quick hop over to the much larger campus across San Marcelino. Some other time maybe, my son’s game after all is what I came for. Despite the lopsided game in their favor, the hapless UP team barely offering token resistance, Trei didn’t get to play—clear indication of his role in succeeding games against better teams. But, again, who cares?

On the way home, I’m a happy man. My son is officially in the UAAP rolls (probably the first Altarejos there), his team won and I got to revisit an old part of myself I had nearly forgotten. And, oh, Trei wears jersey number 18, my old college number itself. He says though that’s not why he chose the number. Yeah, right!

Desiderata Redux

2015-07-30T04:18:00.002-07:00

The poem in your mind says to “go placidly amid the noise and the haste” and you wish to comply.

You ease out of the garage feeling virtuous that you are the early bird while the neighbors sleep on. The day’s first stoplight turns yellow considerately allowing you to brake gently. But the driver behind irately blows his horn, swerves to avoid you, screeches into your lane and zooms away; you almost hear his expletives splattering against your windows. He barely beats the red light and you smile. Have a nice day, fella!

What takes two hours in later traffic, you traverse in one at dawn and Filinvest City Alabang is barely dappled in sunrise when you drive into an empty Jollibee parking lot. Steaming coffee and the free daily precede rice, sausage and egg. The headlines tell of the politicians’ thievery but their trite shamelessness no longer wrecks your breakfast. So fortified you proceed to the first order of the day.

The nice couple is very happy with their spanking new home but they look tired. The past couple of nights have been sleepless, thanks to sewer rats cavorting inside their ceiling. Again you remind your foreman this is why we need to screen off the mouths of sewage mains, rainspouts, etc. Promising to deliver metal strainers by mid-afternoon, you give him all day to flush out all creatures that have gained entry into the pipes. Your phone shrieks and you know it’s time to go to the office.

Traffic is building up as you approach the tollway. Buses of dubious roadworthiness and

jeepneys groaning with fare spew untold carcinogens and, cresting the on–ramp, you see the accumulation of their poison hovering close to the ground in the distance. Imagining your lungs shrinking to a pair of raisins, you drive into the smog wishing for one of those gasmasks GIs wear when waging desert storms. It is with gratitude that you drive into the very last parking slot and duck into your office.

A skyscraper of folders teeters on your desk but before you can get one, the wife texts that the new maid is resigning. You are texting back when the landline rings. A client requests deposit of her check deferred—yet again—to some future date, maybe on the Lord’s second coming! You feel your blood simmer but you muster enough courtesy to murmur consent. As you settle back onto your chair, someone knocks and the lobby guard peeks in to ask if the double-parked Fortuner is yours. I wish, you reply rather testily and his head disappears.

The phone rings again but thankfully your office assistant explodes into the room and pounces on it. At once, you dig into the folders and find that both sales and collections have nosedived for the quarter. You are seeking explanations that will not send your directors to ICU when you are called back to the phone. With the receiver pressed to her neck, your assistant says Admin is asking if the double-parked Fortuner is yours. You strive for a civilized no amidst such provocation but your mobile screams and a shake of the head is all you manage. The materials supplier asks if, like the metal strainers, you would also pick up the PVC doors this afternoon or should he have them delivered to the site. You ask back whether he thinks the doors can fit into your car and he says they shall immediately be delivered.

The next few hours confirm how the telephone has become an instrument of human oppression. In between taking calls and answering SMS, you ignore the thumping of your temples and lose yourself in work until your assistant leaves for the bank—foolproof indicator of noon break. Welcoming the interlude, you unpack lunch hoping that what the maid has whipped out of leftovers is palatable. It is not and you decide to hunt for lunch outside but the double-parked Fortuner is blocking your way. The guard shrugs and you make do with your baon.

But before the first mouthful is down, a client cheerfully arrives and (in spite of high noon) giggles at your early lunch. She has come to claim her check and gets visibly disappointed that your assistant is availing of her constitutional right to lunch break. She doesn’t mind waiting though so lunch is consumed through her mindless chatter.

It must be a slow day at the bank because the assistant returns just as you are about to asphyxiate the guest who, with her check safely in the purse, leaves just as happily as she arrived. Thinking to salvage the remnants of your break, you put your feet up and sit back for forty winks. You are drifting to sweet slumber when the door is flung open again and the same client retrieves her forgotten umbrella while giggling uncontrollably. On cue, your assistant adds more folders to the skyscraper on your desk. Defeated, you bid your siesta goodbye.

Focusing elsewhere, you call the new jobsite. You instruct the foreman to ensure we finish on time since Gary Valenciano has already been booked for store opening. Endless stammering ensues but you gather that power has not been provided despite two days of repeated follow-ups and, hence, welding works are pending. Would you like to talk to mall Admin yourself? You see yourself barging into a cramped office brandishing an AK47 and mowing down everyone in sight. No, you say through gnashing molars, you do it for me, please.

By teatime, the skyscraper has become a medium-rise but you simply need another day to get everything done. With your assistant certain that your sorry presence is no longer needed, you leave to collect the strainers--prepared to ram through the Fortuner. Mercifully, it’s gone but mind-boggling traffic makes what should be a quick hop seem like a trip to the moon. The Chinaman’s handshake though feels like a genuine welcome but he seems rather surprised by the visit. He proudly declares that the doors have been delivered to the jobsite in the mall and the metal strainers to the one infested by rats.

Stunned that you have just endured traffic for nothing and incredulous that one human being didn’t think to save another the trouble, you refuse offers of coffee. You choose to start the long drive home even if by the shop’s very doorstep traffic is at a standstill. As you inch away, you ignore the rampant insolence around and watch instead the buildings of Makati reaching out for the clouds through the smog. You see a hundred dirty fingers flashed at heaven!

Knowing this is just one more day of countless more ahead, you summon Desiderata back to mind. “Whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.” What a pleasant-minded chap Max Ehrman was, you think to yourself, to write so. Then you remember he did so in the 1800s.

Ah!

The Lady Who Gave Me A Nickname

2015-06-10T18:31:00.001-07:00

She was the nice lady from across the street called Tia Luz around the neighborhood and Mrs. Alcantara in grade school. She baked tasty goodies intended for sale in the small cafeteria she ran on the ground floor of her house. The intent though often came to naught because much of the merchandise ended up being given away to her children’s playmates, notably me—her second son Rey’s best friend. I always got more than what I paid for because, the lady decreed, anyone with eyebrows as lush as mine deserved so. The cafeteria earned more goodwill than profit and would not be in business for long.

She called me Kidi-Kidi and Rey and the rest of the gang picked it up and the nickname stuck. Soon even my siblings would call me Kidi and, eventually, I’d be better known around town in it than by any other name although our townsfolk’s odd accent gave it several permutations: Kide, Kede, etc. In high school, I glamorized the spelling into Kiddie while retaining its phonetics. Nowadays, many call me by my city name Kenn but to some old habits die hard though few know the origin of the appellation, if at all.

Memory fails on details about the elections that made Tio Carpo town mayor but I know he was the only one of 21 Liberal mayoralty bets in Masbate to survive the Nacionalista juggernaut of 1968. Local political pundits ascribed part of Tio Carpo’s victory to his wife. Tia Luz tirelessly campaigned around the poblacion—wisely staying under the radar so as not to risk her tenure as a public schoolteacher—and quietly mobilized her huge Villamor clan to scour the barrios for votes. I’m convinced the ill-fated cafeteria had a small role in there somewhere.

Recent headlines tell of shameless wrongdoing by political families. They don’t remind one of the Alcantaras of San Jacinto, Masbate. As best friend to Rey, I was a fixture in their household and eyewitness to the family’s frugal lifestyle. The Alcantara kids ate the same food, wore the same clothes and walked to and from school like everyone else. Even in those innocent times, abuse of political power was not unheard of, if less blatant. But the Alcantaras were blissfully impervious to temptations which less virtuous families often find irresistible. The family is proof positive that decency in politics is not oxymoronic. Theirs was a class act.

Eschewing roles that might compromise her husband’s integrity, Tia Luz devoted her free time to the Catholic Women’s League (CWL) and the Rural Improvement Club (RIC). With her among its stalwarts, the CWL built a wide concrete staircase for easy descent from the churchyard to the seashore meters below. Under her presidency, the RIC cobbled together a small children’s playground beside the lighthouse. Both projects bridged the church and lighthouse grounds and together they comprised the town’s main park collectively called Parola. Alas, the park has now fallen to neglect and only rusty remnants from better days jut out through the thorny brush. But that’s another blog.

At the height of the Marcos dictatorship, Tio Carpo was ordered by Malacanang to vacate his post in favor of a palace guard. With nary a question about legalities, he gladly relinquished his seat and, not long after, brought his wife and youngest son Ted to immigrate to America. The three older kids, Leomel, Bes and Rey would remain in the country for many years, finishing college and starting careers in Manila while waiting for their immigration documents to be approved.

The feral summer of 1983 brought a vile tragedy to our hometown. A huge fire raged through main Bailon Street gutting to the ground ancestral houses and thriving businesses. For days, distraught neighbors combed through the rubble wondering which of the charred stumps remained of their beloved homes. Never before so moved, I wrote Tio Carpo and Tia Luz in LA how, even if our old neighborhood was no more, the friendship it had fostered between our families would forever endure. The couple wrote back that my letter was among the very best they had ever received.

As if to replace their loss, the Alcantara couple managed to buy a ground level unit at Pag-asa Bliss after a few years of toil abroad. Thus, Leomel, Bes and Rey traded the cramped single-room affair they rented at La Loma for more suburban surroundings and moved to Pag-asa with their loyal housekeeper Tisay. Like their previous domiciles, Pag-asa too soon became an oasis for San Jacinto natives blundering about the Manila desert. Soon, barkadas of Leomel and Rey (like this blogger) actually moved in paying a pittance for bed and board. When the siblings joined their parents in LA in the late 80s, their friends went their separate ways and Pag-asa was never the same again. More for company than revenue, Tisay soon began accepting boarders to fill the empty rooms.

But even as they were already living the American dream, the Alcantaras never forgot their roots. Almost annually, they visit bearing huge balikbayan boxes of pasalubong for family and friends. These occasions are virtual feasts for the poor of Pag-asa and San Jacinto. Even as Tio Carpo had already prematurely passed on, Tia Luz—through her 70s and 80s—seldom failed to attend the old hometown’s fiesta in May. She would remain for months to oversee never-ending improvements to their Pag-asa home and the San Jacinto apartments they had built to replace the burned house.

As in years past, Tia Luz arrived from LA late last April, escorted by Ted. Hearing of this, I immediately visited her at Pag-asa which she preferred over the condo her children had brought for the family at posh Eastwood. Unlike the last time we met, she didn’t look right to me. She looked thin and pale and she complained of back pains and insomnia. Worried for this and her 86 years, I tried to dissuade her from taking the grueling trip to San Jacinto. Next thing I heard, she was already there.

In San Jacinto, her pains persisted and she confided to a few friends this might be her last homecoming. In consultation with Quito who was also visiting town, Ted decided to fly his mother back to Manila posthaste and my brother arranged for them to be received at the hospital direct from the airport. Rey called me and I promised to stay with Ted as much as my work would allow.

After conferring with his St. Luke’s team, Quito revealed that Tia Luz had stage-4 cancer. It had already metastasized to her spine and the pain would be excruciating. With pain management barely working, my brother urgently pushed for medical clearance to travel so his patient could receive American medical care soonest. But Tia Luz’s condition went from bad to worse and she suffered a debilitating stroke even as her three older kids were rushing home. They arrived four hours too late and failed to see their mother alive one last time.

Big men deny their pain so Leomel, Rey, Ted and I shook hands while blinking away the mist from our eyes. Women are more honest with their feelings so Bes collapsed into my arms and shattered into a million sobs. The river of tears she unleashed onto my chest could just as well have been mine for her mother’s demise did not feel like losing just the nice lady who gave me a nickname.

It felt like losing Mama a second time.

Variants of Violet

2015-03-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

The ultrasound technician said she “saw something” and your Nanay concluded it was the telltale for baby boys in the womb. From then on, your Kuya called the baby bump that would be you Jeg—short for Juan Diego—and the endearment stuck even as you were born Karina Marae. It’s just as well for, had we had another boy as expected, he would have been so pretty it would be awkward.

Sure, all babies are beautiful but you were the Eighth Wonder of the World! Examining Kuya as a newborn, I had to crane my neck this way and that to figure out from which remote branch of the clan he got this facial feature and that. But you … oh, I owned you up the instant I laid my eyes on you. “Here, world, is my daughter in whom I am pleased!” That very moment, I knew I’d be your slave forever.

Growing up, you drew attention everywhere we went. Relatives fell all over themselves to cradle you while strangers ignored their manners to gush at this gorgeous baby. Everyone wanted a piece of you even as you obviously detested this, liking only the affections of people you were intimate with. Every time you allowed one of your very rare, very dear smiles, its beholders burst into rapture.

By the day, I was growing more and more in love with you that Nanay openly worried about the feelings of Ate and Kuya. But I thought they didn’t mind; I think they still don’t. At night, I’d watch you sleep, gently toying with your little fingers and wondering how such beauty could ever have sprung from me. During the day, I’d watch you toddle about, dying a little when you hurt yourself and never forgiving myself for allowing that.

Even your early flaws were endearing. You ate your meals like a princess expecting to be fed and waited on until kingdom come, always refusing to be rushed through one whatever the incentive or, heaven forbid, the punishment. The mealtime games I invented that made Kuya gobble up his meals in a jiffy, you found amusing but not much else. The other chores of Yaya, the appointments of Tatay and even the opening prayers in kindergarten could all go hang as you took your sweet time partaking of breakfast.

Unlike your brother who just woke up one morning and proceeded to speak flawlessly, you mangled language badly. Common words like tinidor, kutsara, lipstick and computer became tidoy, taya, lipstip and conchooter. Proper nouns were likewise not spared as you would relate how we went to Bucao (Cubao) and traffic was bad along Kapitunan (Katipunan).

You preferred playing with Kuya’s action figures and matchbox cars, much to his consternation, while the countless Barbies you received from adoring titas and ninangs invariably ended up looking like gang-rape victims: undressed, disheveled, and often decapitated. To this day, a giant walking doll stands forlornly in one corner of the maids’ quarters because, while it might have enamored other baby girls, it distressed you no end.

Few parental impositions annoy you more than wearing a dress. If you had your way, t-shirt, jeans and sneakers should be the dress protocol even for dinner with the Queen of England. You like jackets—the more boyish, the better—and it’s only now that you own quite a few that I have been introduced to the many variants of violet, your favorite color. Through grunts and sighs, you sometimes humor me with a neat ponytail which I favor because that way you remind me a bit of my own mother. But I’m of the impression you find doing your hair tedious.

All these should be worrisome to parents wishing for perfectly heterosexual kids except everything else you do other than abovementioned spell GIRL. Yes, in capitals. Each gentle word, subtle gesture or quick glance is attended by such delicate femininity they drive alien words to gush forth through my mouth straight from baby-talk planet. Even up to this day when such impels your pupils to roll heavenward.

In the age of crayons, you once drew a cross-eyed girl walking on water with pink pigtail, green bangs and blue neck amidst a tempest of aqua. This and similar others aroused me into wondering “Man, what is this girl smoking?” Some years onward, you would tinker with ornate buttons and fancy ribbons and colored paper with more admirable results. Last summer, you fashioned out harlequin loom bands for the whole family and I proudly sported mine until they were completely worn away. Every now and then, I catch you writing entries to a diary you hide somewhere in the labyrinth of your belongings.

Today, my darling baby, you turn 13 and my heart is going a bit herky-jerky. Teenage is a turbulent, psychedelic world of blinding light and deafening sound. Confused starry-eyed girls are sometimes unable to resist the promise of young love from restless boys always unwilling to ignore the urges of rampaging hormones. Only God knows how badly traumatized they would emerge from their daring. Believe me for I still suffer pangs of guilt over a couple of adolescent heartaches I might have caused. So, I watch anxiously as you burn away more and more baby fat by the day and the pounds keep relocating to all the right places, sculpting your body into the daydreams of salivating predators disguised as boys.

I tell myself it is farfetched for you to jump at the first teenaged hunk who saunters along and shows some interest. But how far away are you from your first heartbreak? And how many more will you cry over before your knight in shining armor gallops in? As we await him, should I lock you up in a tower with a single, tiny window or would it be wiser to start investing in an arsenal potent enough to avenge Mamasapano?

Oh, apple of my eyes, love of my life and center of my universe, I wish to God you can remain forever the little baby I like to believe you still are.

Papal Eyeball

2015-01-31T15:38:00.002-08:00

Flagging spirits clamored for a recharge and two weeks off work leading to last Christmas was thought sufficient. But holiday partying ravaged just as badly as the daily grind and middle-aged recuperation is slow. My vacation went faster than Usain Bolt and when 2015’s first workweek unravelled, I needed resolve to rejoin the rat race.

Thank heavens or the Pope, Shepherd One taxied in towing a five-day weekend—extra furlough for a weary soul. Though not remotely spiritual, I’m nonetheless a big Francis fan but as with my other heroes, past and present, living or dead, I usually worship from a distance. I never even contemplated joining the adoring throngs expected to welcome Vatican’s “rock star”. Instead, I had earmarked the Pontifical holidays purely for domestic hobbies, leisurely gardening for one since rains had been forecast.

In between puttering about, I occasionally dropped in on wife and kids watching live coverage of the papal itinerary. The faithful waited for long hours, in rain or shine, just to glimpse that famous smile for a fleeting second. The shrieking mobs lining his route wherever he went showed unusually disciplined behavior and security lines were never breached. Even the threat of foul weather dampened no one's spirit and, in the end, even the worst of Amang was no match to the best of Francis. All shepherd and flock needed were flimsy, yellow raincoats.

Most admirable among his many virtues is this Pope’s profound and unwavering sense of his own humanity. Refusing the regal entitlements of his exalted office, he prefers to be treated just like you and me. He never pretends he can work miracles to solve his flock’s problems and offers only mercy and compassion to ease its suffering. When Glycelle Palomar asked amid plaintive sobs why God allowed little children like her to go through so much suffering, he was visibly distressed. He could have pontificated on the same, trite gobbledygook we hear from pulpits Sunday in and Sunday out and no one would have minded. But Pope Francis chose to admit he had no answer. Instead of trying to be the Vicar of Christ, he chose to be a human being and gave Glycelle a long, tight hug. Perhaps, that was all the little girl needed.

I’m certain that if only it were physically possible, Pope Francis would have also embraced each one of the thousands that Yolanda had ravished.

The nation’s coiffed and perfumed would have given a fortune to kiss the fisherman’s ring but, preferring the company of those who have nothing to give, the Pope gatecrashed instead the breakfast of a squatter family. A persistent few from the rich and famous, by dint of their connections, organized to get near him but there was no doubt who Pope Francis came for. One Paulino Padasas was granted a once-in-a-lifetime audience though it is doubtful if an only daughter’s life, snuffed out by crumbling scaffolding in Tacloban, is worth a papal eyeball.

Enroute back to the Holy See, the Bishop of Rome said something about rabbits that engendered much debate. The contending versions aroused my interest but none as much as what a certain Red Tani had to say. On national daily, he soberly posited “Why I don’t like Pope Francis” (Philippine Daily Inquirer/19January2015). It must have taken the combined guts of Daniel and David to severely criticize the most popular man on the planet today. But more importantly, Mr. Tani raised valid, specific issues that I feel a response from the local Nunciature, or the Vatican itself, should be forthcoming. That would enlighten the Pope’s countless worshippers, this intellectual midget for one.

Meanwhile, grappling with the garden shears, I nipped a good part off a fingertip. Was this divine reprimand for my heathen apathy toward the apostolic mission? Or just my exceptional dexterity with hand tools literally taking its toll? Whatever.

Now I’m washing my hands flashing a dirty finger—maimed and left-handed.

The Aftermath of Christmas

2014-12-29T20:22:00.000-08:00

Gift wrappers of red and green litter the floor. The parol has lost bits of its onionskin tails and the tree tilts off the plumb line, the angel on top askew. The head throbs and the throat rasps from all that drinking and smoking but the merrymaking shall remain undone until after the big firecrackers explode. Goodness knows what else the body will have endured by then. The pocket is empty and thought of coming payables beclouds the sunny morning.

I sit amidst the aftermath of Christmas.

It is hoped that presents, hugs and kisses have conveyed affection for next of kin. Swapping SMS feels sufficient for now to bridge disjointed friendships. For sturdier fences, neighbors, though scarcely seen, are accorded little somethings. Alas, a blind eye is all those truly in need get so legions scavenge through the season on cold, empty stomachs. But, forget the faceless and the nameless, did I remember all the deprived inhabiting my life? Good question but I forgo a headcount.

Christmas in and Christmas out, such apathy is justified by the hope that when things get better—in some affluent future—more can be done for the less privileged. Meantime, the obedient son had outgrown his soccer shoes and deserved a new pair for Christmas. Godchildren (from well-off families) were expecting gifts, even if what I could afford would likely be cast aside in favor of costlier ones from wealthy ninongs. And there is that New Year’s Eve dinner to be hosted for the clan—a veritable feast well worth a few days’ sustenance for a homeless family.

Lights strung all over the house shall jack up the power bill but carolers did not leave empty-handed. The misa de gallo, and the requisite novena, have been faithfully subscribed to. A small fortune has been allocated for the arsenal of fireworks awaiting the year’s last midnight. My imagined future may never come but the rituals of yuletide have been dutifully observed and, surely, that entitles one to postpone serious endeavor towards a true Christmas. The destitute can fall in line behind more pressing priorities.

I sit amidst the aftermath of Christmas.

Visiting The Dead

2014-11-18T20:38:00.000-08:00

It has become quite a chore in middle age but my annual pilgrimage to remember the dead must be done. And so, despite creaking joints and taut muscles, I once again embark on the long and arduous trip back home.

Our ETD was at 5:30PM but my bus leaves an hour and a half later. Overbooking problems caused much of the delay and needed dippers of sweat from the dispatcher to sort out. He should be sent posthaste to broker a Mideast peace agreement. As always, I sleep through the overnight ride even as I prayed to make the second boat home—the first already beyond our reach due to our delay. I force myself awake twelve hours after departure expecting arrival soon. It takes us three more hours to reach our destination and I barely catch the third boat out.

As we chug across placid Ticao Pass, I realize I have forgone the breakfast I was expecting to get at home. My guts grumble and I call Tony Chicks to cobble together a late lunch for me. My bosom friend decides the head of a rompe is what I want. Famished, I arrive to steaming soup of barracuda cooked with young jackfruit, sweet potato tops and sour batwan (a round fruit that tastes like tamarind) the way only locals can. I eat ravenously while looking out to the backyard.

It seems smaller now even if it’s the same one in which my childhood friends and I played noisy running games. The large avocado that used to loom over the lot has long been gone though the old bangkal still stands proudly in one corner like a steadfast sentinel watching over the same shallow well now covered with a tin sheet. A much smaller hut has replaced the modest guesthouse that doubled as my parents’ temporary home when the big house burned down.

Once the sun has lost ferocity, I join Ditoy aboard his small outrigger for the twenty-minute hop to my sister’s beach resort. By late afternoon, I join her over relaxed conversation on the veranda overlooking the sea. We watch distant ships sail away to the Pacific as we sip sweet cocowater culled from freshly rounded nuts. With mouth watering, I tell of the barracuda head my friend got me for lunch. Manang badgers me to call Tony Chicks again to buy more of the same for our food tomorrow. He says to consider it done.

A shy moon soon watches over us and sundry creatures of the night begin calling out to one another. Cold shower rinses travel fatigue away and whets appetite for dinner which I again consume like a death-row convict. The night entices as a willing woman and the young amihan makes her irresistible. I retire early and for the first time in many years, I immediately fall to deep sleep—and remain there—not needing artificial ventilation.

Early sunlight streaming into my room begins my awakening and murmured banter among the resort staff completes it. The smell of coffee draws me to the kitchen. Into my second cup, Ditoy arrives from town, a huge headless fish across his shoulders. I immediately call Tony Chicks to air my grievance. How can you buy fish without the best part? Where’s this barracuda’s head? You ate it yesterday, my friend retorts nonchalantly. He has bought the same fish, quite literally, and I wonder about its freshness but over lunch, Quito—still flushed from travel—dispels all doubt. My brother doesn’t remember rompe being such a savory fish.

Before sundown, Tony Chicks and some childhood friends arrive from town bearing roasted free-range chicken and our favorite sinagol (shredded shark meat stewed in coconut milk, vinegar, herbs and spices). Both wash down so well with cold beer and we drink into the night laughing over the same trite jokes. Flaccid midriffs, vanishing hairlines, missing incisors and all, we drink on and celebrate friendship.

Mercifully spared from hangover on the 1^st of November, I sail back to town with Manang and Quito to accomplish what we have all come for. We find Nongnong busy seeing to lunch and Manong Eron entertaining his political wards. When was the last time five of us eight siblings came home together for the day of the dead? Wherever they may be, Papa and Mama must be pleased.

The townsfolk are now busy with the task at hand and all roads lead to the town cemetery. Passersby wearing older faces remind of old ties though dim memory doesn’t always yield the apt names. Half-forgotten shared histories flash back and rekindle the longing to renew acquaintances. Thankfully, like all homecomings, visiting the dead offers the golden chance of reconnecting with the living.

My siblings and I eagerly embrace this chance as we join our kahilungsod at the cemetery. Fragrant flowers, flickering candles and haphazard prayers are offered for dearly departed kith and kin. In between, we give bits of our present selves to anyone glad to reciprocate the gesture. As if we can explain away all the missing years in one afternoon. The orchids Cherry and I bought at Farmers’ Market in Cubao three evenings ago, I’m pleased to note, have remained fresh.

By nightfall, we come home to find the porch expectedly full of relatives and friends. Briefly joining the niceties but avoiding the drinks, I soon excuse myself for a quick dinner and hit the hay in anticipation of the long travel back to Manila at first crack of dawn tomorrow.

Gilas Pilipinas

2014-09-19T01:38:00.002-07:00

A year ago, we celebrated homemade silver like gold; now we celebrate one Iberian victory like a sweep. Our rivals snicker but they don’t understand so their putdown doesn’t diminish our joy.

The Asian gold was hoisted by Persian giants but only after scrabbling for it, tooth and nail, down in the dirt with us even as the foreign aid we had conscripted could only watch, war-torn beyond utility.

Photo from Google Images

The mighty Chinese, the deadly Koreans, the Lebanese, the Jordanians—they all limped away incredulous of their defeat. We were never supposed to compete with, much less beat, any one of them. But there we were, earning blood-soaked victory after another, egged on by tens of thousands in the stands and countless more at home screaming themselves hoarse at every basket. Our Asian foes winged home ruing their underestimation of this small, smiling people.

The silver entitled hoopdom’s minnows to engage its titans in battle at the sport’s grandest arena. Never mind that the Worlds seemed our theater of the absurd where we would be pummeled into submission by Latin conquista, steamrolled to the muck by European blitzkrieg and blinded stupid by American supernovas, we were happy just to belong. No one, not even ourselves, dared imagine what a stout heart could be capable of.

Secure in their lofty rankings and clueless of our Asian neighbors’ mistake, the game’s elite never bothered to cast a glance our way. They paid for this, nearly very dearly.

The Croatians clasped their hands to the heavens when Jeff Chan launched what could have been the biggest shot of his career. Alas, it bounced away into overtime and our opponents seized their golden chance and stole the win—with a little help from the referee. He ignored the foul that sent Jason Castro crashing to the floor while trying to tie the score at the buzzer and send the contest into a second extension.

Forewarned by a friend, a constant Filipino guest and admirer of the nation’s passion for the game, the Greek coach took caution. He was rewarded for his win was the only one we did not threaten to steal.

Photo from Google Images

Even without Ginobili, the Argentines probably thought themselves invincible against us—until Jimmy Alapag ran rings around Prigioni and Gabe Norwood posterized Scola. They scrambled to fight back, belatedly realizing that a tough battle was at hand. Post-game, their mentor said we played funny but, in the same breath, conceded his narrow win among the biggest challenges in his coaching career.

Puerto Rico huffed and puffed behind us most of the way. But Barea spearheaded one heroic push of an endgame to win and salvage a modicum of self-respect. The loss though, like the three earlier ones, did not lessen our pride in pintsized warriors LA Tenorio, Paul Lee and Gary David.

Rendered cocky by their impressive 2-2 and deceived by our humble 0-4, the Senegalese tried to bully our delegation executives on the streets of Seville. They would eat humble pie. “Pilipinas? Are you Pilipinas? Go home!” they crowed. Never to back down from a challenge, we countered presciently. “We will go home after we beat you!”

And beat them we did. We needed extra time—five agonizing minutes—to get the job done but beat tall, athletic Senegal we did. And again, when our foreign aid had been banished from the joust on too many fouls. With Junemar Fajardo and Japeth Aguilar amply filling his shoes, Andre Blatche was hardly missed. After forty years, we finished the mission on triumphant note.

Presuming the Filipino assignment no more than light workout, our adversaries never bothered to scout the lightweights of Spain. Well, excuse me all over the place. Undersized in all but heart, Marc Pingris and Ranidel De Ocampo fearlessly wrestled with mastodons to hell and back, game in and game out. Chot Reyes devised an ingenious and uniquely Filipino brand of play to outwit his illustrious counterparts. Though homesick, overworked and cold, our expatriate countrymen never wavered from our battlecry and “PUSO!!!” made the stadium tremble.

Photo from Google Images

This is where our rivals misunderstand. Our glinting Asian medal and gallant Spanish showing, mighty achievements given our history, are not the be-all and end-all of our joy. We exult at what remains afoot, knowing what has been done so far are mere baby steps, the onset of bigger things to come. Especially now that our most valuable player sits on the FIBA Central Board.

Henceforth, the rest of the basketball world would do itself a favor to know that the Gilas of the Philippines are completely alien to and infinitely more lethal than the monsters of Arizona.

BIRTHDAY

2014-08-14T02:41:00.000-07:00

Minute by rapid minute, July rolled in as if in a rush to get done with itself, brandishing—bang on the very first week—an end and a beginning. Our large clan buried an elderly member and Trei and I ventured into tennis lessons. Passport and driving license were expiring so renewals were also on deck.

For the first, Cherry and I haled ourselves to Ali Mall an hour ahead of our appointed 4:00PM. Citing overpopulation in his domain, the guard refused to let us in until just minutes before the hour. It took us well past 7:00PM to complete the process and one of us would need to come back to claim our new passports 14 working days hence. It could have been three but we were unwilling to part with 500 more of our emaciated pesos. That we went to a mall and didn’t need to inch through university belt traffic and then hunt for a spot in tourist belt parking to renew our passports is vast improvement. Still, three hours to process the renewal and two weeks to actually receive the new one are still too much wax to burn from our dwindling candles.

But before I could grouse that daang matuwid was getting us nowhere, the Land Transportation Office redeemed all of government in my eyes. Their people at Robinson’s Place Novaliches needed just an hour to give me a spanking new driver’s license. Applause! Applause!

Then it hit! Faster than I could yell birthday, my 52^nd year was history. My big day being a Monday, wife and kids decided to throw away money the Saturday before. Sensing my financial anxiety, Cherry promised all-you-can-eat lunch, Amman lots of imported beer, Trei and Jeg little gifts to cheer me up. Because it felt rude not to partake in the expense, I felt constrained to promise everyone an afternoon of bowling.

Everyone included my older daughter’s, uhm, constant date. In the rare times that we discussed her lovelife, Amman gave me the impression that Carlo was not just another of those strange boys prowling our front yard. In fact I had actually seen him inside the house. But having merrily cavorted through my own phase of rampaging hormones, I naturally regard every boy expressing interest in my daughter with deep suspicion. But Amman lets this fellow take her home on late nights and I trust my daughter’s judgment. Always thinking myself a devoted father, I decided that my birthday therefore seemed a good excuse to start getting friendly with Carlo. So, I asked Amman to invite him to join us that Saturday.

Without a doubt, Cherry’s buffet was cardinal sin and we needed the bowling for our atonement. I last played the sport in PE 101 a hundred years ago and I didn’t suck, if I may say so myself. After only a few rolls, I wasn’t surprised to score my first strike; several more and the second came with a few spares in between. But where I imagined in myself Paeng Nepomuceno, my family was seeing Mr. Bean. Everytime I’d play, mother and brood would be rolling on the aisles with mirth and even Carlo could ill conceal his amusement.

Undaunted, because convinced of my athletic gifts, I played on to win the first frame, ahem, and accepted Trei’s challenge for another. I was getting the hang of this game and was completely getting carried away. Unfortunately, while trying to imitate Paeng’s flawless follow through, I pulled some muscle or tendon around where my crotch joined my left thigh. Henceforth, I ended my sequences on my knees, much to my family’s happiness. My pain was perfect alibi not only to concede the frame to Carlo but also to call off our competition. Never mind that I limped home like a boy right out of circumcision, it was time to get stark raving drunk.

My wish was an exclusive family beer spree. Early in the day, two of my brothers proposed to invite themselves and only the threat of fratricide fended them off. This I regretted for, as the specter of drinking with my daughter’s boyfriend approached, I realized I needed backup. Unwilling to risk Amman's disfavor, I needed heartless people to do the dirty job for me. People who would needle Carlo to kingdom come and whose drunken drivel would drive away any suitor with less than sincere designs.

As Cherry and I debated the pros and cons of a beer or two for 14-year-old Trei, dear friends Winston, Luigi and Rinna texted their imminent arrival. Perfect, I thought, for the two men could be as heartless as they come, except our food and drink were wanting. So I texted back, “You are welcome to join me and my family for dinner and beer that you will bring.” Ever generous, the three brought grub and booze enough for a bacchanalian feast. Now if all gatecrashers were this way, why invite at all?

And so we drank Amman’s pre-chilled beer, working our way up from light lagers to dark ales with Carlo good-naturedly enduring my friends' ribbing. I finished off with two humongous Portland IPAs that my best friend Rey had sent all the way from LA a couple of months back. As I morphed from perfect sobriety to utter inebriation amidst good food, better beer and the laughter of family and friends, I couldn’t help finding myself a lucky guy.

A Father To All

2014-06-30T19:09:00.000-07:00

It’s Father’s Day again and the telco overlords are grinning from ear to ear. Rampant texting is certain to crank up their revenues. Unable to cobble together something witty, I refuse to join the madness except to thank those remembering my insignificance.

The kids hurl themselves at me avowing affection and gratitude. The eldest shoves a million calories in my face, clicks away and pollutes Facebook with my mugshot. Her post though is touching and the cake will doubtless drive my weighing scale berserk. The wife must be pleased with the outcome of her coaching.

Amidst all this, my mind wanders off to your lonely grave on the wretched island you loved. “A father to all”, the epitaph reads. That is my handiwork but the words are someone else’s. A distraught schoolteacher, now also departed, mumbled during your wake. “This is not just your loss for he wasn’t just your father. He was a father to all.”

Few such kindness can be more heartwarming. But one wonders if those who view you similarly pull out stubborn weeds from around your tomb like I do everytime I visit. Never mind lighting candles, do they even remember?

I do remember a few things. I remember looking forward to weekends because you would be home from work and we would ride horses to the farm and that was all the closeness between us that I can now honestly claim. I remember you praising my basketball after one of the rare times you bothered to watch me play. I remember you telling the priest recruiting me for the seminary that if any one of your six sons could be a man of the cloth, it wasn’t me. Most of all—best of all—I remember you being impressed by my writing when once I wrote you.

Ah, writing—the tie that binds us.

As a young boy, I was awestruck to discover that you had been a well-published author before eight mouths to feed clamored for steadier livelihood. I pored over your work and clung to your words more than those of Hawthorne, of Frost, of Steinbeck and of the other heroes lurking in your library. Inspired, I wanted to write for the rest of my life.

“It’s a thankless job. It’s hard, frustrating work and it doesn’t pay”, you cautioned. But I glimpsed a smile. Adolescence diverted me to fairer avenues and you never insisted on my primal dream perhaps thinking it had been just a phase. Were you fearful of what would become of me if you did? So now I wallow in a different pond but the need to string words together and commit thought to paper endures. Time and again the itch becomes irresistible, hence this blog.

What would you think of the silly stuff I inflict on cyberspace? Would you denigrate the technique, wince at the diction or think “wretched” unfair to Ticao? This fear of not measuring up has kept me from blogging about you all these years; it’s the hard, frustrating work you warned about. But I persevere, as if to deserve being your son, though the results remain horrible. So failing last year, I sought refuge in one of your poems—your very best to my mind—and posted it as a Father’s Day tribute.

It’s Father’s Day again and again my pen meanders fruitlessly, unable to cadge fitting prose. Drowning in my inadequacy, I again reach out for your words but this time they are not there to rescue me. Where have the rest of your poems gone? Where are your essays, your short stories? They are in hand and yet they are not.

The little boy lost in your library has become too big for your leavings. What is he to do then with the hope that every June you could do all the writing for him?

The Calls of Summer

2014-05-19T00:57:00.000-07:00

It’s summertime, school’s out and I’m ten again.

Mother disapproves because vacacion grande is for sleeping in but I creep out of bed early. On the porch, I pucker my lips into a tight cone and suck in twice in rapid succession. The first call of the day has been made.

One by one, my friends materialize from the crannies of the neighborhood and we are soon debating our prospects for the day. TV has yet to reach our shores, gadgets sci-fi stuff and so the inviting sea suffers little competition. Before I can propose alternatives, my friends peel off their shirts, run to the wooden pier and dive in. They surface squealing at the coldness of the water yet unheated by the nascent sun. I like the sea but swimming in it is an entirely different matter, so for now I’m a mere spectator.

Dribbling, some ways off but distinct, relieves me of my misery and I dash to the town plaza intent to get there first. To a boy my friends bail out of water and, with bits of the ocean flying from their brown skins, scamper after me. The rival gang from the mean side of town is already in shootaround, expecting the enemy. Coins are fished from pockets, bets are placed and we engage our foes in furious competition. Wayward elbows ram vain egos and soon fists are flying but more powerful forces join the fray. Irate mothers, armed with various tools of punishment, disperse the melee. Laughing, adult regulars reclaim the hardcourt before the morning gets too hot for basketball. All bets are off.

Cold shower washes away the stains of the young day and whets appetite for breakfast. Bahaw (leftover rice), pakas (salty dried fish) and eggs—all fried just so—go perfectly with bananas from the backyard. Wolfing down my share, I badger Mama to hasten grace after meals, expecting anytime the second call of the day. Once it is heard, I jump out of the house with my toy soldiers. My posse reconvenes with sundry homemade toys: tin cars fashioned from empty milk cans, sailboats that used to be rubber sandals, slingshots carved from the sturdiest guava branches. They consume the rest of our morning.

Employees of the municipio trooping home for their noontime break remind us of lunch and we follow suit. The repast partaken of, Mama imposes home-wide siesta. Knowing the futility of objecting, I hit the bed pretending to comply but keeping an eye open for when my mother dozes off. I tiptoe out of the house and, once on the street, make the call. My friends reply from the Chinaman’s bodega and there I find them reclined atop sacks of copra stacked high. I clamber up and join in the ghost stories, the tall tales and the juvenile banter.

Loud music blares from the only moviehouse in town, announcing that the day’s show starts shortly. Loose change suffices for admission and we march to the theater. Despite the heat, the bedbugs and the regular interruptions due to gaps in the old, buru-bugto film, we applaud Fernando Poe, Jr. singlehandedly mow down regiment upon regiment of Japanese soldiers. As the final credits roll away, we are moved to a thirst for war that needs immediate slaking.

We dust off plastic rifles and clay pistols bought from the baratillo (itinerant traders) during the last fiesta. We split into two teams and for hours we are in battle, playing badil-badilan around the school, the church and the lighthouse. In the bush, one gunman spots a grasshopper the size of a thumb, known as apan, and he makes the call. This startles the insect into flight and the warrior jumps in pursuit. Heeding their comrade’s call, the rest of the combatants emerge from the thicket, see what is afoot and join the race. FPJ’s war is forgotten.

The ensuing chase is epic. Flush with desire for bragging rights to the biggest grasshopper ever caught, my friends and I run in full speed alternately for longer stamina. But this baby can fly and is now heading towards the hills in the outskirts of town, landing only when we slacken off and instantly zipping away again once we speed up. We pant onwards like rabid dogs but the bug refuses to be sacrificed at the altar of our ego. Finally, it disappears into the cogon.

Soundly beaten and thoroughly humbled, we abandon the task at hand and promptly get seduced by the landscape; all around, trees are groaning with bounty. Santol, kayomito, lumboy, sireguelas, manchanitas, they are all ready for the picking. Still unmindful of ownership rights, we help ourselves. As the sun begins its fall, we walk back to town enjoying the fruits of our labor, sharing our bounty to anyone who asks along the way. Yet, boys prefer bragging about lost grasshoppers than sharing stolen berries.

We bring home the remnants of our thievery to distressed parents. They wonder which fruit farmer will come seeking damages tomorrow. Doubtless, their angelus petitions include that may He send the least difficult one.

Before guilt can spawn remorse, the call rings out again and everyone is instantly back on the street. A full moon rises to illumine our design as we pour intersecting water lines on the macadam to form a simple pitch. The few vehicles that ply the town by now garaged, twilight salgo—though smack in the middle of the road—disturbs no one. Cheers and jeers resound from windows all around as the playing children of the neighborhood display amazing speed and agility. Mothers proclaiming dinnertime terminate the merriment.

Once again fed and washed, I’m too tired to pucker my lips and respond to faint calls in the distance. Relieved of their chores, the help gather on the porch for their nightly sigulanon and, rapt with fascination, I lose myself in their stories. Of valiant princes rescuing damsels in distress, of superhuman warriors slaying fierce dragons, of underground dungeons hiding untold treasures.

Until sleep finally claims me. But only for now for more adventures await me tomorrow.

Father and Son II

2014-04-10T08:04:00.000-07:00

Once should be enough, but my son’s school needed to do it again.

For the second time in a few years, a Father-and-Son Day was organized. My son Trei and I were similarly convinced that, in our everyday life, we already do an excellent job getting into each other’s skin and we really don’t need additional aggravation. We were both reluctant to go but the Commander-in-Chief thought otherwise and so field officer and foot soldier obediently went.

In all fairness, the affair failed to live up to the torture I imagined. The speakers were funny enough to deserve attention and the presentations were short enough not to cause brain damage. The highlight was an exercise designed to gauge how much father knew son and vice versa. This knowledge father and son themselves would measure by way of a questionnaire of ten categories about each other. They were expected to answer truthfully and to keep score honestly.

I already said my son and I like getting into each other’s nerves and, seeing one more chance at that, we gladly jump into the exercise.

The following is the blow-by-blow account of what transpired:

Favorite Food

Trei: Ginataan.

Me: Ginataang ano?

Trei: Kahit ano basta may gata, favorite mo.

I concede the point. Score: Trei-1, me-0.

Me: Your favorite food is fried chicken.

Trei (Smiling naughtily): No, it’s beef.

Me: Whaaat? But you always order …

Trei (Rudely interrupting): My favorite food is beef. Your answer is wrong. Score is 1-0!

Favorite Singer/Band.

Trei: Journey

Me: Wrong, its America. Your favorite singer is Bruno Mars.

Trei (Grudgingly): Correct.

Me: Hah!

Score: Trei-1, me-1.

Favorite Athlete:

Trei: Larry Bird.

Me: Correct. Yours is Lebron James.

Trei: Wrong, it’s Lionel Messi.

Me: Seriously.

Trei: Yeah, seriously. 2-1.

Favorite Place:

Trei: That’s easy. Your favorite place is our home.

Me: Correct. Yours is Regis Mall fronting your school.

Trei: Wrong again. I don’t have a favorite place yet. I’m too young for that.

Score: Trei-3, me-1.

Class Adviser/Boss:

Me: Oh, God!

Trei: I wish, but it’s actually Mr. Jasper de Leon. Your boss is Caesar P. Altarejos, Jr. This he said enunciating every syllable of my brother’s name with obvious relish.

Me: He’s your uncle and namesake for crying out loud! This is not fair!

Trei (Shrugs smiling): Hey, I didn’t prepare this thing. 4-1!

Best Friend:

Me (Almost yelling): Josh Laud!

Trei: It’s Happy Torres.

Me (Irritably): You’ve changed your best friend AGAIN?

Trei (Again, with relish): Heh-heh, your best friend is Rey Alcantara. 5-1!

How did he even know his last name?

Idol:

Trei: Nelson Mandela.

Dang! This boy is good!

Me (Scratching my head, scraping the bottom of the barrel): Uhm … I give up. I really have no idea.

Trei: I’m too young to have an idol yet. Heh-heh-heh.

Score: Trei-6, me-1. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m losing badly and I’m thinking really hard here how to turn things around with only three more categories to go.

Greatest Wish:

Trei: Peace and quiet?

Me: Wrong. It’s your personal success and that of your sisters. Your greatest wish is an iPhone.

Trei: Uhm … I’m not so sure about that.

Me (Threateningly): Ohhh, don’t even go there, boy. You know I’m right.

Score: Trei-6, me-2. I can strong-arm the next two categories too, but I’d still lose.

Greatest Dislike:

I see my opportunity like sunbeams through dark clouds but I hold my horses and let my son go first.

Trei: Crowds, big crowds. 7-2, heh-heh!

Man, he really knows me but I pull my ace from under my sleeve.

Me: Your greatest dislike is basketball.

Trei: Whut? I don’t dislike basketball. I like football more but I don’t dislike basketball. AT ALL! How can you think that?

Ignoring the score, I’m beaming broadly. I’m getting my son’s goat. It’s why.

Greatest Fear:

I’m grinning like a winner now, suppressing my laughter.

Trei: Heights, you’re afraid of heights. 8-2! Hah-hah-hah!

He mockingly laughs, enjoying his victory while trying to tick me off, too. Again, he’s correct but I have a different ballgame now.

Me: Your greatest fear is also basketball.

Trei: Whaat? I’m not scared of … Oh, you’re hopeless!

At this point, I’m laughing so hard the other fathers gape at me wondering how it’s ever possible for one of their own to enjoy this crap.

Valentines For Six

2014-02-27T06:35:00.000-08:00

Ask six people their recollection of a common event in their lives and you will often get six conflicting versions.

This truism has kept me from blogging about this little tradition Cherry and I share with two other married couples: Rinna and Luigi Abad Santos and Maan and Winston Lee, dear friends all. For many years now, the six of us have been celebrating Valentines together with

VALENTINES 2014

sumptuous food and boundless drink. But, year in and year out, we cannot agree on the precise history of our annual observance.

As last January hied off to oblivion, I resolved to change all that and urged everyone to commit his thoughts to paper and to please submit this to me when we celebrate Valentines 2014. Probably anxious that I would post their work verbatim, the others completely ignored my plea. But in true form, Rinna stepped up to the plate—way ahead of deadline, too—and sent me this text message early this month:

“Our very first Valentine get-together was at Café Provencale in Shangri-la Mall. I was the one who made the reservations for the six of us. I am not sure about the year, maybe 2003. Pre-Centro days. After that sa mga bahay-bahay na. I think kila Chong yung sumunod. Nag karaoke pa tayo.” (Yes, I’m quoting Rinna’s message verbatim). Centro Atletico is the badminton club she and Luigi co-own with friends and Chong is our nickname for Winston.

Presented with this, everyone instantly voiced out his sentiments and objections and the nitpicking began. Our take on the matter being threatened out of the credits by Rinna’s version, we passionately argued for our point of view. Indeed, if you want opinion, don’t ask for it especially in writing. Just present someone else’s as gospel truth and the contradictions will spontaneously pour forth.

Timeline references were made such as our respective weddings (Lees: 1994. Altarejoses: 1996. Abad Santoses: 1998), the Lees moving in to their new home (1995), the passing of Rinna’s father (1999), the birth of our kids (1999 and 2002), etc., etc. As if availing of a lifeline in Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, Winston even phoned a sister to verify certain dates. Even menus were recalled and where one said pasta someone else would say chicken. As snippets of memory are pieced together, I was furiously jotting down notes in the hope of making sense out of all this. In the end, I was more confused than when we began.

It seemed a consensus though that the Café Provencale dinner started us on this quaint ritual. But, with the exception of Rinna, the rest of us thought we had been doing this before the early 2000s. For one, I clearly remembered a Patti Austin concert that we all watched together one Valentine’s Day and Cherry agreed this was before the kids were born. I also remembered that Rinna had someone else for a date.

“You were already celebrating Valentines together before I was part of this group?” Luigi interjected indignantly, offended deeply. Me and my big mouth! Thankfully, this was when we were already savoring the dinner he had cooked for us otherwise I dread to imagine what he would have put in our food!

Fueled by our favorite libations, our debates could have raged all night but Cherry mentioned something about photos. Indeed, since pictures don’t lie, why hadn’t I thought of just asking everyone to bring old pictures from past occasions instead of tasking them to write an essay? The response could have been more enthusiastic. As we said goodbye for the night, Rinna promised to forage for snapshots that may tell the story we seek especially with regards to chronology.

Though I’m aware of her many talents, I didn’t know Rinna could have given Sherlock Holmes a run for his money. The following night, while examining old pictures for clues, she pestered me with text messages about her amazing finds. In this photo she just had her own hair rebonded for Agot Isidro’s wedding and this was year so-and-so. In this one, Cherry was wearing a particular company uniform—when were you in that business? In another, Luigi was wearing shoes bought from some foreign holiday circa so-and-so.

And then she triumphantly called. She had found incontrovertible proof that her timeline was closest to the truth all along. She promised to email said proof to me immediately. Opening my inbox, I knew that Rinna’s evidence had ended all our arguments. Behind one of the karaoke photos, Maan had scribbled something. (DE means Don Enrique, the subdivision where the Lees reside). Here it is:

This then is our story: We celebrated our first Valentines together at Café Provencale in 2002. But every couple imagining themselves in love was also out for the night. Traffic was atrocious and parking was agonizing. The waiters were stressed out, ergo service was lousy. Despite the food being mediocre, our party didn’t come cheap. All of the above convinced us to hold Valentines 2003 at the Lees’ home where we had a drunken sing-along after dinner. Liking what we had, we henceforth partied alternately at one another’s homes and thus our little tradition was born.

MARIO BATALLI? NO, LUIGI ABAD SANTOS.

And we never look back to what we were having before. Why should we when we can enjoy the company we prefer without the hassle? While little could be done about the traffic, the hosts make sure there is ample parking (with valet if desired). Our respective domestics are ever gracious and render service fit for royalty. To top it all, Luigi’s cooking is five-star and it comes for a song.

Literally.

SUPERWOMAN

2014-01-23T08:54:00.000-08:00

The sixteen years between us decreed your absence from my halcyon boyhood. As I was spinning tops and rolling marbles, you were already busy staking out your future in Manila. And I don’t recall you ever coming home to spend with us even just one of those endless summers. Was I too young to remember or were family funds too scarce, fare money better allocated for more pressing needs?

The one time I recall when you did come home, movie stars came with you, whipping our sleepy hometown into a frenzy I’d never seen there before, or since. George Estregan, Mary Ann Murphy and Romy Diaz came with a fellow asking for your hand in marriage. Next thing I knew I was squirming in a suit, for the first time in my young life, to witness your wedding. More stars were in attendance. Bigger stars. Fernando Poe, Jr. Joseph Estrada. They were all there.

But that is all there is of you in my increasingly hazy recollection of childhood. Until San Beda. With family funds now ampler, Papa fancied the local high school was not good enough for his youngest and off to Mendiola I was sent. But transition from small-town-Mama’s-boy to big-city-student I found traumatizing. Now raising kids of your own, you found time to bring me to specialists for illnesses I was imagining when all I really needed was to go back home.

Hence, Benedictine high school was abandoned for a more idyllic alternative. Big fish in small pond again, I celebrated teenage. Adolescent preoccupations allowed scant time to nurture distant relations but between my escapades I’d hear news of your rocky marriage. As university beckoned me back to Manila, this marriage was finally ending.

Ignoring the tears I’m sure were shed in the darkness of your cold room, you worked yourself to the bone and singlehandedly raised your children, sending them to the best schools hereabout. Along the way, you fell in love again and decided you deserved a second chance at marriage. But unilke these days of quick annulments, it was unheard of for a separated Filipina to remarry and Papa predictably objected. It was just as unheard of to go against father’s wishes but you would not be swayed. I realized for the first time you were different.

Your second husband became my mentor, a beer buddy and a close if older friend. In your children I found the younger siblings I had always wanted. The friends you surrounded yourself with, amusing like the “characters” you thought them to be, were like family. Those were heady days of long drives and black-sand beaches and campout parties. I began feeling closer to you finding in you a fine substitute for my absent Mama.

But your second marriage too would fail. By now your children had grown old enough to hazard an opinion of you. “Mommy is a wonderful mother but a terrible wife.” Judging from your apathy towards this verdict, I assumed you found this a fair assessment. Your reputation as one who minced no words no matter how cutting was becoming ironclad. Sobriquets, most of them unflattering, were being coined by those who had been on the wrong end of your regard. Bruhilda. Hitlera. My favorite being Queen Bitch of the Universe. It best described how you were now firmly enthroned as clan matriarch whose reign extended beyond the family.

Anyone who dared cross swords with you emerged from the experience broken beyond repair. Your rapid-fire argument battered all opposition into complete submission. When you glowered at a person from head to foot, any semblance of courage abandoned him, his self-esteem permanently injured. The entire Ayala Alabang security force was putty in your hands. I swear you could bark out “Forward, march!” and “To the rear, march!” and they would do as told. Heck, you could have ordered those guys to invade China!

The strength of your character extended into business. You ignored the opinion of so-called experts and bought cheap real estate in dubious locations and made tons of profit reselling them when their prices shot through the roof. You entrusted inventory unsecured to cash-strapped proteges who would turn in fast, profitable sales. You put up a lending firm now benefitting members of the clan including, thankfully, my family. You carved out a world-class resort from arid, unproductive brushland. There was no business endeavor your Midas touch could not make lucrative.

While at this you were fast becoming a major influence on me, more than even Papa and Mama. You cast so huge a shadow that I felt even my busy lovelife was under scrutiny. Certain they would not gain your approval, I never dared introduce to you my early conquests. Hearing I’d become an unwed father gave you the impression that I was sowing my wild oats in gleeful abandon leading you to a frantic quest for partners more palatable to you. You went as far as blind-dating me with your interior designer who wondered aloud why a grown man could not procure his own dates. I would of course dispel all of her doubts and now she is my long-suffering wife.

A dark, ominous cloud hovered over the family when Mama fell ill. During those terrible days of ERs and ICUs, you set aside social and business commitments to mitigate Mama’s suffering. By this, you showed me how to love truly, dearly, deeply—that loving was giving not only of your money and of your time but most especially of yourself. As I was losing the woman who loved me the most, I felt closest to you and realized you had become my surrogate mother.

As such, no one could inspire in me an incredible variety of emotions. Joy, pride and confidence for praises you never spared, being always genuinely happy at my little triumphs. Anger, frustration and insecurity for criticisms you never withheld, being unable to accept mediocrity from one you presumed to be your intellectual better. But even through my bitterest tears, there was never any doubt that you desired only the best for me.

Your success impelled me to emulate your example of hard work thinking this entitled me to the same rewards you had reaped. But I did not have the tools you were born with. Business acumen, the daring to take risks, superb people skills. Awareness of my limitations clarified the vast chasm distinguishing you from me. Where you wished for me fame, wealth and power, I craved privacy, love and peace. Where you imagined me dazzling the world with brilliance and charm, I saw myself smothering my family with hugs and kisses. Enlightened, I started to pursue what I found truly important and to discard the rest. I decided to live my own dreams.

And thus do I now enjoy true happiness with my family. Oddly, despite coming up miserably short of your grand expectations, I know you are happy for me.

How do I thank you for all that you have done for me? I won’t even try to begin. Deep in me, I know you feel my gratitude. After all, Superwoman can read minds.

As you turn 69 today, there is nothing I can give you that you do not already have, even love. For, contrary to what your critics think, you are a well-loved person. But, having only that, I still give you mine. After all, even Superwoman can’t have too much of love.

I love you, Manang.

Christmas Break

2013-12-27T14:07:00.002-08:00

The school physician sounded composed but I knew at once I had just received the phonecall all parents dread.

“Sir, I’m afraid your son has been in an accident.” My heart stopped. “He broke his left arm playing soccer but he is OK and I have already given him first aid.” I resumed breathing. “But he must be taken to a hospital at once.”

At the school infirmary, I found Trei being fussed over by the same doctor and a nurse, both of whose names I failed to get—my frayed nerves having taken its toll on good manners. As in countless medical cases in the past, both delicate and petty, I called my brother Quito, orthopedic surgeon par excellence. After discussing my son’s case with the school doctor, Quito advised me to bring his nephew to St. Luke’s Medical Center. I flinched at the thought of the rush hour December traffic I had to navigate before my injured son could receive the medical attention he needed. But St. Luke’s it was.

Forewarned by my brother of our arrival, two orthopedic residents (again, names were rudely ignored) immediately attended to us. Emergency x-rays clearly revealed the extent of my son’s injury even to my layman’s eyes. Coached by Quito (again over the phone), the residents informed me they needed to perform a “procedure” on my boy. Presuming myself in the presence of competence, I didn’t ask for more details. Like anesthesia for instance.

They tied the thumb, middle finger and pinky of my son’s injured limb with strings and these were then hoisted onto the top crossbar of an IV stand so that Trei’s broken forearm was at right angles with his upper arm. Then they slowly but steadily applied weight across his biceps in a gruesome attempt to align his broken bones. My boy, all of 14 years old, valiantly tried to man up to the situation and I just overflowed with love and admiration for him. Writhing in pain, he fought off crying out loud and his moans and sighs barely hinted at the extent of his misery. Had our roles been reversed, I would have bawled out intensive care into pandemonium.

Now aware that procedure meant two grown men torturing my young son in my very presence, I suddenly felt very sleepy as a strange chill was creeping up my chest, then around my face and finally across my forehead. Despite the airconditioning, I began to break into a cold sweat. When my knees started feeling funny, I realized I was about to faint! Unwilling to grab starring role from my son’s emergency moment, I wobbled out of ER and filled my lungs with fresh air. I would repeat this ritual a couple more times before deciding I’d rather mortgage my soul to the devil and pay for my son’s surgery than go through any more of this. Informed of my sentiments, the two young doctors rather quickly and quite gladly acceded to my wishes.

During the drive home, with powerful oral pain killers finally kicking in and his injury securely in a cast, my son fell into deep sleep. My pulse rate too had normalized for the first time since the phonecall. U2 was on the radio when ballroom music suddenly joined in. It was a pleasant piece and I thought that it was coming from the outside and that I’d soon drive past it. But after a few moments of listening to the two sounds compete, I shut off the radio and the other music became more distinct, clearer. I rolled down my window and realized it was not coming from the outside; I rolled my window back up and the strange music was still playing on. I turned the radio on again and, again, the two sounds ran together. Then the ballroom music faded away and Bono finished his song undisturbed.

Apprised of this mystery when we got home, my wife thought that the music may have been my late mother telling me that she was watching over her youngest grandson during those anxious moments. That was not too far removed from my own thesis that it was Trei’s guardian angel serenading her ward as he slept, momentarily forgetting that those awake were not supposed to hear her.

In the week when his surgery was being scheduled, Trei bravely soldiered on to attend the last days of school before Christmas break (pun fully intended) with his arm on a sling. On the other hand, his parents fretted over scars and deformity despite his uncle’s proven excellence in his craft. But there was never any doubt I’d trust no one else but my brother to mend my broken son.

On a warm Saturday afternoon, we wheeled Trei into the operating room. I walked beside his bed as far as the orderlies allowed and, as my son disappeared with strangers into that cold room, I prayed like I never had before. He was away from us longer than we expected and my wife and I again gave in to anxiety. We heaved out our relief when finally Quito called to assure us everything had gone as he planned. Trei would be brought back to us in no time at all. True enough, he was soon wheeled into our room and I texted my brother.

“Trei is now back with us as if nothing happened. Thank you for bringing my boy back to me. I’m forever indebted to you.”

“Don’t worry. He’s a tough boy.” was my brother’s reply.

Just days before my son’s accident, I was teasing him how badly I missed the little boy in my MacBook screen saver, the one who could not seem to accomplish anything without calling out for help from his parents. On the days leading to and following his surgery, my son needed assistance in eating his meals, taking his baths and changing into fresh clothes. I gladly provided that. Amused by this, his younger sister and unofficial family wit, reminded me of one of her Mom’s favorite quotes.

“Tatay, be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.”

The Ber Months

2013-11-21T18:27:00.001-08:00

Even before the smoke has fully settled in Zamboanga, a branch of the family visits from San Diego and that war is forgotten. To celebrate our kin ending a lifetime of self-exile, the local clan bestirs itself into a partying frenzy. Wild bacchanals are thrown left and right as relatives compete for hosting rights.

Amidst our merrymaking, the earth in Bohol heaves, cleaving verdant fields, pulverizing age-old belfries and dislodging stainless bridges. The body count starts but our toasting is undone so we probe our pockets. Along with what we can spare, we throw in profound prayers and earnest sympathy hoping they are commiseration enough. Then we celebrate on. Though loath to host parties, mostly for financial reasons, my wife and I feel obliged to tender one of our own. The occasion for such we find in our 17^th wedding anniversary (26^th of October) which we volunteer by way of despedida for our visitors.

For all its closeness however, this clan is not immune to conflicts. Some hurting flesh and blood feel unable to bury glinting hatchets and prudently choose to stay away. But most invitees come raring to revel and indulgence soon runs rampant. Food distends bellies and drink loosens tongues. Pent-up aches and pains from all these years are vented free unleashing torrents of tears but uninjured hearts triumph with hugs and kisses. When cameras are whipped out, “Acceptance!” and “Forgiveness!” are yelled instead of “Say cheese!” They do not make for perfect smiles but who needs such when the night is so?

Alas, the nightmare that ensues is unlike any other. As our guests reclaim the comforts of their home, Yolanda brews somewhere out in ill-named Pacific. As hangover incites futile vows of abstention for our coming days, she packs colossal power, gathers up herculean waters and barrels into the archipelago. Her fury sweeps everything in her path off the face of this hapless earth. Survivors will tell of winds of fury corkscrewing homes into piles of debris and of walls of sea swallowing entire villages. Its wrath, so ruthless, so vast, so complete, rages through the Visayan islands and reduces many of them into “a howling wilderness”. Is this what General Jacob Smith had envisioned for Balangiga in 1901 or is it Mother Nature showing us how to do that properly?

In the storm’s grim aftermath, the world instantly flies in a fortune but it takes long days before its mercy trickles down onto quivering hands. We watch in horror as thousands limp aimlessly about the devastation—hungry, injured and anguished as the rotting, reeking dead litter their surroundings. We heap curses at the powers that be for not coming in succor fast enough. We lay blame squarely at the feet of the nation’s President, still the best it has ever had bar none. Predictably, and quite sadly, he finds blame elsewhere. Commentators, local and foreign, similarly announce his “tarnished presidency” and earn his displeasure even if most accounts are accurate. His minions demand understanding in the face of overwhelming odds and do not repress their temper at those bashing their ineptness.

But “Who is in charge” amidst such want, such confusion, such anarchy is a fair question and raising crude placards saying “P-Noy where na u” is not rude behavior by a tormented citizenry. In fact, the people's belief that this President can offer them much more than honesty hints at their faith in him and may actually be taken as a compliment. Upon his return to Tacloban, perhaps he should have donned a t-shirt saying “Mga boss, here na me”?

Falsely secure that our beloved ber months only usher in our preparations for the long task of Christmas, we did not see any of this coming. September has left many of Allah’s villages by the sea in ruins and still waiting for their inhabitants’ homecoming. October has bitten off chunks from the chocolate hills and now the earthquake fault has become the attraction. Worst, this November has reduced the descendants of noble warriors to mendicancy and—which cuts the deepest—thievery.

As the year teeters on its edge, we—though thankfully unscathed—pray that we are done counting corpses if only for now.

Injury and Insult

2013-10-03T18:10:00.000-07:00

At first, there was just the problem of memory gaps. Or more precisely of having more and more gaps and less and less memory. Recent events though suggest something graver and get me to thinking.

My son recently asked for help in factoring a difference of two squares and I thought him a wimp in seeking help for such a minor challenge. Distracted from the evening news, I cockily promised him I’d solve the problem for him—in a jiffy—but only after I’m done watching the army blast the MNLF away from Zamboanga. Jiffy, my foot! It took me all night to solve the darned thing and only pride in my diploma kept this engineer refusing to be humiliated by high school algebra. But, heck, this is still math and how many Dads can factor binomials?

But when it took me all of one weekend to supply the four-letter answer to the crossword clue “not bad” when the first letter was G and the last D, I decided something’s the matter with my gray matter. I’m no longer as sharp as I think I was. And all along I thought that age was the only culprit, the inevitable and irreversible process of biodegrading from my lofty beginning in God’s own image to the ignominious end as … dirt. I’m older now and, hence, a tad duller; that’s all there is to it.

But soon the local dailies mercilessly disabuse me of this.

31 August 2013. Philippine Daily Inquirer: “Worrying about money to pay bills tends to lower IQ, says study.”

01 September 2013. The Philippine Star: “Study finds poverty reduces brainpower.”

There’s my problem right there—I’m so poor I’m going dumb! That’s classic adding insult to injury. But while my dumbness maybe debatable, my poverty is not. Anyone toting

Image from Google Images
INJURY

my bank account while sending two children to Catholic (read: expensive) schools should be worried. Deathly so. This is why I dislike going to the bank because the tellers snicker behind my back. And yet when some cyberspace pirate decides it is high time to steal someone else’s hard-earned money, does he hack into Henry Sy’s account? Or Napoles’? No, sir! He finds the embarrassment I call my savings irresistible and pillages the whole thing away. Most probably as a cruel joke: anyone with this little money in the bank must be living in shame. Here, let me relieve you of your misery. Click! Hehe.

The more conventional thieves don’t even think I’m worth a joke. Since we moved in to our new home, there have been a few break-ins in the

INSULT

neighborhood but the burglars have so far ignored us. This is welcome of course until the idiots tried to saw off the window grills (thick, formidable-looking cast iron bars) of my next-door neighbor when my sliding garden doors are just glass with no grills and sometimes left unlocked overnight! Like purgatory expecting souls in limbo. I felt insulted by this and eagerly joined to chase the scumbags away partly in vengeance of my violation.

But then, from a businessman’s point of view, the buggers probably thought it was not cost-effective to rent a forklift to cart away the gigantic TV in my bedroom. And the fridge in the kitchen belongs in a museum rather than with some underworld fence. There are a few coins that my wife scatters all around the house but I doubt they would be enough for gas money. Awesome intelligence work, guys! And amazing business acumen, too!

For fairness’ sake though, the question begs to be asked: do I deserve to be flat broke? I work damn hard to supplement whatever lacks in the talent department. I’m reasonably honest while under watch and I’m not greedy after I’ve had my fill. On the other hand, the cretins in noontime TV make the term idiot box sound intelligent but they own yachts. The vermin at city hall put their feet up while figuring out whether or not we deserve their valued attention but they drive around town in late model SUVs. The excreta in Congress can’t tell the movies from lawmaking and they’re buying Ayala Alabang and Wack Wack lots by the block.

This is Divine Injustice! Fuming through my nose, I gather all my beef such as my diminishing memory space allows and decide to raise hell before God Himself.

But then I’m reminded of the bedraggled girl my family often sees pushing her mother in a wheelchair along Commonwealth Avenue while my kids are well-groomed and my wife is healthy. Of the homeless folk huddling about their meager belongings under a bridge everytime a storm dumps rain on the city while my bed is warm and birds sing among the flowers in my garden. Of the thousands displaced by the fighting in Zamboanga lining up for instant noodles as we speak while a complete meal awaits its partakers on my dining table.

Dang! I don’t have a case against God.