A “NEW NORMAL” HOLIDAY

Christmas Tree 2010

I DID not display any Christmas ornaments in my house this year, just like the last. And my kids were not asking me why. Only once did my nine-year-old daughter mention about putting up our old Christmas tree at its usual corner in the living room, but it was not a question of why I wasn’t doing it, but it was rather a reminder, or maybe a command, for me to obey.

It was just a week before December and Roseya thought I’ve easily forgotten what our family has loved doing at this time of the year. She missed the whole family tradition of preparing for Christmas, such as decorating the tree while playing Christmas CD’s—Paskong Pinoy and Jose Mari Chan’s Christmas album were all-time favorites. It was a wonderful time together as a family. She has been looking forward to setting up the little star or an angel on top of the tree, all decked out in its Christmas finery.

MY PEN PAL

“PEN PALS“ maybe a strange term for the younger generations who have been living almost day to day with instant messaging, chat rooms, and social networking sites. To them, pen pals seem to come from a by-gone age. What do you need a pen for when you can reach your friends, old, new or potential friends, by just a click of the mouse?

As the term suggests, pen pals are two people, usually from different places, originally strangers, who regularly exchange friendly letters, mostly handwritten, and pictures with corny dedications at the back. The relationship would reach a major turning point when one would eventually travel across the distance to finally meet the other. They may fall for each other, that is, when physical attraction overpowers the emotional attraction they may have intimated on scented stationery. Or like with any friendship in life, they remain pen pals for only a short time. They would get to the point in their lives where they have too many things to take care of.

Today, however, there is an Internet version of the same thing. It still has its original meaning of remote friends in different parts of the world who write to each other through e-mails or private messages on social networking sites. The “pen” now means the electronically written communication. There are also pen pal sites for many single males or females to meet their “pals” online and later set up dates for themselves.

DAYBREAK

DURING a brief vacation in my hometown in Ilocos early this month, I forced myself to wake up before light just to see the familiar panorama of dawn in the barrio. Though I was sluggish after an eight-hour trip from Manila a day before, I braved the chilly air to watch the yellow strands of light above the mountain range to the east. I observed the breaking sun as if I had not seen it in so many years.

It’s easy to fall in love with the dawn. I always do. I would have my eyes transfixed to the radiating pink and faintly golden plumage of daybreak, like a beauteous lady smiling enticingly at you, or with rosy arms outstretched for a motherly embrace, dispelling any restlessness and grogginess of your tired soul.

It’s the kind of affection you miss so much, but sleepless nights and hectic obligations make you forget about her though. But the moment you try to reach her by the path of the night, you look east again and you’d find her as before.

There’s always this solemnity of her presence, when only the light moves, slowly from gray of a withering night to streaks of orange, and yellow and shaft of silver breaking from the clouds. And I can only have such lingering moment when I was in our old place in Nanguneg. Unlike in my house in a subdivision in Bulacan, where my view of the east is blocked by row of houses on elevated ground across the street, our house in the barrio would give me a clear view of that Homeric “rosy-fingered dawn.” 

5 BEST MEMOIRS THAT I’VE READ

I ENJOY reading books and read a lot. When I have this craving for reading, I succumb to whatever book that is available, so that qualifies me as a bookworm. My choice of books is eclectic, so I read everything that piques my interest.

I have my preferences, though, as an order of priority whenever I have given so many choices at one time: historical novels, award-winning books, and books that are made into outstanding movies.

But lately, reading narrative non-fictions, or first-person accounts that read almost like a novel, is an added delight. I’m always thrilled by personal truths written not only by famous writers, thinkers, and celebrities, but also by ordinary persons who examine themselves as they navigate through life, or ones written by those who can honestly talk about themselves in a purposeful way. And I am equally amazed by those who mythicize themselves, unraveling their exploits or histories as only they know them, and by those who start as a total no-gooder, but ends up as a total expert.

I am referring to memoir, which is different from an autobiography, though both words are sometimes used interchangeably. Unlike autobiography that is laden with dates and facts of the author’s entire life, a memoir does not delve too much into life details. It only provides a record not so much bound with timelines but of a random set of events that occurred and influenced a person’s life.

According to some authors, a memoir is a self-written account of selected events and phases in life that stands out in the memories of a person. It is a true story with a real-life plot, characters, setting, a couple of sub-plots, focusing on the part of the writer’s past that has universal appeal. It should be interesting in itself, as a novel might be.

The best memoirs, for me, should contain witty, interesting short stories and feelings or events that I can relate to in my own life. It should follow a story line or compile several anecdotes, such documents of honest thoughts, with a related theme, touching a subject that is either transformational or inspirational. It should have some kind of emotional impact that an ordinary reader like me should care. And finally, the writing has to be good.

There are five captivating and awesome memoirs I have read over the past few years. I picked up these memoirs because I believe they have permanently changed somehow the way I think about certain things, and gave me the idea that all lives worth living are interesting to read.

My list here was arranged in the order when I read them.

1.      Out of Africa by Isak Denisen

      When I first got hold of the book, I thought it was a novel, which is the basis of the Oscar Award winning movie of the same title   starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. But  the book is actually   a memoir written by a Danish baroness (real name: Karen von Blixen) who took over the management of a coffee plantation on her own in Kenya after she and her unfaithful husband divorced. It’s a vivid snapshot of her life in Africa, or rather a lyrical expression  of her love to the wonderful people and nature that touched her life there. But more than that, I was touched by her relationship (though she did not clearly define in the book the nature of such romance) with Denys Finch Hatton, the British farmer and hunter whom she met in the country. The pair had a tender affair, but not that of a “permanent partnership” that Blixen would have loved to happen. Hatton would use Blixen’s farm as his home base. And they would fly over her farm and some parts of Africa using Hatton’s biplane. The relationship ended when Hatton died in a plane crash. I feel for Blixen in her anguish and infinite longing, for the loss of a person she adored so much like a soul mate, and the loss of the coffee farm due to low yields. The book is a slow read; for it’s also an account on the charm, the majesty, the beauty of the vast continent, and the culture of the tribes therein; but it’s definitely a worthwhile read. 

2.      One L by Scott Turow

This is a journal-like narrative by Scott Turow, telling his experience as a first-year student at Harvard Law School where freshmen are dubbed One Ls. I first heard about this book when it was recommended by one of our speakers during our orientation as first year law students in a premier university. But I was only able to read it when I  was already in third year, or after I got kicked out and transferred to another school. Still, it was not a totally waste of time. I came to understand where I failed or what I lacked in my freshman year. I realized that first year in law school is the most critical in the life of a lawyer. Early on, you have to survive the terrors, depressions, hazing, compulsive work (e.g. reading up to 20 cases for a two-hour long recitation in class!), and very intimidating professors. One memorable account in the book is one that deals with the Socratic method of lecturing, where there were no clear answers. It was a familiar experience in my first school to be grilled with questions by the professor using that method. I suffered anxiety over a single exam that may determine my future in law school. The book narrates not only about law school but about being human in an intense, often grueling, situation. It is a must-read for first-year law students and law school applicants, or by anyone who has ever contemplated going to law school. 
                                                          

3.      I Know the Caged Bird Sing by Maya Angelou

       I didn’t hear about Maya Angelou until she recited her poem “On the Pulse of Morning” at the inauguration of US President Bill Clinton in 1993. So when I read her memoir more than 15 years later, I was amazed at the kind of life    she had endured and how she overcame her inferiority complex, trauma and racism, to become what she is now, a self-possessed, dignified young woman, and a multi-awarded poet and author, and playwright. I have read    fictions and stories about the origin of slavery of Negroes in America, the courage of black men and women, proud and strong under oppressive circumstances, and issues of rape, molestation, lynching and racism in their quest for independence and personal dignity. I read them from Alex Haley’s Roots, Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon and Beloved, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, and Richard Wright’s Native Son to name a few. And Angelou’s memoir covers topics common to these stories, particularly the era following the civil rights movements. I was no longer shocked and saddened by them. But it was a new experience reading this autobiographical story, written in the perspective of a young girl, as a three-year old then up to her early teens in a small, rural community during the 1930s. I admire her strength, her candor, poignancy and grace, all told in her powerful language, vivid scenery and emotions. It is a good book but not recommended for young readers.  

    

4.      Red Azalea by Anchee Min

My love for historical fiction leads me to Katherine, a novel about a Chinese girl and a seductive American teacher,  and aroused my curiosity of what was life in Mao’s China during the Cultural Revolution, and to Anchee Min, the author of  the book. And this has inspired me to pick up Red Azalea, her honest and frightening account under the shadow of Mao. It is her own story of inner strength and courage as she grew up in the rigid context of Communism, and living up with ideology and gender issues, sex, suicide, humiliation and political subterfuge. The drama unfolds like the convoluted plot of a telenovela. As a child, she was taught to be a good communist and was sent to a labor camp to work in the rice fields. Consistent with Communist dogma against any type of individualism or expression of emotions, communal laborers like her were forbidden to speak, dress, read, write, or love as she pleased. She entered, however, into a secret love affair with her female supervisor at the labor camp. Later on, she was selected to be trained as an actress for the film version of one of Madame Mao’s political operas. But Mao died before the film was completed, and Madame Mao was sentenced to death. It was then that Min realized that she was just a victim to the craziness of the culture like anyone else in her country, and that life might be better elsewhere. With the help of a friend, she left China for America. It is an interesting book.

5.      Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt

      I have so little knowledge about the book or its author when   I picked it up in a bookstore. Without the gilded seal bearing “Winner of the Pulitzer Prize” on its cover, I wouldn’t have taken a second look, and wouldn’t have the chance to experience glorifying this gem of a book. This is an honest narration of a young Irish-American boy, crushed under the oppressive conditions of impoverished childhood, heartbreaking struggles with his father’s alcoholism, and his mother’s attempts to keep the family intact, the death of three of his siblings, and the casual cruelty of relatives and neighbors, but narrated by him with eloquence and remarkable forgiveness, and in astounding humor and compassion. That’s a big wow for me. The story happened in the Depression-era in New York and the war years in Ireland, where the family moved after they left America. The story, seen through the eyes of the author’s younger self, makes you laugh and cry with his heartbreaks and near-starvation, and keeps you rooting for his family’s survival. It highlights abject poverty and unemployment, those devastating conditions faced by millions around the world, but as a whole, it tells a story of hope and triumph rather than one of misery. Deserving of my five stars.

Just to round up my top ten, I must also confess an appreciation for the following autobiographical books: From Barrio to Senado by Juan M. Flavier, Nothing Is Impossible by Christopher Reeve, The Measure of a Man by Sidney Poitier, America is in My Heart by Carlos Bulosan, and Born on the Fourth of July by Ron Kovic.

I would love to write one of my own someday. I will definitely make one if only to help me make sense of my life, confront the truth, and provide myself new perspectives in life. But for now I just enjoy finding pieces of myself in other people’s lives revealed through their well-written memoirs.    

A LIFT FROM AN ANGEL

MY wife and our two-year-old son Nathaniel just came out of a children’s party at Jollibee along Quezon Avenue in Quezon City. It was the first week of August of 1999. The gray cloudy sky, cool heavy wind, and low rumble in mid-afternoon presaged rain.

“It looks like rain, do you have umbrella?” asked Weng, my wife’s officemate and the mother of the birthday girl.

“No it won’t rain,” I replied as if I was that day’s weatherman.

  

“Yes, we have an umbrella,” my wife countered.

Instead of going home to Malate, Manila, we proceeded to Uncle Rolly’s house in Quezon City. My uncle, my mother’s youngest brother, had been asking us to visit them if we have time. So here now, we have this spare time after the party. My wife and I were also eager to see my uncle’s two lovely kids. It would only take one jeepney ride from Jollibee to his place in Project 3 anyway, and we might reach the place before the rain. If it would rain at all.

We arrived at my uncle’s rented studio-type apartment just in time for dinner and the drizzle. Nathaniel had fun playing with my uncle’s precocious children, Jap-Jap, 3, and Paula, 2. I think it was around 7 p.m. when the drizzle gained up strength, followed by wild gusts of wind. The strong rain grew even stronger, and it fell without letup for another hour.

I wouldn’t want to stay very late at night with my baby away from the safety of our home. My uncle would love to accommodate us, if we like to stay through the night, but when we decided to go home no matter what, he only allowed us to leave when the rain had stopped.

After more than an hour of continuous rain, the sky became quiet but the cold stormy breeze still lingered in the air. We waited for another hour without rain then we went out the house, bidding my uncle and his family goodbye. At the street corner, we caught a jeepney going to Quiapo. It’s almost 10 in the evening.

While our jeepney was traversing the busy street of Kamuning, the rain fell, this time harder and more fearsome. The rain drummed on the roof of the vehicle. The roads were covered with rain water in a short period of time. The traffic came at slow. We waited patiently amidst drastic rain, cool wind, and darkness.  

The driver made a shortcut to minor streets, yet we were still trapped along with other vehicles trying to evade the floods. Suddenly, we came to a dead stop, and he told us that it was very dangerous to drive any further. “I’m sorry, but you have to get out and walk,” he said, pointing out the sudden lull from the rain.

My family went out of the vehicle, and walked until we reached a corner of the road where we could see passenger jeepneys passing by. It’s not yet midnight, I thought we’d have no trouble getting a ride. After we waited in the corner for a while, a jeepney with only a few passengers pulled up and the driver asked where we were going. “Quiapo,” I said. He told us that with the floods, he was not sure if he could make it until that place, but he could just try.

So we hopped in. A big portion of Quezon Avenue ahead of us was already submerged with floodwaters. The driver made a shortcut to the road parallel to the main thoroughfare until we reach Sampaloc district in Manila.

The weather turned nasty in a split second. It began to rain again drastically. Our travel had become a long and tortuous wading through the flooded streets. Floods were nothing new to this densely-packed part of the city. Being drivers and commuters, living under the mercy of floodwaters during the rainy season, meant developing survival skills and prayerful spirit worthy of a survivalist.

The driver, just like the first one, saw the danger ahead and said that he wouldn’t want to push his luck. That means, we have to be on our own, go down the road, and brave that super-filthy flood with my small child in my arms. Wading through flood waters is dangerous. Flood water can contain hundreds of different chemicals, along with bacteria and other microorganisms that can cause disease and infection. And there’s that open manhole waiting for its victim. But I have no choice. 

We joined the remaining passengers as they alighted from the vehicle and went to the direction of España Blvd. There’s only a drizzle now, so my family had to huddle in my wife’s small umbrella as we groped our way to the nearest shed. 

Good thing, the drizzle stopped after about 15 minutes, giving us the chance to go on with the trek. Fortunately, the flood along the side of the street was only just as high as my ankle. From Dapitan Street, we waded toward the direction of an intersection going to España Blvd. I could see some vehicles traversing the street toward Quiapo. So I rather take my chances than have my family spend the night in the middle of the floodwaters.

The cold, dark night stretched dauntingly ahead. We were stranded at the corner of Blumentritt and España. We stayed in the corner, with Nathaniel in my arms, seemed heavier than before. There were only a few public vehicles braving the floodwater but none had stopped to take us in. Tricycle and pedicab drivers, taking advantage of the flood, offered their services to stranded commuters; while some men pushed stranded vehicles to higher grounds, for a fee, of course.

Then a dark blue SUV passed by with steady speed at first, but slowed down in front of us, then he stopped two or three meters away. Perhapsthe driver changed his mind to move on, then he backtracked very slowly. It stopped in front of us, and the driver slid down his tinted window.

“Where are you going?” asked the driver, a young man about thirty.

My wife told him we were waiting for a ride going to Malate.

“I am going to that direction, why don’t you hop in before it would rain again, well, if it’s OK with you?” he said. His welcoming smile eased my apprehension of a stranger.  

“I happened to see your young child, so I thought, he badly needs to be at home at this time,” he continued when we were already inside his vehicle, with our soaked pants and a dripping umbrella. My child was now asleep in my lap. 

The driver went on with his friendly chatter. He was on a hurry (yet he found time to stop and pick us up in the flood) to fetch his boss from an important meeting in a place near the US Embassy along Roxas Boulevard, and his boss might be worried by now. Just like the previous jeepney drivers, he made every shortcut that he would find, but unlike them, he didn’t stop at all.

As the SUV negotiated the swirling waters, I suddenly found myself praying to God and all the saints: to keep the car from conking out, and let us make it to higher ground. The speed was moderate and steady, and murky flood started creeping into the car. But the driver wasn’t worried at all. He told me that he’d used to this kind of flood and he had a full trust with his vehicle.

We reached the end of España, and there’s no more flood after the next street going all the way to the underpass connecting Quiapo. I knew that our ordeal was about to the end. We went ahead with normal speed going to Lawton, then to Roxas Blvd until we reached Kalaw Street.

We alighted, and thanked the man profusely. But our angel shrugged off our profuse thanks, and refused to accept any payment. In our haste to go home, we forgot to get his name. But I watched the car sped away, sending him a prayer for him to reach his boss safely and to his family after his work was done.

Whoever he is, I’m very thankful for all his effort. He went out of his way to help my family in a desperate situation, and perhaps, his only motivation is to help or to do an act of kindness when opportunity so provides. That man has done a very honorable act.

We made it safely home. We were blessed that August night in España to meet a nameless angel in the road. He saved us, especially my child, from spending the night in a flooded street.

WATERPROOF SPIRIT

I COME across once in a while pictures that snag my attention and really give me that good belly-laugh. Just like jokes, funny pictures can lift everyone's spirit, and are sure to divert the attention of some Facebook addicts, quite like me before, for a few seconds at least. And for that we should be grateful.

Everytime I scroll down my FB page, funny pictures would pop up like zombies of a popular video game, along with so many invites, unwelcomed tagging of images, and feel-good-for-me kind of posts. The Net is a highway of these sorts being thrown at you. But I tend to seek out more of these funny stuffs, almost becoming like a lifelong quest for me to find things that really make me laugh. I copied some of these funny pictures, from the witty to the outrageously funny, for my personal file (No, I don’t usually share or repost other FB user’s wall post). And I really found more every time I use the Net, and indeed they were just as good.

It’s not strange that most of these pictures are made by Filipinos, a known race in the planet that can easily have a good quick laugh despite the hardship of life. They can be about stupid government officials, about Manny Pacquiao, her mother Dionisia with her candid ways, sarcasm on daily life, and popular movies; and even those images that barely fit into the topic of the day, they still somehow find life on the Net, dipped in humor.

And just recently, during the intense and prolonged monsoon rain (now dubbed as “a storm with no name,” or simply habagat or southwest monsoon) that ravaged Metro Manila and nearby provinces, and while the closing of the 2012 Olympics in faraway London was about to end, this picture came out and began circulating around the Internet like virus.

Translation: You’re only a flood; I’m a Filipino.

Apparently, this serves as a proof of the Filipino’s unique ability to cope with just about anything. Three cheers for his sunny personality!

The Filipinos could withstand anything nature throws at them. A flood may be as high as their rooftops, almost a yearly or monthly occurrence in their place, anyway, or no matter how dire the situation is, the every resourceful and flexible Filipinos would just easily raise themselves above water. The Filipino, indeed, has acquired the “waterproof spirit”, a quality that impressed even Canadian singer Nelly Furtado in her recent visit to the country.

Now we can really understand why millions of us, even during a disaster, could still enjoy communicating with relatives and friends, sending jokes, particularly captured images of what is pretty fun, and ventilating their views on whatever strikes their fancy. And those photos that they circulate are also a big validation of the kind of Internet user the Filipinos are.

We Filipinos are known for our easy going attitude and good sense of humor which reflect strongly through the pictures that they Photoshop to suit their fun personality. And if there is one thing that can be a source of Olympic gold for the country, then it’s got to be their artistic bent of Photoshopping pictures, and their Usain Bolt-speed of sharing their LOL-worthy masterpieces and tagging and liking and tweeting them in worldwide web. Filipinos, a very social people despite their poverty, were born to entertain.

Before these waterproof-spirit-themed photos, Facebook and other social network pages are also abuzz with images depicting what makes the Philippines “more fun” using the tagline of the Department of Tourism latest campaign pitch “It’s More Fun in the Philippines.” This “Fun” theme did not escape some of Filipino netizens—so what do you expect?—as they take the idea to a new level, like using it to make fun of their situations during the intense rain and flooding in the country.

What makes these images stand out for me is the razor-sharp truth, as well as its perfectly timed theme (tayming na tayming, as we love to say in Filipino). They really drive the message home. Well, there is life to comedy in this country, after all, even after the death of Dolphy. Just look at these samples I gathered from the Net. Now if a picture is worth a thousand words then these photos are worth a thousand laughs.

There are some of our countrymen, however, who don’t agree or are really disappointed by this tag “Filipino waterproof spirit.” To them it is clear evidence that we are not a serious people. It manifests a weird culture in our midst: That we rather make fun and create jokes of our misfortunes than to think of a solution. It’s like saying “Since we do it very well, then we love doing it.” They bemoan the fact that we seldom hear an outrage or none at all about our pitiful condition, when in truth, much of what contributes to the devastation of the metropolis are the result of years of neglect and lack of foresight by our leaders, from Malacañang all the way to the barangay council halls. 

But for now, everyone would just love to find reasons to laugh. As they say, when the world gets really crazy, the Filipinos always find the need to watch comedy. Come hell or high water, nothing can take that smile or laugh (that malutong na tawa we always love to hear) away from them. They make light of it, shrugging off every disaster as another chapter in our sordid life.

I don’t think there’s problem seeing the smiling faces of Filipinos as they helped each other out. The government anyway has already expressed its concern to us, as it has done almost every year, and we hope our leader could see our vulnerability to natural calamities as reason to create a comprehensive drainage masterplan, and not just mere laughing matter.

Well, until next year then!

Images used in this post are all shared photos. Acknowledgement is due to their owners, creators, or original sources. 

A YEAR AFTER THE LOSS

Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery’s shadow or reflection: the fact that you don’t merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief.” – C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed  

TODAY is the first anniversary of my wife’s death. My wife of 14 years passed from this life exactly a year ago at PGH-Manila due to breast cancer.

The fateful scene in that August night is still fresh on my mind. Eight hours after I left my wife in her bed in the hospital, I received a text message from Joan, her niece, pleading me to go back to my wife’s bedside at the soonest possible time. I went to work that day because I knew she’s fine when I left her.

I knew right away that the day I feared so long has finally come.

Please, Lord, not now, I kept on praying while I hurtled out of the office up to the nearest bus stop. When I called up Joan again, her words were drowned by her sobs. I had to calm her down. She insisted that I should hurry up, assuring me though that her aunt is still breathing, as the doctors are trying all their best to keep her alive.

It was Friday, a day Jesus the Nazarene devotees flock to Quiapo church. There was a monstrous traffic along Quezon Boulevard, which is a major road midway to my route from my office in Quezon City to PGH in Ermita. I was stuck. In 5 or 10 minutes interval, I called Joan for update, trying hard to keep myself from crying.  

From my bus window I hold on my eyes to the opened doors of the church, where I had a glimpse of a number of devotees praying inside. There are so many of them packing the church every Friday, beseeching the Lord, telling Him of their myriad of intentions. They were so calm now, so confident.

I’m here, Lord, please listen to me…!

At this approach of death, there are two conflicting thoughts that had occupied my mind with equal power: one is to consider the possibility of losing her and learn to accept the truth with equanimity; and the other, to consider the impossibility of forestalling a natural course of event so I rather disregard what is painful and depressing till it finally comes. It was with the second thought that I reasonably held on to my hope, however slim that is, that my wife will survive this one, even this night. I wanted to talk to her first, to tell her many things, and to say how sorry was I for not taking care of her with the best I’ve got.

Please, Lord, not now…

I arrived in her room at 9:15 p.m. She lay motionless in her bed, unconscious but breathing. The life support machine was on standby, ready to be used again if my wife had another gasping attempt for dear life. But the doctors gave me the sad truth: should the electrocardiogram monitor slow down to flat again, it would be their last chance to revive her. To revive her for another try, they said, that would be her third for the night, would be fatal to her internal organs, that is, if they continue pumping beyond the standard time, it’s good as dead.

My wife's family and some friends started crowding around at her bedside (our three children were left in our home in Bulacan and a relative was already on its way to fetch them). All their downcast, glassy eyes mirrored fear of forthcoming death in the family.

My wife’s hand was still warm yet stiff when I held it. I tried to wake her up; I kept on talking to her, telling her I was with her right now and how I love her so much. Then I felt a slight movement or a jerk from her, and I saw an almost imperceptible thin line of a tear flowing slowly from a corner of her eyes. That was the last movement, the last tear I saw from her, the last sign of her life. After a couple of minutes, the green line in her heart monitor slowed down going to flatline, then everyone was frantic of calling the doctors again.

And that was their last attempt to revive her.

What is painful, what is unbearable, and what is depressing befell my life that instant, like wayward rocks from a cliff. And it is still a mystery that I was buried by the avalanche, so helpless and unprepared, and still I was alive.

But my world would never be the same again. I learned how people really feel when they say life is not worth living.

So what I have done during the past twelve emotionally difficult months of my life? How do I go on after losing someone whom I loved so deeply?

I’m doing fine, or trying hard to be OK, as what my friends have wanted me to be. To be prayerful and to be strong. To place loss into a perspective that is tolerable, like saying that “It’s God’s will” or “God doesn’t want her to suffer any longer.”   

Honestly, I’m having a tough time working for the whole twelve months, and I almost didn’t finish law school. I’ve noticed I made a lot of effort when I interact with other people. It’s no longer that easy, I always wear a mask, though tears don’t come easily to me. As if there is a barrier now between myself and my world before the tragedy. I want to let go and be free in the same old world. But I can’t.  

Solitude helps me concentrate to do what I love to do. I write and read a lot. I have to divert my mind from this gnawing guilt, sorrow and even anger. Even during my review for this coming bar exams, my effort to unburden things out of my chest made me read more fictions than my own law textbooks and review materials just to calm myself.

I have decided to revive this blog a week after her death and now I have been posting something about how I cope to help me and others who may be going through the same situation as I have. It’s that sort of a release, or some emotional catharsis. I am very open in telling and retelling what happened to me; like what I did with the first few paragraphs, writing about my wife’s last hours on that August night.

Healing, I was told, starts by telling others about the loss of a beloved partner. As if it’s a requirement for the bereaved to subscribe to this ancient Turkish proverb that tells us that the one who “conceals his grief finds no remedy for it.”

But when I am at home, I always try to keep myself busy. I have my kids to keep me going every day.

It is not that I’m lonely. I just seem to have an extreme sadness that will not go away. I cannot end my grief, it’s true, and I only have this choice: to accept it or to resist it. I would rather now learn to accept whatever it was I needed to accept. Only time will help me make it through.

Yet it will be a heart wrenching journey and I have a long way to go. But the loss might never be fully over.

REMEMBERING MR. SORIA

IT was 3 o’clock in the morning, Thursday, just after I was tired reading a law book, when I thought of browsing on the recent posts in my Facebook account, which I seldom do after I have enrolled in a review school. That was when I chanced upon a post in our high school group account announcing the death (on July 10) of Mr. Marcelino Soria, our former teacher in high school. He was 80 years old.

So while most Filipinos had been topping up the blogosphere with their tributes to the Comedy King Dolphy, who died on the same day, I have this space of my blog only for my old mentor.

It’s true that you’ll never know the importance of a person to you until you’ve lost him. Now you weep for lost opportunities to talk to that person again and thanked him a lot for whatever good things he had done for you to become what you are now.

Mr. Soria was more than a teacher to me. He remains an integral part of my high school life in Narvacan. He was our teacher in Social Studies, our Citizens Army Training commandant, and most importantly, my mentor in campus journalism. I now have this sweet awareness that I had been one of his many, many students, in a single aspect of his productive life as a writer and a mentor. He was the adviser of our high school paper The Pioneer, where I served as editor-in-chief during my senior year.

I remember when I first joined the competitive test for new members of the school paper. I was in second year, a transferee from a private school in another town. First time applicants like me were asked to write a feature story about a person. And in spite of the many persons that I knew so well about, I chose as my subject the school janitor. I painted in words how Manong Temyong would push his wheelbarrow filled to the brim with dried leaves and some litter he picked up around the campus, unmindful of the many students worming about him and the heat of the noonday sun. I described how his muscles and the arteries bulged in his arms as he pushed his rickety cart, his sweat streaming down his face. 

A day or two after the exams, Mr. Soria peeked through the window of our classroom, and asked our class adviser who was teaching us that day to have “this boy Valdez” stand up for him. So I stood up before this middle-aged, medium-built bespectacled man with a ready smile, chinky eyes and raspy voice. 

He instructed me to come to The Pioneer office during my vacant period. I learned later that he was so impressed with my feature story that he had to personally seek “this boy” who can write descriptions so very well. 

Soon, he gave me a bundle of back issues of The Pioneer. He wanted me to study right away everything about the campus paper, its structure, parts and contents. This was the start of my three-year life as a campus writer under his tutelage. Then I learned from him that for the past seven years, or since 1981, our school hadn’t won the over-all championship in the Division Secondary Schools Press Conference (DSSPC), a provincial-level competition for school organs. Mr. Soria was hard pressed to train his staff to be the best that they could be and regain the title.

Once he told me how he got hooked into reading early in life; he would stay for long hours under the shade of a tree to read. And this endeared me to this man, because I was also doing these things in our barrio. Sometimes I would bring a book with me when I send my cow to the pasture. I would read under the shade of a camachile tree, under an electric post, or in a breach in riverbanks.   

The man is both strict and funny in the classroom. He would berate a student for a bungled recitation, as a grumpy old colonel would to a clumsy private. His now classic words “Likkabek ta durekmo (I’ll scrape out your ear wax)” and “Isab-itka dita dingding (I’ll hang you to the wall),” were some of his most-liked expressions in class. And he could be like a neighborhood tippler in telling funny stories, most of them having an imprint of a pilosopo. It’s always fun to listen to his stories though.

While still a beginner or trainee in the staff, Mr. Soria chose me to compete in the feature writing contest. I only placed 11th in my first outing to the annual provincial level competition. I was promoted associate editor in the next year, and I was again qualified to compete in the competition, and this time I copped top ten places in editorial and news writing.

My close relationship with Mr. Soria was highlighted when I was in my senior year. Though he had already appointed me editor-in-chief, I still tried my luck in school politics, and without consulting him. I ran for 4th year representative for the student government. But an incident happened during the campaign period, which almost caused me, together with four of my classmates, an expulsion from school. My classmates and I admitted our fault, as we have no choice, and pleaded with our parents to the principal to give us a chance. We were reprieved but on my part, I was disqualified as candidate in the election. Some teachers had even asked Mr. Soria to recall my appointment as EIC of The Pioneer. But he wouldn’t want me out. Receiving that trust from him was my defining moment as a high school student.

This began a very intense and productive time in my training with him. I also started joining him in his trip to a printing press in Laoag to proofread the galley of our school paper.  

And learning from him was never hard work because I genuinely enjoyed reading and writing. It was in this period that I started writing poems and short stories. It helped that I was editor-in-chief of the publication. I was given enough confidence. 

And my hard work paid off. In my last year to compete in the DSSPC, I captured the highest award, the overall individual championship for garnering the highest points in the annual competition. And best of all, The Pioneer won its first overall championship award, its first in eight years. I didn't fail my mentor.

When he learned that I will be going to UNP Vigan for my college education, he challenged me to get the highest position in the university paper. And which I did and held the top position of our campus paper Tandem for two consecutive years.  
After graduation from college, I was hired as a part-time high school teacher, substituting for my father who filed an indefinite leave of absence from a private school that year. So I went to Mr. Soria, who was retired by then, as a loyal student would to his aged master, not only to report what I have achieved but also to seek his advice for my career path. I went to his rented place, a house near our high school campus. I told him I would be handling journalism subject and was tasked to handle the campus paper. Only five years have passed since I left him and The Pioneer after my high school graduation, and I became a school paper adviser like him. I told him I wanted to be a good mentor like him who would train or inspire future writers. His invaluable assistance and support in my high school life, and this time his fatherly advice, will never be forgotten and will always have a lasting impact on my life. 

And that was the last time I saw him in person. After only a year of teaching, I moved to Manila, worked in a big publishing house and soon established my residence in Bulacan. So I felt a profound sense of loss, for all of the richness of our relationship and the many years it could have continued, if only I had kept in touch with him.  

But then I’ve been so fortunate to be that kind of his student who would take all his lessons to heart, and hopefully I will pass it on to my future students, if ever I would teach again.

Rest in peace, Sir.

PO-ON: SELF-SACRIFICE AND NATIONAL UNITY

BEING an Ilocano myself, and having known much of our own history and language, I take pride of having read F. Sionil Jose’s Po-on (Dusk), the first in the five-book series The Rosales Saga. It’s the same feeling I had, as a Filipino and proud member of the Malay race, after reading the English versions of Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, two classic novels of Jose Rizal.

The setting of Rizal’s Noli and Fili is a fictional town called San Diego (possibly in Laguna), but the issues transcend the locale of the novel. It depicts the general struggle of the Filipino against abuses by the friars and the ambivalence of the ruling class. It is set at the time when the Philippines was still a province of Mother Spain.

Sionil Jose’s Po-on, on the other hand, is set in Cabugao in Ilocos Sur, my home province, and ultimately in Rosales, Pangasinan, the author’s birthplace. It initially describes the plight of the Ilocanos at the hands of the abusive Spanish rulers during the later part of their rule in the region, and the start of the American conquest, following the Spanish-American war. But toward the end of the novel, it conveys a message that deals with nationalism or the question of our identity as Filipinos.

The novels of Rizal and Sionil Jose both deal on poverty, poor governance and human rights abuses during the Spanish time, with emphasis on the lecherous, potbellied friars who rule the land and oppress the people. But while Noli and Fili are seen through the eyes of an ilustrado (Crisostomo Ibarra a.k.a. Simoun the Jeweler), Po-on is seen through the eyes of a poor indio named Istak (Eustaquio Salvador/Samson), who went with his family in exodus from Ilocos to Pangasinan to escape from the wrath of the Spaniards after the grisly killing of a parish priest. The journey of the family filled with tragedies is comparable with that of Tom Joad’s family in John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, who also got to their Promised Land but in the end, something had to be sacrificed in the name of duty.

Having moved by the powerful and intense narration of the Po-on, I felt a pang of conscience and regret for having read only a few emotionally charged fictions written by our own nationalist authors that really speak about us—our past, our present, and our future. Before Po-on and Rizal’s twin novels, I have read Gagamba also by F. Sionil Jose, Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco, and an anthology of short stories by Mindoro native NVM Gonzales. But none that I have read so far, other than Po-on, speaks the history of the resilient and frugal Ilocanos.  

We Ilocanos are well scattered to other parts of the country and to foreign lands, where we account for majority of immigrant Filipinos. They say it’s about our land. Ilocos Region, or Ilocandia, is one of the smallest regions in the country. Add to this fact that the region is sandwiched by the sea in the west and by the rugged mountains in the east, a condition that has made for a very limited amount of arable land for a very industrious people. It was a tough geographical location for us Ilocanos to live in. No wonder, we are stereotyped with regional traits vital for survival, such as tenacious industry, perseverance, resilience, frugality, and pioneering spirit. Because of so very little space in the region, Ilocanos seemingly are duty-bound to move to other places in search for better opportunities not only for their own sake but for the whole clan.

In Po-on, Sionil Jose shows us the other reason for this diaspora, which is the persecution of the Ilocano indios under the Spanish regime. But prior to Istak’s story, the Spaniards weren’t particularly lucky with their conquest of Ilocos. The Ilocanos were one of the first ethnic groups to revolt against Spanish officials. Two of the Philippines’ most notable uprisings were the Basi Revolt in 1807 and the one lead by the lion-hearted Diego Silang of Aringay (now part of La Union) in 1762-63, which was continued by his wife Gabriela Silang. The Silangs’ revolt, which is also well mentioned in Po-on, was fueled by the grievances against Spanish taxation and abuses. The uprisings were short-lived and never duplicated until the twilight of the Castilian rule during Istak’s time.

These abuses by the Spanish rulers subsist in the province up to the last decade of the 19th century. Although one exceptional friar is very kind to young Istak and takes care of him like his own son, that is, teaching him how to pray, write and speak Spanish and Latin, Istak and the rest of the indios are not generally allowed to become priests. So Istak, in spite of his advance education, has to go back to his family and help in his family's farm. Ba-ac begs the new priest to send his son to the seminary, and while they are arguing, Ba-ac realizes that the priest is the one who ordered him to be arrested and hung up by the arm because of an accusation that he was malingering from the duty to offer compulsory road building work for the Spanish. In a fit of fury he kills the priest with a crucifix. Ba-ac’s family has to leave hurriedly, taking the back roads to avoid the Spanish guards. They go with other relatives who have also been expelled from their lands. So the families escape like fugitives and along the way, they encounter the much feared tulisanes and the atrocious Spanish officers. Amidst their adventures are poignant episodes of love and devotion, particularly between Istak and Dalin, his devoted wife and savior, and family solidarity and values.

At the end of the story, we see Americans now taking over but, soon the Filipinos found out that they are as bad as the Spanish. American soldiers would torture and rape the poor natives. Don Jacinto, the local landowner who helps them set up a small village in Rosales town, is very much involved in the independence movement and Istak soon starts helping him, particularly when a man known as the Cripple (Apolinario Mabini) stays at the house of Don Jacinto. Finally, Istak is sent off on a dangerous mission to take a message to President Emilio Aguinaldo but ends up at the last brave stand of El Presidente's loyal soldiers at Tirad Pass, where Istak was shot dead by the Americans.

Istak, a martyr in a very real sense, is aglow with patriotic fervor until his death. He understands that love for country, which involves sacrifice, is essential to discovering the meaning of his own existence. And true enough, he gave honor to the country by proving to the white invaders that Filipinos are capable of offering their dear lives, not only for their clan, but for our country's freedom. Sadly, this is all in the past tense. We now live in a curious era where most Filipinos wanted to be Americans or Europeans, and most of our politicians are bereft of patriotism in their service to the nation.

The Cripple in the novel says it with fire and ice: "There is so much that the past can teach us… Diego Silang—more than a hundred years ago, what did he prove? That with a brilliant and selfless leader, we can be united the way he united the north. And united, we can then make Filipinas strong, formidable…”

Of course, today there are no more colonizers to contend with, but we still have many wars to fight. There is the war on poverty, rampant corruption in government transactions, poor governance, and the never-ending struggle for national unity. Po-on clearly tells us that our dream to have selfless leaders, who know the value of self-sacrifice, and citizenry that is truly united for the country remains a dream.

I must say, Po-on is a must-read for every Filipino if we only want to educate our countrymen about our glorious past.   

REVISITING GOALS

MORE that sixteen years ago, I saw myself as a rudderless ship carried away by the waves in a turbulent sea.

I felt so alone in my rented room in Roxas District (Quezon City). I had been in bed for the whole day, sick with fever, and had been worrying that my money wouldn’t last me a week, and bothered by a call of help from my younger sister who was in dire need of a big amount to pay a school requirement. My low salary as a proofreader of a publishing house couldn’t give me or my family any satisfaction.

I couldn’t sleep. I felt I was caught in an arid area, the middle of where I was and where I wanted to be.  

Something inside me demanded a change, yearning to have a more positive and present life. I needed to live my life differently. I knew a lot of things about the life I was living would have to change. So what do I want to do? What would I do beyond working, eating, dreaming? Someday, my time on earth will end. Before I die, what I really want to accomplish? What would I do beyond working, eating, dreaming?

As if in a cue, I rose from bed, got hold of my pen, tore up a page of my notebook, and wrote the word in big letters: GOALS. There were so many other things, big and small, that I really wanted to do. So I must begin working towards achieving them instead of just vaguely thinking, “Someday...” or “I wish…”   

I started writing what could be a map or a plot for my route ahead. I’d expected that this would bring me to the direction of where I want to be. It would be my guide, my personal instructions of hanging on. 

So I wrote this list in 1995.

Immediate Goals:

1.      To finish my masteral degree by age 26.

2.      To see Nove (my sister) finished her college education by March 2000.

3.      To get married between 1997 and 1998.

4.      To be a college instructor before the age of 28.

5.      To own a house before the age of 30.

6.      To see my parents happy in their retirement years by giving them capital for business before I turned 30.

7.      To be able to write an Iluko novel before the age of 26.

8.      To be able to write stories and poems for English magazines before the age of 26.

9.      To write a book (any topic of general interest) before I reach 35.

Lifetime Goals:

1.      To buy back the TV set that we sold to Abat (our neighbor).

2.      To maintain my correspondence with my present pen friends.

3.      To own a camera and be a professional photo essayist.

4.      To travel around Europe.

5.      To be an elected government official.

So what I constructed was some sort of motivational “to-do” list for myself, and each item has real, personal significance. See I made this long before bucket list or Internet blog sites that make a list of things to do before you die have become a fad. After I wrote my own list, it stayed on my personal files, inserted particularly in my short-lived diary. It had practically reminded me that I was in control of my life. It had become my life's turning point, a single moment of self-realization.

But then, I got busy, tied up with more immediate concerns, and my goals become less and less relevant to my life. I got married, started a family, and had been transferred to different jobs.

My list was buried deeper into my files, and I was only able to read it once or twice in the past. And the last time that I retrieved it was when I was sorting out my personal things after that life-changing experience that I had last year.

Fast forward to present, did I achieve these goals or any of them? Has my life improved or better than 16 years ago?

Now I started crossing off the items that I have achieved so far. Here’s the update of my list: I got married in 1996, or a year earlier than my plan. I was enrolled in PUP Graduate School but I dropped out after two semesters to focus on establishing my own family. For lack of post-grad degree I was never qualified as a college instructor.  

My sister graduated from college in 1999, and after some years of working in different companies, she decided to enroll in another course, this time an Accounting degree. She graduated last year and passed the CPA board.  

I bought a house on a loan when I was 34. And, yes, I had my first Ilocano novel published in Bannawag magazine and had some of my poems appeared in English magazines and literary websites. I haven’t got a book of general interest published under my name, but I have self-published an anthology of my short stories published in Bannawag before I turned 30. I failed to give my parents their capital for a possible business, but right now, with the help of my siblings, they are very happy in their life as senior citizens. 

For the list of my lifetime goals, I only realized just now that it was incomplete or did not actually tell so much about the things I really wanted to achieve in my lifetime. Anyway, from those that I had listed here, only one is no longer possible to achieve. This was my aim (my obsession, actually) to buy back the TV set which was given to a neighbor as security for my father’s loan. About the time I have the money to buy it, the TV was already unusable.

I have three pen friends when I wrote the list. With e-mails, SMS, Facebook and other social networking sites, correspondence is always a possibility. One of my pen friends, now a teacher living in Las Piñas, is my Facebook friend and still sending me messages regularly to my cell phone. The other one, whom I regularly see when she stayed in Manila for a time, is now married and staying with her family in Ilocos. And my dream to travel Europe, to be a photo essayist (or journalist) and be an elected official can still be a possibility (though, I no longer see myself entering politics).

Should I make another list? With my age, I can only think of my intentions, not just wishes. No matter what, this is MY life now. I could only think of what I achieved and try to live it positively. Failures are in the past tense, so they better remain as such, and they can only be a good source of wisdom and even inspiration.