SOME MEMORABLE APO SONGS

THE APO Hiking Society will always be one of my favorite Filipino artists.

I grew up listening to their pop hits. Their simple yet catching melodies were laden with romantic, and at times, funny lyrics—all distinctly Filipino in mood and outlook. I admire their chemistry, their friendship that spans more than three decades, their advocacy in promoting Original Pilipino Music (OPM), and their involvement in socio-political issues, with the song “American Junk,” and “Handog ng Pilipino sa Mundo ” among others.

I have lots of favorite APO songs, but there are some that dwell in my memory box, because they form part of the soundtracks of my college days, particularly my four-year stay in a boarding house in Vigan more than a decade ago. And I have no one to blame for this but this APO-crazy co-tenant of mine, a scrawny engineering student, who loved to listen to his compilation of APO songs on his cassette player for almost every day in a span two or three semesters. Having owned the only cassette player with a booming speaker, he had the monopoly of sounds in the house.

The guy also played an unknown Leo Valdez’s album, a slow rock compilation, and some New Wave songs, but the APO songs stood out because he would play them with gusto when he was in a good mood. No one would raise hell over this one because the folksy APO music was rather the best alternative or a fitting middle ground between an overly sentimental Pinoy ballads (it was the era of April Boys and some copycats) and a barrage of slow rocks, punky songs or crossovers that dominated FM channels during that time.

The most memorable song for me, or perhaps, for most of my boardmates is “Pag-ibig.” There is a line in the song that some naughty boys (inspired, I’m sure, by a daily dose of APO songs) would love to use in teasing every female boarder who broke up with a bf: Hindi mo malimutan kung kailan mo natikman ang una mong halik, yakap na napakahigpit. And there were lots of break-ups during my stay there, and lots of teasing and warbling of the song in off-tune keys.

Next on the playlist is “Kaibigan” which has lyrics that the boys would use in their awkward attempt to comfort every guy who was spurned by a girl: Kaibigan tila yata matamlay ang iyong pakiramdam, at ang ulo mo sa kaiisip ay tila naguguluhan... They would use this also to accost those who sulk in a corner for varied reasons—a failing mark, a cancelled date, a delayed allowance, a quarrel with some rowdy boys in the house—either to offer some unsolicited advice or just to meddle in their affairs. And, there were lots of sulkings during my time.

Another one is “Paano,” with its catchy opening: Paano mo malalaman itong pag-ibig ko sa’yo, paano mo mararamdaman ang tibok ng puso ko. I had a secret crush—okay, it’s love at first sight—on a female boarder, and I couldn’t muster the nerve to tell her how I felt. She had one problematic relationship while I had a risky long-distance affair. But we remained very close friends, and every time I would hear this song, I wished I was singing it for her until the last line: ‘Wag ka nang mangangamba, pag-ibig ko’y ikaw, wala nang iba. But the naughty guys would rather intone the line to tease some pretty boarders, or to court them in jest.

“Kabilugan ng Buwan” is another memorable tune. The same boys would sing “Kapanahunan na naman ng paglalambingan...,” to josh a pair, a male and a female, visitors or boarders, caught in some moonlit nights chatting under the santol tree in front of the house. It was any pair’s bad luck to have pestering members of the male tribe in the boarding house whose sole weapon to ruin (or encourage) a diskarte, was a set of cheesy lines from APO.

There is also a serious theme song for everyone. “Awit ng Barkada” was then a good piece for guitar and beer sessions with the naughty boys. With some sort of a samahan in the boarding house, we can easily relate with the lyrics of the song. Boarders would leave the boarding house as a school year ended, but some would take their place for another set of barkadahan.

And the best thing about each APO song is its ability to transcend and connect one generation to the other. It’s no wonder then that when some of their popular songs were revived by today’s popular bands, they become instant hits even to the younger ones.

Take my 10-year-old son, for instance. He really likes Sugarfree’s “Batang-Bata Ka Pa” and Kamikazee’s “Doobidoo,” both from APO’s tribute album, and he can sing these and other songs in the album with gusto. In due time, I’m sure, these songs would also dwell in his own memory box. And I’d be the one to blame because he and his younger brother were around when for a time, I played the songs from the album almost every day in my playlist.

LEARN MORE ABOUT JOB

AMONG the characters in the Old Testament, I am most fascinated by the story of Job. I haven’t read the whole text in the bible, but thanks to some abridged and comic book stories (I had plenty of them when I was a child), magazine articles and lately, websites, I came to know this guy whose name is synonymous to utmost patience, and his endless series of unfortunate events.

Job can be summed up this way: Satan tells God that Job, his most upright servant, only loves the Lord because he has given him so much wealth. God wagers Satan that Job will remain faithful even in the face of unending series of misfortunes. He tells Satan to do his worst to Job but not to harm him fatally. So Satan inflict Job with the worst beating you could imagine on a man—he loses his entire estate and his children, he suffers very severely with sore boils, and his friends shun him. But Job withstands the onslaughts. In the end, because he endures and never wavers in his faith in the Lord, his wealth, health and even his family are all restored by God.

But while not reading the prose and poetry about Job in the bible, I was befuddled by some issues: Why He lets Satan afflict Job? Or are our troubles really the idea of Satan and that God only concurs with them? Up to what extent God allows us humans to suffer so as to test us?

It was only when I read the book Understanding Job by Lim Kou, that I was enlightened about the meaning of the book of Job. The book was given free by those Christians from M/V Doulos, the floating bookstore which was docked in the port of Manila last December. Because it was free, and sectarian, I can only surmise its preachy contents so I wasn’t tempted to sit down and read it at once. I only retrieved it from my bookshelf, just after I have cited the story of Job in one of my earlier blogs.

True to its title, I was able to understand Job, and my queries were answered, with these insights from the author:

• God allowed Satan put Job to the test because He knew that there was substance in Job’s life; there were genuine, good qualities within him. So God knew too well He had a winner in Job.
• God has dual aims in allowing Satan to test Job: First, it was because of His love for Job and concern for his ultimate well-being. Second, it was related to the establishment of His eternal kingdom.
• Job faltered to some degree during the trials in spite of his moral and spiritual stature. Our hero claimed that God had wronged him and that is tantamount to saying that God is unjust. Such misconception, misunderstanding and an idea affected his confidence in God.
• God in His speeches didn’t directly answer Job’s perplexing questions. How God responded to Job’s situation was very appropriate, meaningful and effective in the context. Like Job, we must learn to trust God fully and without wavering while going through difficult and perplexing situations in life.
• God was satisfied with Job, and with how he went through the ordeal. Job basically remained true to God. Though he faltered, he still loved the Lord and sought to honor God and to abide by His words. With that, Satan was greatly displeased, and he lost the wager.

Let us learn from the story of Job, not so much on God and Satan “conspiracy” but on how Job endures in the midst of misfortunes. This lesson is very useful for someone going through suffering or distress when his or her understanding can easily get twisted.

What most of us have suffered in life is generally far less severe compared to what Job went through. With the Book of Job, and with pastors and theologians who have painstakingly explained its meaning to us, we now have a much fuller revelation and understanding of who God is, the realities in the spiritual realm and how we should live with our lives to the fullest. So it is expected that we are now in a better position to respond well.

One downside of the book though is that it bears the imprints of a pastor who has a whole day to belabor his point. A more rigorous editing could have eliminated some of the repetitions.

But don't let this discourage you to read the book and understand more about Job and learn the proper postures to take amidst life’s trials and tribulations.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NAMES

“YOUR name is Neyo, Sir?” the pretty teller scanned my ID and gave me the eye. Getting my affirmative answer, she nodded and went back to my check, but only after she had a low-toned giggly chat with her seatmate in the counter. “As in Ne-yo the singer?”

Yes, she was referring to that famous namesake of mine, Ne-yo (officially it’s with a hyphen), a young African-American R&B singer and songwriter whose songs have been topping the Billboard charts. He had a successful concert at the Araneta Coliseum in Quezon City early this year.

Neyo is my legal name as it was written in my birth certificate, though I’m not really sure if it’s original. The hyphenated one’s real name is Shaffer Chimere Smith; he only came out with his showbiz name in 2004. Of course I won’t tell that to the bank tellers. So far, I haven’t met a person dead or living bearing that name. Neo would be close enough but the “Y” made mine different.

Having a unique or unusual first name or having the same name as that of a famous person (like in my case), would sometimes put you on the spot. When the name is original, imaginative and interestingly cool, it invites curiosity as to its origin. And when it has a weird sound and naughty meaning and overly outdated at least in this country (like Damasito or Telesforo), it elicits a giggle if not a lifetime amusement. And any unsual name can also put you in the limelight, and may bring you a spot in the list of world's unusual first names.

Some unusual first names come from name or word combinations, name reverse, modifications from common or outdated names or just plain inventions of fathers who want to be different (read: ego-tripping Dads who are unmindful of the feelings of their children to live with an uncommon, if not horrible, name). My name may be original, but it’s far from interesting or imaginative as Jejomar, Condoleezza, Ginebra Miguela, and Barack.

As part of an assigned essay in school, I asked my father where did he get my first name. He told me that he got it from the name of an African doctor but he couldn’t exacly remember who this guy was. Unconvinced, I theorized that it was originally a “Neo” but for easier pronunciation especially for us Ilocanos who would read that as “Ne-oh,” he might have inserted the Y.

Having such an unusual name has a good side though. New acquaintances will have an easy time recalling my name. I remember when I was in high school, a girl sought me out in our town many months after I met her in a region-wide seminar for campus writers. She was a delegate from a nearby province, and even though she didn’t exactly remember my face, my name stuck on her mind (at least she had one to remember me by). So when she visited our place for some business of her own, she came to meet me in our school.

When the movie The Matrix became popular, topbilled by Keanu Reeves who played the character Neo, my name gained an added appeal. (R&B’s Ne-yo got its name from Neo of the same movie.) Some people, after hearing my name for the first time, would like to confirm, “Neo as in the Matrix guy?” I would answer them: “No, it’s with a Y.” “Maytrix?” (The last one is a joke of course.)

I was already working when I tried for the first time to Google my name. I wanted to find out the identity of that African doctor, and maybe a namesake in some parts of the world. What came out were a “Neyo” as a surname and a “neyo” as a foreign word (I’m not sure if it’s South American or African), still it’s not a first name. I also encountered for the first time Clone Commander Neyo, one of the lesser known Star Wars characters. And yet he’s no living guy.

Two years ago I was stunned by a wayward email in my Yahoo mailbox. It came from an R&B-crazy American teener asking me if my email address belongs to Ne-yo! I replied to her email telling her who I really was, but the girl wasn't convinced. She sent me three more emails after that, pleading me to confirm to her my “un-identity” so that she could tell her friends about me. But I never sent her another reply after the first.

But one thing I hate for having an uncommon name is that people would tend to misspell it or give sound-alikes. When I was asked to give my name for an order slip, those who don’t listen very well, would just write Neo, Leo, Niyo or Nilo. But those who care for accuracy, I was forced to spell my name in front of them. Good enough, it’s only a four-letter name. (What more if my name is Mahershalalhashbaz!)

And did I say I’d never met a living person bearing my name? Well, if that includes anyone from my family, then I am mistaken. There’s really a living person who has exactly the same name as mine and it’s my own doing. He is Neyo Martin, the second of my three children. But I’m sure his name, when he grows up, will no longer so interestingly uncommon nor original as to put him on the spot.

But more than the spelling, etymology or history behind the name, what is important is to effect a good meaning to it. We must strive for an association that reflects our true worth as an individual.

A WADE TO REMEMBER

WHEN it rains and the wind is never weary, life, to borrow a line from Longfellow, is cold, and dark and dreary. But to most Metro Manila residents, life is made colder, darker and drearier by the perennial floods.

Last month, when typhoon Karen sideswiped the metropolis when it entered Northern Luzon in a whiplash, I cuddled safely at home in Marilao, Bulacan. And despite the dull and gloom, I had reasons to celebrate, one for getting a reprieve from my midterm exam that day, and two, for being spared from braving the floods in the sinewy streets of the metropolis all because of class and work suspension.

Fortunately, the subdivision where my family lives lies comfortably on an elevated part of a wide span of rolling hills and plateaus in southern part of the town, so we were not at all bothered by floods, unlike people in some areas in the province or in that seemingly cursed coastal or riversided cities in the Metro.

But my personal celebration was dampened by the news that my relatives in Narvacan, my hometown in Ilocos Sur, were severely affected by the typhoon. Vast tracts of ricelands were submerged in the flood, and even residential areas in the poblacion and along the highway that traversed our barangay were not spared. 

Only decades ago, floods were rare occurrences in barangay Nanguneg, even during heavy or prolonged squalls. I mean real big floods when the water level hit the waistline of an adult, or when valuable things had to be hauled off hurriedly to the second floor of our house.

Floods in the barrio are different from those in the city.

Though the degree of peril is higher in our place because our barangay is very near the storm-surge-prone coast of South China Sea, and bounded by two rivers on opposite sides, and that the lost of income due to damaged crops is so real before every farmer’s eyes and he would just look at the damage with the resilience and hopefulness of the Ilocanos.

But unlike the reeking Waterworld of Metro Manila, there are no floating garbage, no abusive tricycle or pedicab drivers or ubiquitous wooden plank-bridge made by street toughies or tambay for a fee, and no cursing at city officials and MMDA personnel for clogged esteros and open manholes.

Against a backdrop of a dull, dark gray of the sky, a flood in the barrio is a vista of unhurried life gone wet and awry—timeless, surreal, a poem, a nostalgia, a sigh. You have to experience it to say it can be anything but dreary!

There’s one memorable flood, some rare episode of nature’s wrath in our barangay then, and it happened on my 17th birthday! I remember that early morning in September when the waters started to rise up to knee level and before eight it rose until it submerged half of the first floor of our house. So immediately we emptied cabinets and moved their contents to the second floor, and so with the pots, plates and silverwares, and the dalikan (earthen stove) and that included the remaining firewood that we can salvage from the dirty kitchen.

Around us were boundless pool and whirlpools of mud and detritus, of drowned chickens, bloated piglets, banana stalks and pairless slippers. The second floor was turned into a jumble of soggy clothes, and school bags and shoes, stools and a bookshelf, and sooted pots and pans, and the dalikan, and stacks of plates and plastic cups, and bottles of bagoong, patis, and salt. A hen and its freezing brood joined us in the fray for space.

The lull before the next barrage of the storm came about during lunchtime. The waters had not subsided even an inch, and sporadic spits of rain in that time span shut us out from any outdoor activities.

We had our lunch on the wooden floor. My mother served a platter of hot rice, a bowl of sardinas which she sauteed with onion and tomato, and a plate of tuyo (dried dilis). And no one ever spoke about a celebration for my special day.

After a hurried meal, Father and Manong Ben played chess on a small bench by the window. Manong Romel and I cozied up in one of the two rooms upstairs and opened up each other’s unfinished pocketbooks. (Manong Milton, our eldest, was in Zamboanga that year.) My three younger sisters scrounged for a space in their noisy play and arguments over their toys and imaginations. Mother wouldn’t like to think our situation in a damp bed; she rather occupied herself with the dalikan, boiling the corn and the kapeng bigas, readying them to warm our stomach throughout the day.

Outside the house, I heard moos and bleats of farm animals wet and sullen under the trees along the elevated shoulder of the highway. Joining the fray were calls from fish vendors and intermittent roars of passing vehicles.

Around four in the afternoon, I saw from the window a chicken keeping itself afloat in the swirling waters in the farm near the house. It must have fallen from its perch in a guyabano tree near our house. It was alive, weak and ready to die any time soon. I jumped into the chilly flood waters, and waded hurriedly to catch the chicken. I brought it upstairs and Mother butchered it for the next meal. And before dusk, we dined together, or rather we feasted, on a steaming sapsapuriket (or dinuguang manok).

While the squall continued to rage outside, the whole family was safe and sound in our damp and muddled place, shrugging the flood off as another chapter of our life in the barrio or as an unusual background for my birthday celebration. And I went to sleep with a hearty burp.

A CHILD'S STORY

I THINK I have been so passionate with this fatherhood thing (can't blame me, it's normal) that I tasked myself to write a longer essay about it. But what I got instead is a brief story for children. So here it is...

I LOVE SUNDAY!

I LOVE SUNDAY very much. Daddy is around the house. He cooks for our breakfast, especially my favorite, egg omelet with fried bacon. He plays computer games with me. He horses around with Mimi, my younger sister. He fixes Kuya Boyet’s bike. He does home chores while Mom goes to market. Sometimes Dad takes us out for lunch to a nearby fastfood. Or he leads us to a children’s park to play. Or he brings us to cinema for the latest kiddie flick. Mom is so glad seeing us happy with Dad.

That is why I learn to hate those days when Dad stays long in the office. He stays there until late at night. He no longer reads me bedtime stories as before. If I have a test the next day, he does not even go home early for my review. Dad will just ask Mom to do it for him. When I happen to be awake when he goes home, he will just kiss me good night and tell me to go back to bed at once.

“Dad is doing overtime work. He will be tired when he goes home,” Mom explains. I want to complain but I don’t know how to say it. Kuya Boyet does not mind, because he is old enough. Mimi doesn’t seem to care either.

But when Sunday comes, I forget everything. Then I love Dad again. 


ONE SUNDAY, Dad did not bring us out as before. We didn’t even attend the mass. We just played around the house. But he got tired easily. He took a long nap in the afternoon. In the evening, he told us the usual bedtime stories. Before he kissed me good night, he hugged me tightly, patted my back and ruffled my hair. And I loved him for doing that.

Monday, the next morning, Dad did not go to work. He was the one who helped me dress up for school. He even fetched me from school on time. Then we played computer games together.

The next day, Dad did not go to work again. So with the next day and the next day. The next Sunday was just another day. He was at the house, cooking for our breakfast, doing home chores and playing games with us. But we did not go out as before. Except in the afternoon where we attended the mass. For the first time I saw Dad praying so deeply in the pew. 

Dad was unusually silent after his time with us. He had long and hush-hush discussion with Mom. Mom was also affected with this Dad's strange mood.

Is he sick? Why does he easily get tired? I asked Mom about it. With a deep sigh, Mom looked at me straight in the eye. Then she hugged me tightly.

“Your Dad has lost his job. The company is losing money, so his boss must let your Dad and other workers go.” I couldn’t understand what does that mean. But I knew Dad was badly affected.

I cannot be happy when Dad is not happy. So I prayed like the way Dad did in the church. It was a deep and long prayer. I asked God to tell my Dad’s boss that he will ask Dad to return to work soon.

After a week, Dad went out the house, like he used to when he had a job. He was dressed at his best, bringing with him only a thin folder when he went out. He did it almost everyday. And on a Sunday, Dad was back to his usual self. But even so, I was so glad being with him again over the weekend. But now, I no longer hated Mondays and the long weekdays as before. Sunday with Dad was enough for me.

One afternoon, Dad went home shouting with joy. He kissed and hugged me tightly. He danced with Mimi. He had a high five with Kuya Boyet. And he embraced Mom so tightly until I saw Mom laughing with tears in her eyes.

“Dad has got a new job!” Mom announced.

I ALWAYS love Sunday. And I no longer mind if I could not see Dad before I sleep on weekdays. Because on a Sunday, it will be the day for me with Dad and Mom, and also for Kuya Boyet and Mimi. And every holiday means a looong Sunday for all of us!

A TAG PRICE FOR MY TIME?

I HAVE a busy schedule every day. I work from four to six hours in a publishing house, work with my computer for long hours to write articles for a local magazine, read textbooks and photocopied cases for my law studies, and manage with my wife a household full of three inquisitive and active kids.

I am rather a part-timer with each of my present roles. (But aren’t we all in this age of multi-tasking?) And with my current situation, I lost my precious time for sleep and extra time for pleasure (reading good books, watching blockbuster movies in DVDs, having beer sessions with my relatives or peers). But the good thing is, I don’t have time to be bored. Multi-tasking has always been a perfect antidote to boredom or a justification to beat the mad rush in this modern world. But for a price, and a heavy one indeed on the family.

I admit I have less time for my kids. I may be present for them every day, but only a physical presence looming before them so that they have to behave in my presence. As if to say, if I am around, they must study their lessons very well, they must not make unnecessary noise while I work at home, they must listen to their Mom, and do this and that, or else I’ll impose a sanction on them, or a heavy dose of scolding when necessary.

I had promised them that Sunday would be for fun and relaxation, for mass, and a good time to cook and serve them their favorite dishes. But for the past three years (or since I resigned from a regular job to pursue my law studies, just a year after my wife also left work to look after the kids) I had rarely fulfilled these promises, if not at all, because even when I didn’t have take-home jobs for the weekend, I did extensive research in the Net for my articles and my case readings, or had to attend make-up classes in the college. I would just be contented with the thought that those goodnight kisses before they sleep on nights when I come home early after a suspended or shortened class, or goodbye kisses when they go to school in the morning, and when I brought them pasalubong (donut and pizza are all-time favorites) would make them think that all's well with Dad after all. But am I really sure that they are not complaining with this setup?      

One time I come across this story from the Net, an appropriately symbolic story for my situation. It is about a little boy who waited for his dad until he came back from work. His dad was surprised to see him still awake at 10 in the evening and asked him why he had not slept. The boy told his dad that he had an important question for him.

His dad told him that he was so tired and had to answer his “important” question in the morning. The boy told his dad that he needed a quick answer to his question, which disturbed him and prevented him from sleeping. Finally, at his son's insistence, the father gave in. “How much do you earn per hour, Dad?” asked the little boy.

“Is that your important question? I earn 20 dollars per hour, son,” answered the father, shocked by the question. His son pulled a little bag from under his pillow and said, with a big smile all over his face, “Can you loan me two dollars, Dad?”

The father was upset but he gave the boy two dollars. “But we need to discuss this tomorrow,” he said. Nevertheless, the boy took the two dollars and pulled more money from his bag, mostly quarters and nickels, and started counting. Then he gave the money to his father while saying, “Here is 20 dollars, Dad. Can you please give me an hour of your time?”

It is a very simple story, but it delivers a very important message about the importance of spending time with your family, especially with the younger ones. It shows how children cherish every precious time they can have with their dad. I felt ashamed of myself when I realized that I have become a mechanical wage-earner providing only the material needs of my family. And sometimes, when my resolve to earn for the family was waylaid by some domestic problems, or conflicts in the office, I burst out like a dormant volcano and all the more I would shut myself out from the peering eyes of my kids. I had become oblivious of the passing days that I must have spent with them. And I had been so sensitive with my feelings and less with their feelings.

It happened not only once that I dismissed my children when they approached me in separate occasions and asked questions while I was busy with my work. With my rigid rules, my kids would rarely come to me again to ask about things, unless they have problems with their assignments, but most of the time I told them to go to their Mom for that bit of information. Or I would just give them a short answer bereft with explanations.

Thanks for the story, and subsequent day-long ruminations of my life as a father, I got a new resolve to change my ways and spend more time with my kids. I thought I have missed the fun part of being a father, like playing with them, hugging, listening, sharing activities and just goofing around.

I recalled the times when I would always answer the questions of my kids during the separate times they were toddlers. And how I’d loved seeing them flashing their toothless grins when I replied to their queries, from the highly philosophical (why there is God or where God is) to the absurd (what made the housefly pregnant or how ants lay eggs). But those were the days before I was swamped with work.

That’s why when my ten-year-old asked me why prices go up these days, I answered him as scholarly as a dedicated teacher can do to his inquisitive pupil. And only last week, he saw me browsing the Encarta dictionary for the meaning of a word. He asked: “Dad, why are you using the dictionary? I thought you have known all those words in there.” I smiled, not for his outright mistake, but for his innocence and his terrible impression of me as a genius.

Time will come my kids will no longer ask questions as frequent as they do now. They may keep their questions to themselves or may ask somebody else. Or they may have learned so much that they no longer see the need of asking me. From a know-it-all Dad, I would retrogress to a “doesn’t really know quite everything” Dad, then to a “doesn’t know everything” Dad. So while I am on that first stage, I must get the most of it by replying to all their questions and be the know-it-all Dad for them, even for a time.

I hope with proper time management and a firm resolve, I can show them more affection, communicate affirmation, and give them attention. And while nurturing them, I must enjoy being a father and let my children enjoy belonging to me.

NOT NOW, BUT SOME OTHER TIME

"I'm not afraid of death. I just don't want to be there when it happens" - Woody Allen

IT almost happened to me. And I wouldn’t have lived to tell this one.

It was safe to cross the street just after I alighted from an FX taxi, so I thought. I dashed forward to cross the three-lane street towards the center island. Suddenly, a speeding gray SUV came towards my blind side, almost sideswiping me that instant. As if a bullet had just zinged past through me!

What if it happened? I shuddered at the thought of seeing myself lying lifeless on the busy street. Who would look after my mangled body? Who would tell my family about it? Would bystanders bother to look at my mobile phone’s phone book and call my wife or any of my friends? My ID wasn’t even in my wallet! That made my whole body cold as soon as I reached the island.

Then it came to my mind what happened to one of the graphic artists in the publishing house where I work. Early this year he was ran over by a truck near his place in Malabon. I pitied the guy. He was only in mid-30s, had a good career and great plans for his life. He died after a few days in a hospital due to serious internal injuries. And I couldn’t imagine myself having to suffer the same fate as his.

Death is like a thief in the night, and everyone must be aware of it, be alert and ready for the inevitable. But at that instant, I don’t think I am ready to die. And with that I am afraid. Honestly! Maybe when I was younger, when I had this clumsy belief that I was treading on a hopeless and unmanaged life. I had nothing to lose then and I was not actually afraid to die. But things are different now. I have my own family who looks up to me for support.

No, I don’t believe that death is a big unknown, a dismal abyss. It is rather a destination, an eventuality. My religion had given me noble thoughts about it, that beyond this life, there is a perfect place for each one of us as God had promised. But why I am afraid of death now? Yes, indeed, but I have my reasons:

1. Like most family men, I am more concerned with leaving those I love behind, than any painful death I could imagine for myself. I know I can’t be with them forever, but it’s too early at this stage to leave them!
2. And like most people who have high hopes in life, I have plans or dreams that I wish to accomplish before I expire.
3. I couldn’t imagine my three young children dealing with such harsh reality as death in the family. They say children have a degree of “magical thinking,” or they have this capacity to believe that a person who has died will come back and is not really dead. But missing their father so much before bedtime may erase that magic.
4. I don’t want to leave my wife and my kids grieving and financially insecure. I am afraid that with my little earnings, none will remain after paying for my funeral and settling all my debts. I would not like to fail them in death. Kaya huwag muna.

Now, do I have good reasons to hang on to dear life? Of course, I have good reasons to be extra careful in crossing that busy street again.