A “NEW NORMAL” HOLIDAY

Christmas Tree 2010

FOR THE second year in a row, I did not display any Christmas ornaments in my house. My kids didn't ask me why. Only once did my nine-year-old daughter, Roseya, mention putting up our old Christmas tree in its usual corner of the living room. It wasn’t a question about why I hadn’t done it; it felt more like a gentle reminder—perhaps even a loving command—for me to obey.

It happened just a week before December, and Roseya clearly thought I had simply forgotten what our family has always loved doing at this time of the year. She missed our holiday traditions: decorating the tree while playing Christmas CDs, with our all-time favorites being Paskong Pinoy and Jose Mari Chan’s iconic holiday album. It used to be a wonderful time of togetherness. She deeply missed looking forward to placing the little star or an angel at the very top of a tree decked out in all its festive finery.

MY PEN PAL

"PEN PAL" might be a strange term for the younger generations who have spent their lives tethered to instant messaging, chat rooms, and social networking sites. To them, the concept seems to belong to a bygone era. After all, why do you need a pen when you can reach old, new, or potential friends with just a click of a mouse?

As the name implies, pen pals are two people—usually from different places and originally complete strangers—who regularly exchange friendly, mostly handwritten letters, alongside physical photographs often bearing corny dedications on the back. These relationships usually reach a major turning point when one person finally travels across the distance to meet the other in person. Sometimes, they fall for each other if physical attraction happens to overpower the emotional intimacy they previously shared on scented stationery. More often, like many friendships in life, the correspondence burns brightly for a short time before fading as life gets busy and responsibilities pile up.

Today, there is an internet version of this phenomenon. It still carries the original premise of remote friends in different parts of the world writing to one another, though it now happens via email or private messages. The "pen" has simply become electronically written communication. There are even dedicated pen pal websites designed for single men and women to connect online and eventually arrange dates. Call me old-fashioned, but despite the absolute dominance of Facebook and Twitter in our social lives, I still prefer the deeply personal touch of traditional letter writing. I truly believe that a person’s real personality shines through most clearly in their own unique penmanship.

DAYBREAK

DURING a brief vacation in my hometown in Ilocos early this month, I forced myself to wake up before first light just to witness the familiar panorama of dawn in the barrio. Though I felt sluggish after an exhausting eight-hour trip from Manila the previous day, I braved the chilly morning air to watch the yellow strands of light thread above the mountain range to the east. I observed the breaking sun with an intensity that made me feel as if I hadn't truly seen it in years.

It is remarkably easy to fall in love with the dawn. I always do. My eyes became transfixed by the radiating pink and faintly golden plumage of daybreak, which felt like a beautiful lady smiling enticingly, or a mother reaching out with rosy, open arms to dispel the restlessness and grogginess of a tired soul. It is the kind of affection you miss deeply, though sleepless nights and hectic obligations often cause you to forget she exists. Yet, the moment you attempt to reach her by traversing the path of the night, you look east and find her exactly as she was before.

There is a profound solemnity to her presence, a quiet space where only the light moves—shifting slowly from the gray of a withering night to streaks of vibrant orange and yellow, culminating in a silver shaft breaking through the clouds. I can only experience this kind of lingering, meditative moment when I am back at our old family place in Nanguneg. Unlike my house in a Bulacan subdivision, where my view of the eastern horizon is entirely blocked by a row of houses on elevated ground across the street, our house in the barrio offers an unobstructed, frontline view of that classic Homeric "rosy-fingered dawn."

5 BEST MEMOIRS THAT I’VE READ

I READ voraciously. Whenever a reading craving strikes, I readily succumb to whatever book is within arm's reach—a habit that firmly qualifies me as a bookworm. My literary appetite is eclectic, and I will dive into any title that piques my curiosity. I do, however, have a distinct hierarchy of preferences when faced with too many choices at once: historical novels, award-winning masterpieces, and books that have been adapted into cinematic triumphs.

Lately, I have discovered an added delight in narrative non-fiction—first-person accounts that unfold with the gripping pacing of a novel. I am continually thrilled by personal truths captured on the page. I appreciate these perspectives not only from world-renowned authors, thinkers, and celebrities, but also from ordinary individuals examining their own paths through life. I am equally fascinated by writers who mythologize their own histories, unspooling exploits known only to them, and by those who begin as absolute underdogs but emerge as experts in their fields.

I am speaking, of course, of the memoir. While the terms "memoir" and "autobiography" are frequently used interchangeably, they are fundamentally different. Unlike an autobiography, which is heavily laden with the specific dates, chronologies, and facts of an author's entire life, a memoir does not anchor itself strictly to a timeline. Instead, it provides a curated record of selected events and distinct phases that stand out vividly in the author's memory. It is a true story built with a real-life plot, characters, settings, and subplots, focusing intently on a slice of the writer’s past that carries universal appeal.

To me, the finest memoirs must read as beautifully as great fiction, rich with wit, emotional honesty, and experiences I can relate to in my own life. They should weave together anecdotes under a unified, transformational theme, delivering a profound emotional impact that makes an ordinary reader care. Finally, the prose itself must be exceptional.

Over the past few years, I have crossed paths with five captivating memoirs that permanently altered the way I look at the world, proving that any life lived honestly is a life worth reading. Organized in the chronological order of when I read them, here are my top five selections:

1. Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen

      When I first picked up this book, I mistook it for a traditional novel—the very text that inspired the Oscar-winning film starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. In reality, it is a lyrical memoir penned by a Danish baroness whose real name was Karen von Blixen. After divorcing her unfaithful husband, Blixen took on the daunting task of managing a Kenyan coffee plantation entirely on her own.

      The book offers a vivid snapshot of her life in Africa, serving as a poetic love letter to the magnificent landscapes and the vibrant local communities that touched her soul. Beyond her deep bond with the land, I was profoundly moved by her tender relationship with Denys Finch Hatton, a British big-game hunter and traveler. Though Blixen leaves the exact nature of their romance beautifully ambiguous, it was a profound, bittersweet affair. Finch Hatton used her farm as a home base, and together they would soar over the African plains in his biplane.

     Their bond was tragically cut short when he died in a plane crash. Reading her words, I felt an intense empathy for Blixen’s deep anguish and infinite longing—grappling simultaneously with the loss of a man she adored as a soulmate and the financial collapse of her beloved coffee farm. It is a slow, meditative read, but its immersion into the majesty of the continent makes it a thoroughly rewarding masterpiece.

2. One L by Scott Turow

     This journal-style narrative details Scott Turow’s grueling experience as a first-year student at Harvard Law School, where freshmen are universally dubbed "One Ls." I first heard of this book when it was enthusiastically recommended by a guest speaker during my own orientation as a freshman law student at a premier university. However, I didn’t actually open it until my third year, well after I had been academically dismissed from my first school and forced to transfer elsewhere.

     Even so, reading it late was far from a waste of time. It allowed me to look back and understand exactly where I had faltered and what I had lacked during my own freshman year. Turow perfectly illustrates why the first year of law school is the most critical juncture in a future attorney's life. From the outset, you must survive sheer terror, bouts of depression, academic hazing, a crushing workload (such as briefing twenty cases for a single two-hour class), and deeply intimidating professors.

     One of the most memorable segments details the brutal realities of the Socratic method, where professors grill students with circular questions that yield no clear answers. It was a painfully familiar experience for me. Turow brilliantly captures the intense anxiety of facing a single final exam that holds the power to decide your entire professional future. Ultimately, the book is about much more than legal education; it is a profound study of human nature operating under extreme, exhausting pressure. It remains an absolute must-read for any law school applicant or anyone who has ever contemplated entering the legal profession.

                                                          

3. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

      I was unfamiliar with Maya Angelou until I witnessed her recite her breathtaking poem, "On the Pulse of Morning," at the 1993 inauguration of US President Bill Clinton. When I finally read her seminal memoir more than fifteen years later, I was stunned by the sheer gravity of what she endured. The book chronicles her journey of overcoming a deep-seated inferiority complex, profound childhood trauma, and systemic racism to emerge as a dignified, self-possessed woman, a celebrated playwright, and a multi-award-winning poet.

     Over the years, I have read numerous historic accounts and works of fiction detailing the generational trauma of slavery, the quiet resilience of Black Americans facing oppression, and the horrors of sexual violence, lynching, and segregation. I explored these themes through masterworks like 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. Because Angelou’s memoir navigates this same post-civil rights cultural landscape, the historical realities she described did not shock me.

     What did feel entirely fresh and remarkable was experiencing this world strictly through the eyes of a young girl, tracing her life from the age of three to her early teens in a small, rural 1930s community. Angelou writes with an astonishing blend of strength, candor, poignancy, and grace, utilizing a powerful command of language that paints vivid emotional landscapes. It is a magnificent piece of literature, though its heavy themes make it best suited for mature readers.

    

4. Red Azalea by Anchee Min

     My deep love for historical fiction originally led me to Katherine, a novel about a young Chinese girl and her American teacher. That book ignited a deep curiosity within me regarding what daily life was truly like in China during Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution, which eventually brought me to the works of its author, Anchee Min. This curiosity inspired me to pick up Red Azalea, Min's frighteningly honest account of growing up under the oppressive shadow of Maoist rule.

     Her story is a testament to inner strength and resilience in the face of rigid Communist dogma. Min masterfully navigates complex issues of ideological conformity, gender, sexuality, public humiliation, and political subterfuge, weaving a real-life drama that unfolds with the complexity of a television series. As a child, she was conditioned to be a model communist and was eventually sent to a harsh labor camp to work the rice fields. In keeping with the regime's strict ban on individualism, workers were forbidden to speak, dress, read, write, or love freely. Despite the immense danger, Min entered into a secret romantic relationship with her female supervisor at the camp.

     Later, she was handpicked to train as an actress for a propaganda film adaptation of one of Madame Mao’s political operas. However, Chairman Mao passed away before production could finish, and Madame Mao was subsequently sentenced to death. It was during this political collapse that Min fully realized she, like millions of others, was merely a casualty of a fractured political culture. Recognizing that a better life lay elsewhere, she managed to escape China for America with the assistance of a trusted friend. It is an utterly fascinating piece of history.

5. Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt

      I knew practically nothing about this book or its author when I first spotted it in a bookstore. Had it not been for the gleaming, gilded seal on the cover declaring it the Winner of the Pulitzer Prize, I likely would have walked right past it—and I would have missed out on experiencing an absolute gem of literature.

     The book is an intensely honest narrative of a young Irish-American boy growing up amidst severe poverty. It chronicles his heartbreaking struggles with his father’s debilitating alcoholism, his mother’s desperate battles to keep the family afloat, the tragic deaths of three of his siblings, and the casual cruelty of relatives and neighbors. What makes this book a triumph, however, is that McCourt recounts these miseries with immense eloquence, remarkable forgiveness, and an astounding sense of humor and compassion.

      Set during the Great Depression in New York and the subsequent war years in Limerick, Ireland—where the family relocated after failing to make it in America—the story is told entirely through the innocent perspective of the author's younger self. McCourt effortlessly makes you laugh and cry within the span of a single page, keeping you fiercely invested in his family's survival. While it highlights the devastating global realities of abject poverty and unemployment, the memoir ultimately stands as an inspiring monument to human hope and triumph rather than a chronicle of misery. It easily earns a full 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 harbor a deep desire to pen a memoir of my own someday. I want to write one if only to help me make sense of my own journey, confront my personal truths, and discover fresh perspectives on the path I have walked. But for now, I find immense joy and solace in finding pieces of my own soul mirrored in the lives of others through their beautifully written memoirs.  

A LIFT FROM AN ANGEL

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

"It looks like rain. Do you have an umbrella?" asked Weng, my wife’s colleague and the mother of the birthday girl.

"No, it won’t rain," I replied confidently, as if I were the day’s resident weatherman.

"Yes, we have an umbrella," my wife countered smartly.

Instead of heading straight 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 whenever we had time. Having some rare spare time after the party, my wife and I were eager to see his two lovely kids. It would only take a single jeepney ride from Jollibee to his place in Project 3, and we hoped to reach it before the downpour started—if it rained at all.

We arrived at my uncle’s rented studio apartment just in time for dinner and the arrival of a light drizzle. Nathaniel had a wonderful time playing with my uncle’s precocious children, three-year-old Jap-Jap and two-year-old Paula. By around 7:00 p.m., the drizzle gathered strength, accompanied by wild gusts of wind. The heavy rain grew even more intense, falling without letup for the next hour.

Anxious about having my baby away from the safety of our home so late at night, I knew we had to leave. My uncle was more than willing to accommodate us for the night, but when we insisted on heading home, he asked us to at least wait until the worst of the storm passed. After more than an hour of continuous downpour, the sky finally grew quiet, though a cold, stormy breeze still lingered in the air. We waited another hour to be safe, then stepped out into the night, bidding my uncle and his family goodbye.

At the street corner, we caught a jeepney bound for Quiapo. It was almost 10:00 p.m. While our jeepney was traversing the busy stretch of Kamuning, the rain returned—this time harder and more fearsome than before. It drummed violently against the roof of the vehicle. Within minutes, the roads were submerged in rainwater, and traffic slowed to a crawl. We waited patiently amidst the torrential rain, biting wind, and encroaching darkness.

The driver took shortcuts through minor streets, yet we still found ourselves trapped along with dozens of other vehicles trying to evade the rising floods. Suddenly, we came to a dead stop. The driver turned to us and explained that it was too dangerous to drive any further.

"I’m sorry, but you’ll have to get out and walk," he said, pointing out a sudden, temporary lull in the rain.

My family alighted from the vehicle and walked until we reached a major intersection where passenger jeepneys usually frequented. It wasn't midnight yet, so I thought we would have no trouble catching another ride. After we waited on the corner for a while, a jeepney with only a few passengers pulled up. The driver leaned out and asked where we were heading.

"Quiapo," I said.

He admitted that given the rising floods, he wasn't sure if he could make it all the way there, but promised he would try. We hopped in. A massive section of Quezon Avenue ahead of us was already deeply submerged. The driver maneuvered through a shortcut parallel to the main thoroughfare until we finally reached the Sampaloc district in Manila.

Then, the weather turned nasty in a split second. Torrential rain poured down once more. Our journey degenerated into a long, tortuous wading through flooded streets. Floods were nothing new to this densely packed part of the city. For commuters and drivers alike, living at the mercy of floodwaters during the rainy season meant developing survival skills and a prayerful spirit.

Just like the first driver, this one saw the danger ahead and decided not to push his luck. That meant we were on our own. We would have to step down into the super-filthy floodwaters, carrying my small child in my arms. Wading through urban floods is incredibly dangerous; the water carries a toxic mix of chemicals, bacteria, and microorganisms that cause disease, not to mention the hidden threat of open manholes. But I had no choice.

We joined the remaining passengers as they alighted and waded toward España Boulevard. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, so the three of us huddled under my wife's small umbrella, groping our way toward the nearest roadside shed. Fortunately, the drizzle stopped after about fifteen minutes, allowing us to continue our trek. The water along the side of the street was only ankle-deep, which was a relief. From Dapitan Street, we waded toward the intersection heading to España Boulevard. I could see a few vehicles successfully traversing the street toward Quiapo. I decided it was better to take a chance on a ride than to force my family to spend the night stranded in the middle of a flood.

The cold, dark night stretched dauntingly ahead as we stood stranded at the corner of Blumentritt and España. Standing on that corner, Nathaniel felt heavier and heavier in my arms. A few public vehicles braved the deep waters, but none stopped for us. Tricycle and pedicab drivers, capitalizing on the disaster, offered overpriced rides to stranded commuters, while groups of men pushed stalled vehicles to higher ground for a fee.

Then, a dark blue SUV drove past at a steady speed. It slowed down as it passed us, coming to a halt two or three meters away. The driver seemed to change his mind about moving on, because the vehicle slowly backtracked and stopped right in front of us. The tinted window slid down.

"Where are you going?" asked the driver, a young man of about thirty.

My wife told him we were trying to get to Malate.

"I'm heading in that direction. Why don't you hop in before it starts raining again? That is, if it's okay with you," he offered. His welcoming smile instantly eased my apprehension about accepting a ride from a stranger.

"I happened to see your little boy, and I figured he badly needs to be home at this hour," he continued kindly once we were safely inside the vehicle, adjusting our soaked pants and holding our dripping umbrella.

By then, my child had fallen fast asleep in my lap. The driver kept up a friendly chatter as he navigated the roads. He confessed he was actually in a hurry to fetch his boss from an important meeting near the US Embassy along Roxas Boulevard, noting that his boss might already be worried. Yet, despite his rush, he had still found the time to stop for us in the middle of a flood.

Just like the jeepney drivers, he utilized every shortcut he could find, but unlike them, his vehicle never faltered. As the SUV plowed through the swirling, murky waters, I found myself silently praying to God and all the saints to keep the engine from conking out. The speed was moderate and steady. At one point, muddy water even started creeping into the floorboards of the car, but the driver remained unfazed. He reassured me that he was used to this kind of flooding and had full trust in his vehicle.

We finally reached the end of España Boulevard, where the flooding subsided as we neared the underpass connecting to Quiapo. I knew then that our ordeal was coming to an end. We traveled at a normal speed through Lawton, onto Roxas Boulevard, and finally reached Kalaw Street.

We alighted from the SUV, thanking the man profusely. But our angel simply shrugged off our gratitude and firmly refused to accept any payment. In our haste and relief to finally be home, we forgot to ask for his name. I watched the car speed away into the night, sending a prayer after him—that he would reach his boss safely, and return home securely to his own family when his work was done.

Whoever he was, I remain deeply grateful for his selflessness. He went completely out of his way to help my family in a desperate situation, driven purely by the goodness of his heart. That man performed a truly noble act.

We made it home safely. We were truly blessed on that stormy August night in España to meet a nameless angel on the road. He saved us, and especially my young son, from spending a miserable night stranded on a flooded street.