A LETTER TO MOTHER

Dear Inang,

I’m sorry this comes late for Mother’s Day. During that day, I couldn’t write a single note for you. I tried, but all I could remember was that morning in the kitchen a month before.

It was the most poignant scene, the one I could easily remember; though at that time, I didn’t realize its effect on me. And I think of it now, like a reader flipping through pages of an old photo album, turning back to that event in just one glance.

It was the morning I arrived with my brother and two sisters from the hospital in San Fernando. Tatang, whom we fetched with a hired ambulance, was lying lifeless, now half covered with blanket on the wooden bed at the sala. While everyone around me was crying and groaning, I was frozen from where I stood. And my heart was in ecstatic pain.

PINSAL FALLS

THIS blog about my trip to Pinsal Falls has long been overdue. My first and only visit to the tallest, if not the most beautiful waterfall in Ilocos, was way back in December 2011. Some of my snapshots of the place, now with a good number of likes and comments, had been in my Facebook’s Timeline photos for quite some time now. But with my recent trip to Cambugahay Falls in Lazi, Siquijor early this month and to Balite Falls in Amadeo, Cavite in April last year, I cannot help but compare these two falls with Pinsal Falls.

It’s an easy verdict for me: Pinsal Falls certainly stands above the two, not only because of its size but also because of its rocky landscape and the challenges it offers, a number of other interesting natural features of the area, and its accessibility (it’s approximately 30 minutes ride from the town proper).

Now, with the advent of summer, you might think of a perfect getaway for your barkada or family, and Pinsal Falls may be a good place to go. Having visited the place myself, I can assure you that a summer break to this place gives you some fun climbing, picnic, swimming, and exploring.

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.

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.

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.

THE LAST VISITA IGLESIA

MY family had only one Visita Iglesia, a Holy Week tradition which literally means church visit, that it joined, and it was our first and surely the last one we had as one complete family. Before this I never attended any of this Catholic tradition of visiting churches during the Lenten season. 

It was Holy Thursday of 2010. I remember the excitement of my wife. She had rarely done this religious event during her younger years, though she had wanted so much to do this every year. And now she was glad that, finally, she would be doing it again with her own family.

It was a perfect timing for the family. A year before, we had a terrific vacation in Ilocos Sur for the Lenten break. We had lots of fun joining family reunions, swimming and picnics in the beach, and we even went as far as Bangui (to see the giant windmills) and Pagudpud, both in Ilocos Norte. So when my wife suggested this religious activity to my kids, she didn’t need to employ any convincing charm for them. My kids in fact were very curious to know how this summer event is carried out. My wife explained to them the significance of this “journey” marked by prayer and sharing, silence and fasting, which is usually done on Holy Thursday. Seven churches are visited with two stations per visit. (Some would visit 14 churches for this activity.) So my wife had really expected that this one, our very first Visita Iglesia, would provide great opportunities for my family to quietly enjoy some kind of vacation or tour and also to have time to perform a religious duty. And she suggested that we could do this every year.

I know that my wife wanted this pilgrimage so badly because of her condition. She had a stage 2 breast cancer, an illness that she didn’t want to disclose to my kids, and even to her friends, because she believed she could still be healed, with her endless hope and deepest prayers to the Lord. She felt the need to visit various miraculous churches to pray for healing, and that she wanted her family to pray with her. 

I planned the route, so days before the Holy Thursday, I got myself busy searching the Internet for the seven churches to visit (see, it was my first time to do this). I have to consider the distance between the churches and the travel time to transfer from one church to another. I even consulted some of my friends for this. Dudoy was more excited to see the churches, especially old or Spanish-era churches that were included in our itinerary. I promised to give him and his siblings some historical and cultural perspective of these churches.

We thought of hiring a van. Another family had agreed to join us and share with the rent, but the driver of the van whom we approached days before was not available for Holy Thursday. So it was just our family that went out that day.

My wife had lived with her family in one of the neighborhoods around the Old Manila area, which is our destination. The places, particularly the churches, were at least familiar to her. 

It was a typical summer with scorching heat of the sun, so we made sure, before we left Bulacan, that we had comfortable clothes, shades, umbrella, hats, drinking water, and hand towels. 

1st Station – Binondo Church     

This church stands majestically inside Manila’s Chinatown in Binondo District. It was named the Minor Basilica of San Lorenzo Ruiz in honor of the first Filipino saint who lived and grew up in Binondo. I always pass this church whenever I go to Divisoria either to hunt for cheap goods or to visit my relatives in Tondo. But it was my first time to enter the church.

2nd Station – Manila Cathedral

The Cathedral, or Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, is located inside the Intramuros district. It is the seat of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Manila. Its imposing facade and huge dome are very visible even from the distance. It also has a grandiose view outside the church.

3rd Station – San Agustin Church

San Agustin Church (Immaculate Conception Parish), despite its modern outlook, is one of the oldest churches still standing in the Philippines. This UNESCO World Heritage Site church is just a walking distance from the cathedral.

  

4th Station – St. Jude

The church was named St. Jude Thaddeus Archdiocesan Shrine. Saint Jude, cousin and apostle of Jesus Christ, is known as the patron of desperate cases. So there are always a number of devotees that flock the church every Thursday, most of them students who go to this church especially before final exams or a very crucial board examination.

5th Station – San Miguel Church

This is the National Shrine of St. Michael and the Archangels. It was our first time to visit the church and the kids were thrilled to know that they were treading this part of Malacañang. Inside the church, you can see the altar mounted with the crucifixion scene with the seven archangels having their own statue one on each post. There is also a big 12-foot bronze statue of St. Michael defeating a serpent, the symbol of Lucifer.

6th Station – San Sebastian Church

My wife was born and raised in Malate, Manila, and it was very strange that she has not been inside San Sebastian Church (Basilica Minore de San Sebastian) before this visit. So she and the kids were very excited to enter this historical church world-renowned for its wonderful architectural design and structure (made of steel). The ceiling inside the church was the highest one that I have ever seen so far.   

7th Station – Quiapo Church

The Quiapo Church (Minor Basilica of the Black Nazarene) was an automatic next stop because of its short distance from San Sebastian. It was the church that I frequently passed on my way to school, office or home. But I only attended a mass here once or twice with my wife during our early years of marriage. The church for me is always crowded, and so with the surrounding area, being one of the centers of commerce for lowly folks in the metropolis. Among the seven churches that we visited, this last stop was the hardest to accomplish because of the multitude of people also doing the Visita, and by that time, my wife and kids had become so tired and hungry.

THE year after, or in April 2011, we failed to go on a Visita Iglesia as we had planned because of my wife's worsening condition. In the succeeding months we went on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Divine Mercy in our place in Marilao, Bulacan. And it was the last church that we visited. Our visit there in July of the same year was our last as one complete family, because in that same month we rushed her to the hospital, and she died after two weeks because of a complication of her illness.

FROM CHECKMATE TO LIFETIME MATES

The Love Story of Nico and Nove

EVERY wedding, so they say, always starts with a love story. Now you may want to listen to this love story of the newlyweds, my sister Nove and my good friend Nico.

First I want you to listen to this story of a shy, but bright-eyed girl in high school. She was a chess prodigy. She’s been good at playing chess, even at a very young age. She had mastered her moves even before she started training with her father.   

One particular day in August, this girl who had just turned 13 went to compete in a provincial tournament. The tournament was a group competition, and boys and girls were mixed.

But during this same period, there was another chess prodigy, a 15-year-old boy who had become popular for demolishing chess players, most of them veterans and well-known players in the province at that time in many local tournaments.  

The girl didn’t expect that she was to compete with this boy wizard. That meeting happened during the penultimate round, a game to decide who would be the champion. And the boy didn’t expect for the life of him, that the girl would defeat him in the match. It was the first time that he lost to the weaker sex, so to speak. His teammates and coach were shocked.  

In the next leg of the tournament, the boy and the girl met again for the rematch. But this time the girl and her team lost. But for the boy, he couldn’t forget that one time in his early chess-playing career he lost to a girl younger than him. This girl has a promise, he told himself.

The two chess prodigies continued meeting each other in school competitions, but this time they played in different categories. While the boy continued to shine in the boy’s category, so was the girl. They beat all their opponents in the provincial and regional meets. And they were constant teammates representing their province and their region in the Palarong Pambansa for two consecutive years. 

Then the boy graduated from high school and went to a college in Manila and continued playing chess. The girl maintained her dominance of many tournaments and went back to Palarong Pambasa during her last year in high school. 

During a chess tournament in Manila the girl and the boy met again. It was during this meeting that the boy introduced the girl to a friend, a chess player from another college. This friend had been scouting for players to play in their collegiate team, particularly the chess team for girls. So our young chess wizard recommended the girl to his friend, and later, the girl was introduced to the coach. An offer for scholarship was made to the provincial girl. And the rest is history, so to speak. 

And did love bloom between the boy and the girl? Of course, not yet.

But before I continue, and before you think I am veering away from Nove and Nico’s love story, I tell you now, that this girl was Nove herself and the boy was Nico. The college was Rizal Technological College (now University) from which they both graduated. And the coach was Mr. Mauro Yasay, who also invited Nove, and later Nico, his chess players to join this church, the Church of the Overcomer.

So let me continue my story. Nove had been a varsity player since her first year in college. Nico after two years in San Sebastian College, transferred to RTU, joining the chess team of Mr. Yasay. Here, Nove and Nico were together most of the time, particularly during practice and tournaments. In 1997, or three years after Nove joined this church, Nico was also asked to join. So it was not only in practice and actual chess competitions that they were together, but also in church activities.   

But in 1999, Nico’s heart had seemingly turned into an uncontrollable knight crisscrossing the chessboard, hoping to checkmate his opponent. He finally made a confession to Nove. He said he had fallen in love with her and wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. But Nove, was shocked, and the ever conservative, shy and very much uneducated in the love department that she was, she didn’t give any response to Nico’s affection. In fact she started avoiding her friend. No checkmate happened. Nico, just like any regular guy in situation like this, made his presence to Nove and their friends become scarce. Now like a game of chess, he changed his move. He no longer went to Nove as he used to do. 

A year after, or in 2000, Nove graduated from college with the degree Bachelor of Science in Computer Engineering. Nico graduated in the following year with the degree of BS Management. 

They parted ways, and went on to establish their respective careers. Nove got a job, so with Nico.  But Nove was not satisfied with the kind of job that she was having then. Because most of the job offers to her were related to accounting jobs, she thought she rather takes an accounting course and be an accountant, than be a mere clerk with an Engineering degree. So, like in a game of chess, she may be beaten, but she can start a winning game. So she packed up her things and went back to our hometown in Ilocos. She enrolled in BS Accountancy at the University of Northern Philippines. With sheer determination and perseverance, she survived all the hardships of finishing the course. And most importantly, she hurdled the CPA Board exam given only last year.

During her absence, Nico went to work in Ateneo as a chess coach and later moderator. In 2008, or before Nove could finish accountancy, he sought out Nove’s contact number from their common friends. He believed that woman’s heart should be so hidden in God so he also had to seek Him for guidance in finding her. He finally got her number, but at that time the number was being used by one of Nove’s nieces. Nico texted her through her niece. He persisted until he made a move that made Nove answer his messages. This started a renewal of their friendship. To Nico, it was a love rekindled. They become active joining church activities together, while their friends were clueless that Nico was earnestly pursuing Nove’s love, because even at this time, Nove was so emphatic in calling Nico kuya. Some would think they were relatives because of their closeness.

So how and when did Nove get checkmated by Nico? Well, it happened in my sister Mahren’s house in Sta. Mesa (Manila). Nico went there to look into and reformat Mahren’s computer, of course, upon Nove’s request. 

Nico was served with paksiw na sili (siling Ilocos used as vegetables) for dinner. Knowing that Nico doesn’t like that dish very much, my younger sister Mahren, playfully challenged Nico to eat all the sili, if that would show that “you really love Ate Nove,” she teased. So Nico, thinking that this was his chance of a lifetime, forced a smile, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, said a little prayer and slurped all the sili in the bowl. But of course, he did that in four hours and some episode and near episode of throwing out. You need to have the fighting spirit. You have to force moves and take chances, a quote he learned perhaps from chess master Bobby Fischer.

Nove was impressed and at that very moment, she knew she finally found the right man for her. A checkmate that ends the game. So she accepted Nico’s love offer and these two former chess prodigies, former teammates in college, church mates, old friends, finally become king and queen of their hearts. And they didn’t have to adjust so much for themselves of their newfound relationship, because they had been there before, shall we say it, unofficially, as more, more than friends.

And the rest again is now history, because right now, my sister Nove and my very good friend Nico would consummate the relationship with their marriage before this church, witnessed by their families, relatives, and friends.

I’ve read that chess is a fairy tale of 1001 blunders, but to Nove and Nico, it is a fairy tale of love and friendship. Their love for each other is sincere and divine because it is also based on good Christian teachings. 

And to end this story, a game of chess may end, but love never is. As written in I Corinthians 13:7-8, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.”

And to Nico and Nove, thank you for sharing us your wonderful love story. May God bless you!

(I read this during the wedding of Nico Alisangco and Nove Valdez on March 24, 2012 at the Church of Overcomer, Taytay, Rizal. I got permission of the couple to post this one in this blog.)

DUDOY

THIS is the nickname of my second child, whose real name is Neyo Martin Gundran Valdez.
 

I find Dudoy a very common nickname in the country, just like Boyet, Dodong, Junior, Mac-mac (and other Pinoy names with repeating syllables), or Totoy, but the name is endearing nonetheless.

But why the need for a nickname?

I, for one, don't have a nickname. My name, which is the same as my son’s first name, may be short enough for my father that he didn't give me any nickname. Or he might have been satisfied with it that he hadn’t thought of calling me with a darling short name. But unlike my father, I thought of a different, cool nickname for my son, to prevent confusion of his name with mine in our household.

However, my son’s now familiar name Dudoy is not what I intended to call him. It was not my choice, really. I could have named him Neymart, Mart, Neyney, Yoyong, or Oyen. The name Duday (yes, a girl’s name, that’s the derivation) came out from the mouth of N-yel (a nickname I gave to my first son Nathaniel) when somebody in my wife’s extended family playfully asked my two-year-old son what he would call the baby in his mother’s womb. 

Duday, if you had been watching telenovela or teleserye in the late 90s, was the name of a clumsy and loquacious maid in a comedy series topbilled by Jolina Magdangal and Marvin Agustin in Channel 2. My in-laws loved watching each episode while my little boy was enjoying, just after dinner, his playful mood in front of the TV. The name stuck in his head, so when my second child came out, and it turned out to be a boy, N-yel changed (or somebody must have coached him) the name to the masculine Dudoy.

I consider the name very special because it came from my precocious son, so I readily acceded to the suggestion. I had the inkling that Dudoy might grow up feeling an even deeper connection to his older brother because he loved him enough to give him a “special” name.

Perhaps I was wrong. Suddenly now, Dudoy, who will be turning 12 this May, has expressed ambivalence about his nickname. While he appreciates the circumstance or reason why we gave him that name, he is so shy, however, of telling his nickname to his classmates and friends. He has reasons though. Some of my son’s playmates love to make fun of his nickname. As if the name is not familiar or common enough for them that they would still call him with another name, like Doydoy, Dodong, and Dodo. Some of Dudoy’s friends even called him Budoy, and hated that name now, because a popular TV soap has that name of a retarded boy in the title role. Or perhaps it’s about the LPG delivery man in our neighborhood, who is also named Dudoy.

Her Mom, when she was alive, would rather call my son Doods which is nice to hear, though I prefer Doy for him; but when the Harry Potter series started to come out in movies, N-yel and his sister Roseya (my bunso), started calling him Dudley, after the piggy-like, slow-witted, pampered brat character in Harry’s Muggle family. 

Dudoy is a usual a name for Mr. Ordinary, a houseboy, or a waif in soap operas and movies. It hasn’t been used as name for the title role or main protagonist in a movie, as far as I know, except in Dolphy’s movie spoof of the local superhero Darna in the 70s, where his character’s name was Dudoy. 

(When I “googled” the name Dudoy, I discovered that it is also a surname of a South American basketball player and a real estate agent in New York.)

I can explain to my son that, despite some unwelcome association to his name, he can still use it to his own advantage and be proud of using it in the future, given also the fact that he cannot shed his nickname so easily to those who have known him by that name. He will just allow it to take on a life of its own and define how others think about him, whether he likes it or not. 

His given nickname does not have any negative connotation, unlike other nicknames that are focused on a physical characteristic, like Taba or Tabatsoy (for fatty ones), Nognog (for the dark-skinned), Palito (for the very thin ones). Others have more bizarre, even risqué and unflattering nicknames but the owners of these names would still stick to them like a badge of honor.

And, while it’s true that a nickname can be a form of ridicule, most nicknames are sometimes considered desirable, symbolizing a form of acceptance or adoration. But first, it is important that a good reputation must precede the name or nickname. Every person must strive hard and be popular with his achievement, not thinking about for all his life how he wants to be known. 

I can tell Dudoy about successful people and celebrities who are self-assured enough to use their nicknames, no matter how odd they sound. Some even flaunt their nicknames and earn admiration, even votes, from them. Today’s Filipino ace comedian Michael V is known by his nickname Bitoy, which endears him more to his fans. Even the president, Benigno Simeon C. Aquino III, is called Noynoy by almost everyone in the country. 

Dudoy should have read about Pele, the greatest football player of his era. The football legend from Brazil has admitted he doesn't like his nickname (Pele) at first, that he even punched the classmate who came up with it, earning a two-day suspension from school. Pele presumed it was an insult, but recently he has found out that it means “miracle” in Hebrew. 

While it's true that nicknames can be boring, pointless, incredibly annoying and immature to some, most people can see their advantages. Other nicknames have even become more popular than their real names. George Herman Ruth and Ernesto Guevara are much more famous as Babe Ruth and Che Guevara, respectively. 

Nicknames are not always given when people are young.  I have to warn my son about this. Other people for some reason might call him a name; maybe it’s about what they can see in my son’s character, a peculiarity, or some achievement in latter part of his life. But still, if ever they clothe him with another nickname, he would have the choice then whether to accept it or not. 

Anyway, changing a child’s nickname is not bad parenting, I haven’t read any magazine that says otherwise. But I wouldn’t do it now, nor I have plans for it. That’s for my son to decide. Whatever he wants, he will always be Dudoy for me.

TO DANCE AGAIN!

THAT smile full of sunshine. That sparkle of excitement in her eyes. That confidence shaping her moves. Those things I usually see from Roseya before a dance performance.

I was glad they were visible again in my eight-year-old daughter during the foundation day celebration of her school Jocelyn V. Cacas Montessori. She was the star dancer of her Grade 2 class. There’s no doubt that my daughter was very pleased.

It’s a quarter before 1, and Roseya was already dressed up in her fairy costume, white skirt layered with pointed strips, short-sleeved blouse, and butterfly wings. She wanted me to hurry and bring her to the venue one hour before the program (scheduled at 2 p.m.) but I had asked her kuya Nathaniel, who was also a participant in the high school level, to accompany her.

I explained to Roseya that I still have tasks to do at home. With my wife gone, I was left alone to prepare for my three children. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her, but I felt a strong effect on me on occasions like this.

My daughter has loved dancing ever since she was a little girl. She is a natural dancer, she doesn’t require a lot of coaching, and she can choreograph her own dance steps. She was a little ballerina for the past three years, and had auditioned a number of mall-sponsored talent searches and a TV dance contest. She has been invited to birthdays just to showcase her graceful moves.  

Roseya and Mom, 2010

My daughter’s talent would not have been discovered, developed and shown to admiring crowd without my wife’s guidance. Her mom’s plan to expose her early to fun ballet courses had made my daughter a lifelong lover of dance. They had a perfect mother-daughter relationship. My wife was the typical stage mother, who would always accompany our daughter in every recital or dance performance. She was a personal assistant, a make-up artist, and a manager in one package. She had been a part of the equation of my daughter’s early passion in dancing.

But things have changed for my daughter since the death of my wife. It created a seismic shift on her life. She was forced to stop going to her ballet school because without her mom, she couldn’t attend the weekly dance lessons. No more dance auditions for her, too. Her dreams for stardom lain by the wayside.

My daughter was trying to understand our present situation but sometimes, she would ask me if she could continue her ballet lessons. The ballet school owner, a kind of person who wouldn’t allow a good talent go to waste, had offered my daughter a big discount should she want to enroll again in her ballet school. 

Two months ago Roseya asked me again if she could still go to ballet school in the near future. We were in attendance at the birthday party of her neighbor friend who was also her classmate in ballet. Her friend, the celebrant, performed a couple of ballet performances with her classmates that she invited for the occasion. I felt sad seeing her watching with envy her former classmates showing the moves she would have loved doing with them. The ballet school owner approached me and reminded me of her offer. But I couldn’t commit to her nor make empty promises to my daughter regarding the matter.

                                                                                  

The last time my daughter performed a dance number was December last year. She was part of a selection of dancers who represented their school for an intermission number of a district-wide academic affair held at SM Marilao. I wasn’t able to watch the performance because of a conflict in my schedule, but with the way my daughter described it with relish, I felt I was present at the venue, beaming surely with pride seeing my daughter wowing everyone with her graceful moves.

And for this year, I wasn’t surprised when they assigned her again as a star dancer. In last year’s foundation day, the Grade 1 class topbilled by my daughter won the dance performance for Level 1 competition (preschool to grade 3). And the year before that, or when they were in Prep, they won the same competition for Level 1. There was even a joke then among the teachers that Roseya is every class adviser’s lucky charm for the annual group dance competition.

Roseya and the Grade 1 class, 2011

But without her mother around to guide her during the practice and who might have helped in the preparation of their class costumes, I had little expectations this time for my daughter’s dance performance.

Before she left the house with her kuya, Roseya asked her mom’s makeup kit from me. And it took me awhile to find it from my wife’s still unsorted things in the cabinet. Her class adviser, as suggested by my daughter, would be doing her makeup this time. About fifteen minutes later, my second child Dudoy went out the house with his newly pressed polo and an unkempt hair. I followed him after another fifteen minutes or at exactly 2 o’clock.

The sky was cloudy with patchy drizzle when I reached the venue, just about three blocks from the school’s main building. It was an uncovered basketball court with a stage and a pavilion. I immediately saw Roseya among her classmates in one corner of the court. She stood out with her fairy costume and radiant face. Some parents were beside their own children, as they try to shield them from the drizzle. My daughter kept herself near her adviser to avoid being wet.

Roseya in fairy costume with her Grade 2 classmates, 2012

Roseya flashed her toothy smile when she saw me. The drizzly weather and the resulting delay of the program couldn’t dampen her spirit for sure. And during the parade after the drizzle, she was all smiles and she didn’t forget to wave at me when she saw me in the crowd. I noticed that her face and hairdo were not done the way I expected or what her mom would have done to her. She looked plain and simple in contrast to the well-made facial enhancements of her female classmates. But my daughter’s rather shabby appearance, her hair at the back tied up by a rubber band!—was overshadowed by her bubbling aura exuding from the sheer joy of having to perform again.

After a crowd-pleasing dance numbers presented by preschoolers and a better-choreographed performance from the Grade 1 class, Roseya and her classmates had a grand entrance with their own props. But I saw my daughter being the proudest for having again the chance to dance on center stage.

With each pounding rhythm of Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger”, Roseya twirled, leapt, and spinned and jumped. She still had the grace and beauty of a ballerina. Her movement was perfectly articulated by her confident grace. She’s back in her element as a dancer. She was happy because she danced.

And Roseya danced not for the award or recognition but for the happiness and excitement. She danced because she knew her mom would have loved her doing it. She danced to feel the vibrant rhythm of life again. Dancing made her feel free!

The dance number went on without a hitch. All of the performers were good, their props perfect for the concept. But again I was not expecting them to win for their category.

I stayed on to watch Dudoy’s performance in their dance entry for Level 2 (Grades 4 to 6) and that of Nathaniel for the high school level. After that, with three more performances to go, I went home with Roseya. My two sons had to stay to wait for the awarding ceremonies. Dudoy would be receiving his gold medal for the scrabble competition and I asked his kuya to assist him in the awarding. 

I didn’t have to wait long to receive the results of the dance competitions. My two boys came rushing home telling me that Roseya’s dance presentation was adjudged champion for Level 1 and the group even won the Best Costume award. That lucky charm thing was true after all with Roseya, her winning streak now at 3. Her mom would have been really proud.

Roseya was slumped on the sofa for a much needed rest. She’s tired but happy. I told her the good news.

She hugged me tightly. “Thank you, Dad,” she said. I feel I was her mom receiving the warmth of love being reciprocated. I guess, allowing her to dance is the best way to create a solid, trusting, unbreakable relationship with my motherless daughter.

DRAWN BY THE WAVES

IN my previous blog I mentioned my eagerness to go back to Paraiso ni Juan in Sulvec, Narvacan, Ilocos Sur and scale again its landmark rock called Immagamang. It materialized in my latest homecoming last December. This time, it was Uncle Boni’s plan (he is my mother’s younger brother) to go to the place, in his desire to have the children—my nephews and nieces, and my own children, most of them having their Christmas vacation in town, get a nice dip on the beach. He chose the rocky place over other beaches which have sands rather than rocks.

It was low tide that day (December 26) when we went to Paraiso with my uncle’s van. The morning breeze and shallow water were comfortably cool for the kids. But Dudoy was complaining; he preferred a sandy beach and deeper water to swim. So my son just contented himself wading the shallow water, climbing on the rocks along with his siblings and cousins, and finding interesting shells and other small sea creatures he could find. 

But I myself was not satisfied with such activity on the beach. Seeing the big solitary rock not far from the shoreline, I suggested to the children to climb the rock for one brief but thrilling adventure. Except my son Nathaniel who had reached the top of the rock (I carried him then) when he was about three years old, not one of them had done it before. So they readily accepted my challenge. The rock was about 400 meters from where they were wading. The rocky and rugged pathway was visible in the low tide. The kids raced to the rock, and I, who was supposed to be their guide, and my brother Romel who went with us, just lagged behind. Even my daughter Eya, the youngest among them, enjoyed wading and hopping from one craggy rock to another.

To my surprise, the children climbed the rock so easily. They stayed on top for a moment to savor their achievement and had their pictures taken with the cloudless sky as backdrop. After a couple of minutes they climbed down the rock and cavorted on a flat area at its foot. Dudoy and the boys continued their shell hunting, and the girls their giggles and fun with the ankle-deep water on the rock’s surface. Then we went around the rock, my first time actually to do so. A narrow span of flat rock was very visible on the back side, and it was so near the roaring waves breaking against the edges of the rock.

It was Dudoy’s idea to play with the waves, after he got bored with shell hunting, and now he appeared to be drawn by the frothy waves, bright and gay, running up to where he sat on the rocky edge. Suddenly he shouted in exhilaration, just after a big wave splashed on him. The rest of the kids joined him. They lined themselves on the edge of the rock, and waited patiently for the next big wave, and how they shouted when they saw the crested waves creeping higher than before and falling on them in a big splash, and screaming hysterically for more. That anticipation and the moment with the big wave I captured with my camera.

Ah, it seems eons ago when I was like these kids enjoying rambunctious moments with the waves! 

Perhaps I’m getting a bit too romantic. But waves had been a childhood playmate of mine, when my time on the beach was mostly spent with gathering of shells, frolicking with the waves, drawing images with a stick on the moist sand, and making my own sandcastles. And big, unruly waves terrified me like a bully when I started to learn how to swim.

When I was in high school, a conference of young campus writers which I joined was held in a public school at a beach front. In the first day of the confab, I woke up before sunrise and from our quarters, I walked along the shore until I reached an old, abandoned pantalan (wharf). The sun was just breaking, the soft light hitting the smooth surface of the sea, tempered by the soft rhythm of the wave. It was a seaside imagery I wanted to capture in words. It was then that I decided to be a writer. 

While in my childhood, watching the waves was a game of anticipation, this time at my age, it was a moment of solitude and meditation. 

When was the last time I sat on the beach and watched the beautiful wave come tumbling right up to me? But even now, I can still feel the magnetism of those gigantic ripples of the sea. I still crave for a quiet moment just doing nothing or just sitting and looking at the sea, and watching the waves rolling in, bumping other waves in its glee, and then sliding back.  

Now I wonder what it is in a wave that attracts young and old alike. Maybe it’s the gravitational pull of the sea, complemented by the captivating breeze, which causes the tidal movements. A magnetism that draws us to the smooth water surface and be mesmerized by the constancy of the ripples. Or maybe it’s the movement, a manifestation of the spin or revolution of our good Earth, creating a constant swing of crests and troughs. A constancy of rhythm that holds our breath while we watch with anticipation those usually kind, warm and playful ripples rushing at the shore.

Maybe it’s the special attribute of the shoreline as both a starting point for a journey, leading to an uncharted path, and a destination, a refuge of seafarers and travelers during a sudden violent storm. A two-way direction. That’s why when you gaze out from land upon the horizontal stretch of the sea, you can contemplate about your future, and think of whether you would go away or you had just headed home.

I think I always have this intimacy with the waves, and it is being near them, sitting in reverie, and watching the changing colors and sizes of the waves as they break upon the shore, that I feel truly spiritual. I am inspired by the consistency rather than the highs and the lows of the waves. Just like life, with its ups and downs, but then it pushes itself forward in its own rhythm.