Noong isang linggo lang ay namrublema ako kung kakayanin ko bang mag-isa ang pagpapatakbo ng tahanan namin kung hindi na bumalik ang aming kasambahay na si Merlie. Di kasi siya nakapasok ng dalawang araw at ni wala akong ideya kung ano ang nagyari sa kanya.
Bumalik din naman sya nung araw pagkatapos kong i-post ang entry na "Taken for Granted," dala ang isang pakiusap. Maari daw bang mag-stay in sya sa amin? Ang nakagawian kasi, papasok sya bandang alas siete y media ng unaga tapos uuwi bandang alas-otso ng gabi. Gusto kasi naming mag-iina, kami-kami lang sana sa bahay.
Pero sabi ni Merlie ay iniwan na nya ang kanyang tatlong-taong gulang na anak sa kanyang tiyahin sa Kalookan para sya makapagtrabaho nang maayos. Ano ang sabi ng asawa mo, tanong ko sa kanya. Sya naman ay nagbuntong-hininga. "Ay, wala iyon," aniya. "Pag sinabihan mo ngang bumili ng isang kilong bigas ni hindi makapag-uwi..."
Hindi naging mahirap sa aking pumayag sa kanyang hiling. Alam na alam ko ang pakiramdam ng pangangailangan lalo na kung ang taong dapat na katuwang mo ay hindi mo rin naman makatulong. Isa pa, pabor ito sa akin, dahil mas dadali ang trabaho ko sa umaga. May assistant na akong tagaluto ng almusal at tagahanda ng mga damit ng mga bata. Sa gayon makakagawa ako ng mas importanteng bagay katulad ng pagtulong kay Sophia sa mga assignment niyang hindi natapos o di kaya'y simpleng pakikipag kuwentuhan sa mga bata para malaman kung anu-ano ang mga gagawin nila noong araw na iyon. Sa gabi naman, pag-uwi ko galing sa trabaho, mayroon nang nagtatanong sa akin kung gusto ko nang kumain. Nagtatanong lang naman, dahil kadalasan, mas lamang ang pagod ng isip sa pag-eedit at pagsusulat at ng katawan sa biyahe kaysa kalam ng sikmura.
Di pa pala doon nagtatapos ang mga sorpresa ng aming kasambahay. Noong Biyernes ng gabi ay masaya akong umuwi dahil weekend na, at tulad ng dati, marami akong naiisip na gawin upang gantimpalaan ang sarili ko para sa sanlinggong pagkayod nang mabuti. Nakahap ako ng mga web site kung saan maaring mag-download ng mga akdang matagal ko nang gustong basahin. May pito o walong bagong DVD rin akong napili mula sa suki kong si Kuya Rudin. Bukod pa rito, walang pasok kinabukasan. Natatangi ang mga Sabado para sa akin dahil sa arw na ito, wala akong kailangang tapusin. Lahat ng ginagawa ko, ginagawa ko dahil gusto ko.
Pero pag-uwi ko ng bahay, nanduon si Andy, ang anak ni Merly.
Maaga ko silang pinauwi kinabukasan. Gusto ko nang umpisahan ang aking pag-iisa. Hindi ko rin maintindihan ang pelikulang pinapanood ko o makapag-focus sa sanaysay na sinusulat ko habang may batang patakbu-takbo sa munti naming sala. Mahilig din niyang ihampas ang kanyang maliit na katawan sa aming sofa. Ani Merlie, hinatid raw ng tiyuhin nya ang bata dahil ang tiyahin nyang pinag-iwanan dito ay kailangang umuwi ng probinsya. Pag-alis ng mag-ina, nagsimula ang maluwalhati kong weekend. Marami akong nagawa. Nanood ako ng dalawang pelikula. Nagpahilot ng likod. Nagpa-foot spa. Kumain ng sushi kasama si Joshua. Nagsulat. Natulog. Nangarap. Namasyal kasama si Sophia. Ang sarap ng pakiramdam pag marami kang nagawa.
Laking gulat ko nitong umaga ng Lunes nang dumating si Merlie kasamang muli si Andy. At si Andy, hindi na masyadong nahihiya. Mas makislot, mas galawgaw, mas madaldal na sya.
Sabi ni Merlie ay tinanggihan na raw ng kanyang tyahin na alagaan ang bata dahil sa sobrang kalikutan nito. Kaya tinanong ako ng aking kasambahay kung ok lang daw ba na nandoon silang mag-ina. Ang ama raw ng bata ay madaling uminit ang uko at mabilis magbuhat ng kamay. Kung ayaw ko naman daw na may kasama siyang bata ay wala syang magagwa kung aalisin ko sya sa trabaho.
Ang totoo, ayoko talaga nang may ibang tao sa bahay. Kahit pa bata. Lalo na bata. Yung mga sarili kong anak na nga lang, nahihirapan na akong ilagay sa lugar. Naririndi ako sa tila-walang katapusang inggitan, iringan, selosan, iyakan, kalatan, at minsan pa, sakitan. At least, anak ko pa ang mga iyon. Pwede kong disiplinahin sa pamamaraang tama sa paningin ko. Wala akong pinangingimihan.
At ngayong araw, dumagdag si Andy. Hindi na talaga siya nahihiya. Lahat ng gamit pinapakialaman. Yung bag ni Elmo, binubuksan. Yung mga baon, gustong kainin. Yung katawan nya, hinahampas nya sa sofa. Nag-aaway na sila ni Elmo. Yung mesa ko, ginagalaw. Sumisigaw. Tumatawa. Maingay. At naiinis ako.
Dapat bang ikahiya ang ganitong pakiramdam? Parang mali. Parang makasarili. Parang mayabang. Dapat naiintindihan ko ang kalagayan ng aking kasambahay. Alam na alam ko na walang pinaka mapayapang pakiramdam sa mundo kaysa sa kaalaman na kasama mo ang anak mo sa lahat ng pagkakataon, kahit mahirap pa iyon. Naawa rin ako sa bata. Madali nga raw manakit ang kanyang ama. Sino ako para tanggihang bigyan ng bubong na tutuluyan ang isang paslit at ang kanyang inang marahil ay walang sapat na lakas para ipagtanggol sya?
Pero iba ang dapat sa aktuwal na nararamdaman. Di rin makakatulong kung pipigilan ko ang mga damdaming ito. Ang totoo, napaka pribado kong tao. Gusto ko ng tahimik, maayos, ayoko ng sorpresa, ingay, away. Gusto ko, kami-kami lang. Di naman kami mayaman. DI pa nga sapat angkinikita ko para sa amin.
Kaya ngayon, mayroon akong dilema. Mas gugustuhin ko bang magkatuwang sa mga gawaing bahay nang sa gayon mas may oras ako para sa mga mas mahahalagang bagay? O mas sagrado ba ang pag-iisa, mas mahalaga na kaya kong malugmok muli sa paghuhugas paglalaba at iba pa? Saan din naman pumapasok ang pagka sensitibo sa pangangailangan ng iba? Paano na ang panalangin kong maging isang mabuting tao sa kabila ng mga pagkakamali ko...?
Unang araw pa lang. May bukas pa, at susunod, at susunod, at pagkatapos nun, sa isang linggo, ganito uli. Paano ako magsisimulang tumulong sa iba gayong hindi pa ako buo? Nawala na naman ako sa aking equilibrium. Kaya mainit ang ulo ko.
Sana makabalik ako sa gitna. At gawin ang tama. At maging masaya sa paggawa nito.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Reading dead people
published 30 Jun 2008, MST
Think of the classics. Novels we had to read in high school -- and had to write book reports about. The hardbound ones we took out of our college libraries and read over and over until we had to pay fines for overdue. The ones we lovingly make time for despite our busy grown-up schedule. We read dead people all the time. But I don't mean those dead people.
I mean, instead, those who put up their own sites and maintain personal blogs. Maintained, I mean. The Internet has a way of tuning everything to the present tense. Why else do we say “real time”? So long as one’s thoughts are in the Net, accessible by keying in the correct address, it is as if one is simultaneously on another computer terminal somewhere. Only the entry dates provide some sort of clue.
And in the case of bloggers whom you know for a fact have passed away, the dates and the words, taken together, can be particularly haunting. It's like watching a movie where you know something that the main character doesn't. That something – death -- is final, irrevocable.
There is, for instance, American Julia Campbell (www.juliainthephilippines.blogspot.com), living in Ifugao Province as a peace corps volunteer. Julia was from Fairfax, Virginia, worked as a journalist, writing for the New York Times and People Magazine. She chose to abandon all that to do something more meaningful. Her work took her to remote places in the Philippines, teaching people from faraway provinces and basically immersing herself in their way of life. Her blog was her link to her friends and family; it was here where she described her living conditions, her new friends, her “adventures,” so she called them.
Her first entry, called A Few Mouths To Feed, was made in April 2005, presumably soon after she arrived in the Philippines. The posts did not come regularly, but every time Julia got excited about a specific project or was fascinated with a certain person's tales, she wrote.
On 13 January 2007, she posted Buhay Pa Tayo, her piece on Filipinos' peculiar manner of responding when one asked them how they were. It was as if they were thankful to just be alive despite the hardships. Unfortunately, Julia herself would not be staying alive for much long. In April of that year, she went missing. A few days later, her body was found in a shallow grave near Batad village. “A search party of Philippine Army soldiers noticed her feet sticking out of a mound of fresh earth in a creek near the remote village,” Wikipedia said.
The tragedy was that her death, after her conscious decisions to help make the world a better place, was much too random. The man who had confessed to killing her claimed he just had a fight with his neighbor and, when walking home, bumped into Campbell. Fuming from his fight, and incensed that the bumping incident made him drop what he was carrying, he hit Julia with a rock. He said he never intended to kill her.
**
Another blog is that of multi-awarded playwright and author of children's literature Rene Villanueva (www.renevillanueva.blogspot.com). The blog is entitled Personal and is, like all of Villanueva's work, entirely in Filipino.
Sir Rene, as I called him during college when I worked part-time writing scripts for puppets in the children's television show Batibot (of which he was creative director), started blogging only in September 2007. He was, as always, prolific. He posted 15 entries that month, 27 in October, and 32 in November. He died on December 5 of the same year.
His topics in these blogs are fairly varied. There are a few socio-political commentaries, such as on that girl from Davao who committed suicide and one senator’s luxury hotel adventurism. The earlier pieces were about projects he was working on, on his playwrights' group, on being a teacher, on being a friend. There, too were a few translations – for instance, he posted his own translation of the song “Vincent,” about the great painter Vincent Van Gogh.
But there are, for me, three subjects that stand out. There are his essays on his parents (Kailan Hindi Sapat Ang Pagmamahal? [When Is Love Not Enough?]). Villanueva recalls that the mere sound of his name, spoken aloud, could bring back the terror he felt when it was his parents making that call. Almost certainly, punishment for some misdeed, real or imagined, would follow.
Another entry, posted sometime in October but actually written several months before, articulates his rage at the helplessness his sickness subjected him to. He had to take a leave from his teaching job just because he was taking medicines that made him feel bloated all the time.
And then there are the celebratory entries.
On November 19, he said he finally felt Christmas coming. In another entry, “Perpektong Araw [Perfect Day]) written on the same day, he recounted a happy reunion with friends, when they spent time just talking and making holiday plans. Could he have known he would have only 16 days to live? Maybe. After all, he himself said he had donated all his books to a Bulacan School (Paalam sa Aking mga Libro [Farewell to My books]). Or maybe he didn’t. He never made it to the Christmas he was so excited about.
Villanueva has, to his credit, 18 full-length plays, 14 one-act plays, a two-act documentary play, 6 translations and adaptations, 3 screenplays, 2 teleplays and 17 children’s books. He also wrote the lyrics for the Batibot theme song. Aside from these, he also published his memoirs. That book carried the same title as his blog.
The achievements are many and far-reaching but what ultimately what lingers is the person’s unadorned thoughts, simple and straightforward, as he tries to makes sense of the events, circumstances, choices and the people around him.
Is blogging, then, a form of self-preservation? Of course. But it can transcend being just a monument of one’s accomplishments or an album of the places one has gone to. It ceases to be a tool of narcissism when readers recognize a bit of themselves and are thus inspired to tackle their own monsters, big or small. That’s building a legacy in the age of information.
Think of the classics. Novels we had to read in high school -- and had to write book reports about. The hardbound ones we took out of our college libraries and read over and over until we had to pay fines for overdue. The ones we lovingly make time for despite our busy grown-up schedule. We read dead people all the time. But I don't mean those dead people.
I mean, instead, those who put up their own sites and maintain personal blogs. Maintained, I mean. The Internet has a way of tuning everything to the present tense. Why else do we say “real time”? So long as one’s thoughts are in the Net, accessible by keying in the correct address, it is as if one is simultaneously on another computer terminal somewhere. Only the entry dates provide some sort of clue.
And in the case of bloggers whom you know for a fact have passed away, the dates and the words, taken together, can be particularly haunting. It's like watching a movie where you know something that the main character doesn't. That something – death -- is final, irrevocable.
There is, for instance, American Julia Campbell (www.juliainthephilippines.blogspot.com), living in Ifugao Province as a peace corps volunteer. Julia was from Fairfax, Virginia, worked as a journalist, writing for the New York Times and People Magazine. She chose to abandon all that to do something more meaningful. Her work took her to remote places in the Philippines, teaching people from faraway provinces and basically immersing herself in their way of life. Her blog was her link to her friends and family; it was here where she described her living conditions, her new friends, her “adventures,” so she called them.
Her first entry, called A Few Mouths To Feed, was made in April 2005, presumably soon after she arrived in the Philippines. The posts did not come regularly, but every time Julia got excited about a specific project or was fascinated with a certain person's tales, she wrote.
On 13 January 2007, she posted Buhay Pa Tayo, her piece on Filipinos' peculiar manner of responding when one asked them how they were. It was as if they were thankful to just be alive despite the hardships. Unfortunately, Julia herself would not be staying alive for much long. In April of that year, she went missing. A few days later, her body was found in a shallow grave near Batad village. “A search party of Philippine Army soldiers noticed her feet sticking out of a mound of fresh earth in a creek near the remote village,” Wikipedia said.
The tragedy was that her death, after her conscious decisions to help make the world a better place, was much too random. The man who had confessed to killing her claimed he just had a fight with his neighbor and, when walking home, bumped into Campbell. Fuming from his fight, and incensed that the bumping incident made him drop what he was carrying, he hit Julia with a rock. He said he never intended to kill her.
**
Another blog is that of multi-awarded playwright and author of children's literature Rene Villanueva (www.renevillanueva.blogspot.com). The blog is entitled Personal and is, like all of Villanueva's work, entirely in Filipino.
Sir Rene, as I called him during college when I worked part-time writing scripts for puppets in the children's television show Batibot (of which he was creative director), started blogging only in September 2007. He was, as always, prolific. He posted 15 entries that month, 27 in October, and 32 in November. He died on December 5 of the same year.
His topics in these blogs are fairly varied. There are a few socio-political commentaries, such as on that girl from Davao who committed suicide and one senator’s luxury hotel adventurism. The earlier pieces were about projects he was working on, on his playwrights' group, on being a teacher, on being a friend. There, too were a few translations – for instance, he posted his own translation of the song “Vincent,” about the great painter Vincent Van Gogh.
But there are, for me, three subjects that stand out. There are his essays on his parents (Kailan Hindi Sapat Ang Pagmamahal? [When Is Love Not Enough?]). Villanueva recalls that the mere sound of his name, spoken aloud, could bring back the terror he felt when it was his parents making that call. Almost certainly, punishment for some misdeed, real or imagined, would follow.
Another entry, posted sometime in October but actually written several months before, articulates his rage at the helplessness his sickness subjected him to. He had to take a leave from his teaching job just because he was taking medicines that made him feel bloated all the time.
And then there are the celebratory entries.
On November 19, he said he finally felt Christmas coming. In another entry, “Perpektong Araw [Perfect Day]) written on the same day, he recounted a happy reunion with friends, when they spent time just talking and making holiday plans. Could he have known he would have only 16 days to live? Maybe. After all, he himself said he had donated all his books to a Bulacan School (Paalam sa Aking mga Libro [Farewell to My books]). Or maybe he didn’t. He never made it to the Christmas he was so excited about.
Villanueva has, to his credit, 18 full-length plays, 14 one-act plays, a two-act documentary play, 6 translations and adaptations, 3 screenplays, 2 teleplays and 17 children’s books. He also wrote the lyrics for the Batibot theme song. Aside from these, he also published his memoirs. That book carried the same title as his blog.
The achievements are many and far-reaching but what ultimately what lingers is the person’s unadorned thoughts, simple and straightforward, as he tries to makes sense of the events, circumstances, choices and the people around him.
Is blogging, then, a form of self-preservation? Of course. But it can transcend being just a monument of one’s accomplishments or an album of the places one has gone to. It ceases to be a tool of narcissism when readers recognize a bit of themselves and are thus inspired to tackle their own monsters, big or small. That’s building a legacy in the age of information.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Groupie
When you call someone a groupie, you are not being kind. Groupies are girls who follow band members anywhere they go. With the implied sleaze that goes with the name, it's hardly a flattering label.
But this groupie doesn't mind. I'm made of different stuff, you see.
My son Josh plays the bass guitar for an amateur band, Copperfront. They have been fortunate enough to land gigs, although these are non-paying ones. Yet. Thus far, they have been regulars in Grind Haus, a bar along McArthur Highway very near our home. They have also played in Kublai's in Katipunan and in Stoodio Bar in Mother Ignacia, both in Quezon City. Next week they are trying out Sausage Bar. Come watch if you can.
I will certainly be there, as I have been there in all the other performances in the past and all the other gigs until he is a young man of seventeen. That is our agreement. It's up to him if he allows himself to feel embarrassed at having his mother around. He's not there for his social life. He is, after all, only 12, even as his bandmates are in their late teens or early twenties. His time will come.
In the meantime, and in fairness to this mom, I take great pains not to look or act motherly. I meet him in these bars after work, myself clad in jeans, t-shirt, sneakers and messenger bag. I don't bring him milk nor apples. I don't tell him that he's soaked in sweat and must change his shirt. I don't go to the front and take pictures. I usually just sit down (my fourteen year old Bea is normally with me) at another table and try to have a good time myself. I have never been a fan of alternative rock music. But I'm keeping an open mind – or ear. And after just a little more than a month, I'm learning a thing or two.
Enormous talent
Say, for instance, there are just too many Filipino musicians out there. In any given evening, I get to listen to anywhere between five and eight bands playing. They vary greatly in musical style, in packaging, in confidence, in age, and in capability. I have seen performances of bands with released records and music videos to boot. I know of another who has just signed a contract and is awaiting radio play by next month. These are bands whom you know mean business. There is never a hint of tentativeness in the way they play. I am also learning to distinguish between those who are just playing for show (with stand-up comedy spiels to boot) and those who really know their stuff. Those who wow you with the way they slam their sticks or position their fingers on their guitars. This kind means business. The business is mean, after all.
Meanwhile, there are those who compensate with gimmickry what they lack in technicality. For instance, I've seen a band whose members dress like geeks and crack really green jokes. Another's members, male and female alike, all sport long, curly hair. At one point in a song, all of them bend and then shake their hair before the audience. Then, I looked around to see the reactions of the other guests. I wasn't quite an odd ball after all. I never saw that band come back. Or maybe they would fit in with a different audience.
Sometimes there are newcomers who are given the opportunity to play before an audience for the first time. The spectators are really nice to these performers, clapping at the beginning to boost their confidence and cast away their jitters. Bea's own band, for instance, played once (she was on drums and on vocals too) on her birthday and it was fairly decent, for a maiden show. There were others, however, who obviously want to pack up and go in the middle of their performance, knowing how pitiful they sounded. Yet there are some who mercilessly go on and on, oblivious to the listening torture to which they subject the guests who paid the entrance fee. They were having a good time, who cared about the rest?
But the most amazing thing about these gigs I religiously go to is that most of the songs bands play are their original compositions. Oh, there are two or three popular tunes which they sometimes employ to establish immediate connection with the audience, but that's about it. They then launch into a repertoire of songs they themselves created. They give a little introduction of their composition. They say, “Next song po namin, original, para ito dun sa mga nahihirapan magpaalam sa mga girlfriend nila,” or “Sinulat ko po ito nung namatay yung aso ko,” or dedicate them: “Para po ito dun sa mga nangangarap.” And who's to say these songs are inferior to those we hear over the radio? When you get to the bottom of it, their genesis is the same: a strum on the guitar, and a whole lot of love (or hate).
Rock in a box
Rock music is undoubtedly unpalatable to parents. The genre calls forth images of angst, black shirts, unkempt hair, tattoos, alcohol, cigarettes, and, horrors, drugs. It is known for depth and darkness, and not a few rock musicians have bungled an otherwise promising life by committing suicide. So what is this I am allowing my son into?
Nobody likes being put in boxes. We all like to think we are far more unique and complicated than the incidentals that surround us. There must be, I admit, numerous teenagers,unsure of who they were and confused on what they want to become. To these hapless young souls, the conventions of rock may seem particularly inviting. Everything has been defined and fleshed out, and all they needed was to fit into the mold. They could even write a few hate songs in the process. As a bonus, these children carry with them the air of being cool. Invincible. Astig, in the vernacular. Such a no-brainer. Does that not sound like the easiest thing to do?
Herein lies the danger. This is perhaps the trap that many fall into, the same trap that scares parents shitless. There appears to be so much freedom that kids are no longer free. It is like they have to do things to be considered cool. At this point, rock stops to, well, rock.
Which is why I am here. Twelve years is twelve years. Josh is not even a teenager yet. He may be deemed musically precocious, but he remains naive, impressionable. Worse, at his tender age, he carries around some emotional baggage from his early childhood. How else can I guarantee that he does not derive satisfaction or build self-esteem from fleeting superficial things? How else do I know whether the people he spends his time with are not themselves disturbed or bogged down? How else can I size up his male role models and ensure he idolizes them for the right reasons? Finally, how can I guide him best to simply appreciate himself, his strengths as well as his weaknesses, enough to reject anything external that does not quite jibe with this self-possession? Don't refuse a drink just because your mother is watching. Say no because you know it's not good for you, and that you believe in yourself enough to know that you will not be less of a person, a friend or a musician if you do so. Hopefully he's getting there.
Fondly, Josh refers to himself as “musikero.” Given his age, maybe “musikerito” would do. But how aptly so. A musician, regardless of the genre one moves about in. Ultimately, this is not about the delineations between and among rock, jazz (to which he would like to graduate when he grows up, he says), pop or classical. Not even the finer lines that define alternative, emo, metal and indie.
An education of sorts, as I earlier said. It's not all fun. On the contrary it is hard work, especially now that the school year has just begun. Josh is a high school freshman and is not supposed to get a grade lower than 80. He knows its consequences well enough. There will be no scolding, no grounding, no cutback in allowance. He will just have to say goodbye to his bandmates. And I don't think he is prepared to do that.
Babe in the Woods
Imagine then the balancing act Josh must perform in order to maintain respectable grades, keep on playing his bass, and also cope with his growing pains. He's a normal kid, after all. He also plays tennis and watches some tv, aside from eating a little too much (hehe) and horsing around with his little brother. Until this summer, his favorite show was, you guessed it right, that Japanese robot cat, Doraemon.
Generally, however, he is partial to music. He is constantly tuned to those music video channels and plagues me no end about getting him his own bass guitar WITH amplifier,which, last I looked, would easily set me back by at least eight grand. I've told him waiting builds patience, and restraint is a virtue. The best things are worth waiting for, so the saying goes.
Two weeks ago, one of his strings snapped while his group was on stage. They normally play five songs but the snap happened on the third song. They had to bow out prematurely. Can't the show go on without his instrument, i asked? No, it can't. I discovered that the sound of the bass was like an undercurrent that sustains and keeps at bay the rest of the instruments. And my heart bursts with pride at the knowledge that my son is in charge of something so fundamental.
But in as much as his music is his own, Josh is only too aware that he is part of a team, and if one of them messes up, that would bring down the whole band. They take their practice schedules seriously and if one of them is late or does not show up altogether, the rest become incensed especially if the reason is flimsy, like a date that did not end as soon as it was supposed to, or an oversleep. Of course, schoolnight rehearsals must be regulated, and when Josh does not make his curfew, I hop over to the studio, sit there and don't go until he's with me. The owner is used to me and even chats me up as I wait. He's fond of the boy, too.
Finally, there are lessons to be learned on humility. My son is young and good-looking, aside from playing his instrument well. He is thus no stranger to compliments after every performance. Other musicians, managers and bar owners casually walk up to him to give him a pat on the back, telling him to carry on because he is doing so well. His mentors have been very helpful, lending him instruments he can bring at home to practice on and video discs of performances of great bassists he could watch and learn from.
In all this, the boy must know by now that he must hold some kind of promise. That he has found his calling and his worth and now has something to live for. That he is neither tanga, bobo, walang kuwenta, gago, palamunin, or timawa -- just among the many names his own father had called him in the past. My issue is that Josh could take it too far. I am worried he is driven by bitterness and hurt. He does not even want his father to come to his shows. He says he should just watch out for him in MTV and the record stands. That's another reason I try to be around all the time. I'm wondering how I can fill the craters that dented the boy's heart. I am desperate to ensure that his feet remain on the ground, unswayed by arrogance, false pride and revenge.
Peace, man
Of course it is noisy in these bars. That's what rock is known for, anyway. But these last few weeks, I've acquired a new trait -- that of being able to isolate the sound of the bass guitar from the rest of the other instruments. This sound is not easily heard. It is,instead, easily taken for granted and overlooked because it is not quite as flashy as the electric guitar or the drums. And when you do learn to listen, you will keep listening. You will realize why it is an indispensable part of the ensemble. You will be able to appreciate the skills that make a good bass player. You will see what miracles can be created out of four thick strings with a low sound.
My Fridays and/or Saturdays are booked for the next four and a half years. It seems impossible that I should be able to schedule an evening with my friends or even a date (ha! as though it were possible!). Unless, of course, they would agree to go with me and watch my son perform. And be the guest of the groupie.
I don't think, however, that I would like it very much. These last weeks, I discovered that the loudness of the music that made it impossible even for two people seated right next to each other gave me, quite paradoxically, some peace and quiet. In that all-too-noisy bar, I am alone with my thoughts. And suddenly I am aburst with ideas. Things I would like to write about. Places I would like to visit. Stuff I would like to get done around the house. Bargains I would like to strike with my teenagers. Treats I would like to give myself, given the chance. Options that may b available to me when the children are all grown up. As long as the music plays,and as long as everybody's attention is focused on sounds emanating from the many instruments, it is as if I am alone in that room and the entire bar is my mind's playground.
If only for this, being a groupie does not seem to sound so bad.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Taken for Granted
The weekend past gave me valuable lessons on things we take for granted.
Our helper Merlie had been with us only for a month and yet she and I had already established a system under which everything worked perfectly, like clockwork. I gave her specific days for doing the laundry, cleaning the bathroom, defrosting the ref and cleaning the electric fans. She fetched little Elmo from school. She sliced my ingredients exactly the way I wanted them. And when I sent her to market, she was able somehow to bring me everything on my list and still cough up some change. Most of all, the children's accessories for school were always complete in the morning. All they had to do was open their drawers. That was pretty much all I needed, an assistant, so that I could focus on the more important things I would normally miss out on if I got bogged down with the menial but time-consuming stuff. All taken care of, Merlie went home to her family at 730 in the evening after cooking dinner and promptly showed up at 8am the following day.
But she was only with us half-days on Saturdays so we did not really mind her absence,her first, last Saturday. After all, I was out myself and the big kids had their own activities. The smaller ones were spending the weekend with their father. We did not really mind, and at least she had told me beforehand she would be watching her infection. The following day, Sunday, we were also normally on our own. I actually relished my time alone, fixing my home office, planning my days, listening to music or watching the news and, of course, writing.
This Sunday though was different. I woke up to strong rains and winds. It was cold but the electric fan was off. Frank was in town. It was nice in the beginning, cozy even, but when I realized that I had charged neither my cell phone nor my laptop the previous night, and there was no way we could even turn on the tv to know what was going on, and when I remembered I had to work, the coziness gave way to helplessness. It did not help that when I picked up the landline to call Meralco to confirm that the power outage was deliberate, as a preventive tool, the feedback I got was “No service.” Oh well.
So we decided that the only way to be productive was to brave the winds and go out. Bea, Joshua and I hopped to nearby SM Valenzuela to do many things – eat, charge my phone, study lessons, do assignments, or write. I also wanted to know if the situation would somehow permit me to get out of my city and physically show up at the office. Then I looked outside and realized it was not worth it. I could work remote, anyways. I did it last year when I was six time zones away.
But by 2 in the afternoon I was also feeling piqued because I already spent more than twice my budget for the day. Malls had a way of doing that to one's pockets. When we bumped into a neighbor, we learned there was still no electricity. I thought then, it would have been perfect if we were home and I had both power and internet access. I could really be productive then. And efficient, as well.
Still at least I was able to do my work and by 730 pm we were back home, dry and having a nice dinner right off our own dining table. I was so happy that power was back that I celebrated, when everybody else had gone to sleep, by watching Atonement, a movie I had been wanting to see for the longest time. It did not disappoint.
Now it is Monday, still technically a weekend because there are no classes and the kids are here. Merlie isn't, however. I wonder what must have happened to her.
Before sitting here to type away, I have already done a lot of chores. Ive put away the breakfast dishes, cleared the living room, thrown the trash, etc etc. Actually, I can live without househelp. I've done so for ten months. So I'm not quite as helpless, and it gives me an excuse to ask the children to help out more. That's the best way to build a team.
Still tomorrow when -- if -- Merlie is feeling better and decides to show up, I will celebrate perhaps by cooking the children's favorite dish for lunch. One part of the celebration would be mere relief at going back to the old, comfortable ways. The other, greater part would be knowing I can live without these comforts, and that either way I would be just fine.
Our helper Merlie had been with us only for a month and yet she and I had already established a system under which everything worked perfectly, like clockwork. I gave her specific days for doing the laundry, cleaning the bathroom, defrosting the ref and cleaning the electric fans. She fetched little Elmo from school. She sliced my ingredients exactly the way I wanted them. And when I sent her to market, she was able somehow to bring me everything on my list and still cough up some change. Most of all, the children's accessories for school were always complete in the morning. All they had to do was open their drawers. That was pretty much all I needed, an assistant, so that I could focus on the more important things I would normally miss out on if I got bogged down with the menial but time-consuming stuff. All taken care of, Merlie went home to her family at 730 in the evening after cooking dinner and promptly showed up at 8am the following day.
But she was only with us half-days on Saturdays so we did not really mind her absence,her first, last Saturday. After all, I was out myself and the big kids had their own activities. The smaller ones were spending the weekend with their father. We did not really mind, and at least she had told me beforehand she would be watching her infection. The following day, Sunday, we were also normally on our own. I actually relished my time alone, fixing my home office, planning my days, listening to music or watching the news and, of course, writing.
This Sunday though was different. I woke up to strong rains and winds. It was cold but the electric fan was off. Frank was in town. It was nice in the beginning, cozy even, but when I realized that I had charged neither my cell phone nor my laptop the previous night, and there was no way we could even turn on the tv to know what was going on, and when I remembered I had to work, the coziness gave way to helplessness. It did not help that when I picked up the landline to call Meralco to confirm that the power outage was deliberate, as a preventive tool, the feedback I got was “No service.” Oh well.
So we decided that the only way to be productive was to brave the winds and go out. Bea, Joshua and I hopped to nearby SM Valenzuela to do many things – eat, charge my phone, study lessons, do assignments, or write. I also wanted to know if the situation would somehow permit me to get out of my city and physically show up at the office. Then I looked outside and realized it was not worth it. I could work remote, anyways. I did it last year when I was six time zones away.
But by 2 in the afternoon I was also feeling piqued because I already spent more than twice my budget for the day. Malls had a way of doing that to one's pockets. When we bumped into a neighbor, we learned there was still no electricity. I thought then, it would have been perfect if we were home and I had both power and internet access. I could really be productive then. And efficient, as well.
Still at least I was able to do my work and by 730 pm we were back home, dry and having a nice dinner right off our own dining table. I was so happy that power was back that I celebrated, when everybody else had gone to sleep, by watching Atonement, a movie I had been wanting to see for the longest time. It did not disappoint.
Now it is Monday, still technically a weekend because there are no classes and the kids are here. Merlie isn't, however. I wonder what must have happened to her.
Before sitting here to type away, I have already done a lot of chores. Ive put away the breakfast dishes, cleared the living room, thrown the trash, etc etc. Actually, I can live without househelp. I've done so for ten months. So I'm not quite as helpless, and it gives me an excuse to ask the children to help out more. That's the best way to build a team.
Still tomorrow when -- if -- Merlie is feeling better and decides to show up, I will celebrate perhaps by cooking the children's favorite dish for lunch. One part of the celebration would be mere relief at going back to the old, comfortable ways. The other, greater part would be knowing I can live without these comforts, and that either way I would be just fine.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Washed Away
I lost a flip flop this afternoon.
I was hurrying. It was nearing three and i was still only in Caloocan City. I needed to get to the office soon, preferably before 4pm. On all other days i sort of push my luck and somehow manage to show up just in time, with a few serious exceptions. But today it rained so hard for about an hour, non-stop, and there were flash floods all over town (so i surmised). I was stepping into a jeepney that would take me to the nearest train station. But the water came halfway to my knees, and in a current at that, and the left slipper was washed away and was instantly out of sight. It all happened so fast.
In the jeep everybody was dripping, but at least everybody had on footwear. Except myself, that is, and I did not even feel like Cinderella. I felt as though all of my co-passengers were staring at me. They probably were. I tried to be less conspicuous by putting my equally dripping umbrella in front of my left leg. But the water from it dribbled onto my naked left foot and I was already feeling cold. When it was time to alight it was even tougher. Now anybody who had not noticed I was traipsing around with a lonesome flip flop was bound to notice.
I alighted in front of Victory Mall and had to walk into it. It was still raining hard and people were on the sidelines, waiting for it to let up. Imagine the attention i must have commanded. Once inside, the sudden blow of the air conditioner chilled me to my bones. I took the escalator and the metal was even colder under my sole. Fortunately the second floor was full of stalls selling footwear. I was piqued at having to spend on an unplanned item, but then again, the situation qualified as an emergency. I had a little provision for that, folded and tucked away at a secret compartment of my wallet.
I settled for something that was not so bad looking. I was desperate, yes, but still too classy to settle for just about anything I first laid my eyes on. I rummaged through designs, looked for the right size and managed to haggle, indifferent to the fact that the girl i was dealing with probably thought that with the way i looked, i would grab her wares even if she doubled the price. She gave me a ten-peso discount and a plastic bag in which to place the lonely slipper, which I junked on my way out the door.
By the time I stepped out of the mall, dragging my new pair of flip flops, the crowd at the entrance had thinned. The rain had subsided. I walked to the Monumento station of the LRT. I climbed the stairs, swiped my card and settled into a seat just beside the door. It had become a light drizzle when I emerged from the train. I peeked into the Sta. Cruz Church, as I normally did every day, and uttered a thanks that I was having a productive, balanced week and that, after the afternoon's rain, I was still in one piece.
I had to take a second jeep from the church to my office. By the time i neared Port Area where my newsroom was, the rain had stopped altogether, and everything – buildings, roads, vehicles, even people's faces – looked as though they were gleaming from a recent washover. It was as if everything was raw and new and hopeful, and the memory of the previous hour's downpour – and all the chaos that went with it – was just like a bad dream. And lo and behold, it was just 3:58.
It is true, you know. At some point, the rain does stop. How comforting.
I was hurrying. It was nearing three and i was still only in Caloocan City. I needed to get to the office soon, preferably before 4pm. On all other days i sort of push my luck and somehow manage to show up just in time, with a few serious exceptions. But today it rained so hard for about an hour, non-stop, and there were flash floods all over town (so i surmised). I was stepping into a jeepney that would take me to the nearest train station. But the water came halfway to my knees, and in a current at that, and the left slipper was washed away and was instantly out of sight. It all happened so fast.
In the jeep everybody was dripping, but at least everybody had on footwear. Except myself, that is, and I did not even feel like Cinderella. I felt as though all of my co-passengers were staring at me. They probably were. I tried to be less conspicuous by putting my equally dripping umbrella in front of my left leg. But the water from it dribbled onto my naked left foot and I was already feeling cold. When it was time to alight it was even tougher. Now anybody who had not noticed I was traipsing around with a lonesome flip flop was bound to notice.
I alighted in front of Victory Mall and had to walk into it. It was still raining hard and people were on the sidelines, waiting for it to let up. Imagine the attention i must have commanded. Once inside, the sudden blow of the air conditioner chilled me to my bones. I took the escalator and the metal was even colder under my sole. Fortunately the second floor was full of stalls selling footwear. I was piqued at having to spend on an unplanned item, but then again, the situation qualified as an emergency. I had a little provision for that, folded and tucked away at a secret compartment of my wallet.
I settled for something that was not so bad looking. I was desperate, yes, but still too classy to settle for just about anything I first laid my eyes on. I rummaged through designs, looked for the right size and managed to haggle, indifferent to the fact that the girl i was dealing with probably thought that with the way i looked, i would grab her wares even if she doubled the price. She gave me a ten-peso discount and a plastic bag in which to place the lonely slipper, which I junked on my way out the door.
By the time I stepped out of the mall, dragging my new pair of flip flops, the crowd at the entrance had thinned. The rain had subsided. I walked to the Monumento station of the LRT. I climbed the stairs, swiped my card and settled into a seat just beside the door. It had become a light drizzle when I emerged from the train. I peeked into the Sta. Cruz Church, as I normally did every day, and uttered a thanks that I was having a productive, balanced week and that, after the afternoon's rain, I was still in one piece.
I had to take a second jeep from the church to my office. By the time i neared Port Area where my newsroom was, the rain had stopped altogether, and everything – buildings, roads, vehicles, even people's faces – looked as though they were gleaming from a recent washover. It was as if everything was raw and new and hopeful, and the memory of the previous hour's downpour – and all the chaos that went with it – was just like a bad dream. And lo and behold, it was just 3:58.
It is true, you know. At some point, the rain does stop. How comforting.
Stung
Midnight, 19 June. It's difficult to write in prose when you are overwhelmed by yet another form of a work of art. This time, from the comfort of my living room, I am watching Sting's October 29, 1999 concert at the Universal Ampitheater in Los Angeles, California. It's a tour for his then-brand new album, Brand New Day.
I haven't heard him in a long time but he is all over my modest collection. I have audio CDs – Sting and The Police (a collection of old hits), the soundtrack of Leaving Las Vegas, his rendition of Windmills of your Mind in The Thomas Crown Affair, and his many performances in the album of that brilliant young trumpeteer, Chris Botti. I'm seeing the same Botti now, a younger, stockier, shorter-haired Botti -- but still him nonetheless. And what a goosebump-inducing rendition of Moon Over Bourbon Street. Awooooo.
But I digress. Botti will have his own blog entry. Sting, on the other hand, is a master. When I was in college, I would study my lessons at the Rizal Library of the Ateneo with my walkman-cum-battery-powered cassette player plugged into my ears to keep me from falling asleep. Then I loved his songs – Fields of Gold, The Russians (I got a kick out of listening to this and reading Nicholas and Alexandra at the same time), When We Dance, They Dance Alone (On Pinochet's desaparecidos), and my favorite, Fragile. A phrase from this last one, “Beneath and angry star” became the title of my freshman Filipino teacher's book of poems.
Last year, when I was in Germany and cruising along the autobahn from Berlin to Frankfurt, our coach passed miles upon miles of yellow fields. I was to learn later that they were rapeseeds, some sort of biofuel, according to our guide. Never mind what they were called. All of a sudden it was as if I were seeing the world in Sting's eyes. Were this his fields?
And then, there is Ghost Story, A truly haunting epitaph to a doomed romance. These lines...
What did not kill me/just made me tougher
Another day begins/ and now i'm thinking/ that this indifference/ was my invention/ when everything i did/ sought your attention/ you were my compass star/ you were my measure
The prosecution rests/ it's time that i confess/ I must have loved you.
I must turn in now. Staying up is bad for my red blood cells. Still I feel fortunate that I am capable of these feelings, these highs. Oh, glory.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Batang Batibot
Matutukoy mo ang edad ng isang tao mula sa mga palabas, pelikula at musikang alam nya.
Halimbawa, kung kilala mo si Pong Pagong, Kiko Matsing, Kuya Bodjie at Ate Sienna, Madam Bola at ang magkapatid na Ningning at GingGing, malamang magkapanahunan tayo.
Malamang batang Batibot ka rin.
Mga anim o pitong taong gulang ako nang unang ipinakilala ang palabas na ito na likha ng Philippine Children's Television Foundation. Bago to, wala akong ibang maalalang palabas kundi Sesame Street kung saan pinoproblema ni Bert na hirap syang makatulog at pinapayuhan sya ni Ernie na magbilang ng kung anu ano para lang dalawin ng antok. Di kaya naman si Count Dracula na kinukulugan tuwing tumutumpak ang pagbilang sya sa mga bagay-bagay. Syempre pa, sobrang laki ni Big Bird. Natatakot ako nun kay Big Bird. Naalala ko ring binilhan pa ng nanay ko ng long playing album ng Sesame Street. Di ko naman mapakinggan parati dahil nababaduyan dito ang tiyuhin kong may-ari ng stereo.
Pero nang dumating ang Batibot, hindi ko kinailanagan ng plaka para lang matutunan ang mga kanta nila. Saulado ko ang mga iyon – ang opening song (Pagmulat ng mata...laging nakatawa...), si Puti (ang bakang mataba at maputi), Batis (may malinaw na tubig)at ang Lima Ang Daliri Sa Aking Kamay na hanggang nagkaanak ako ay ginagamit kong panghele sa sanggol.
Tulad ko, maraming bata ang nahumaling sa Batibot. Laging bago ang episode na inilalabas tuwing hapon, na siya namang nire-replay sa susunod na umaga. Swak na swak ito sa karamihan sa amin dahil ito ay nasa Pilipino. Para sa ating lumaking hindi naman Ingles ang kinagisnang salitaan sa loob ng bahay, malaking puntos ito.
At kung mayroong Big Bird ang Sesame Street, meron namang Pong Pagong ang Kalye Batibot.
Paborito ko si Pong. Kahit na hindi minsang gumalaw ang kanyang bibig kahit ang dami na nyang sinasabi, kahit na waring paralisado ang isa nyang kamay at pirmi lang nakatiklop at nakapatong sa kanyang sikmura, at kahit na pagewang-gewang sya kung maglakad, hindi ako takot sa kanya. Sa katunayan, tuwang tuwa ako sa boses nya at sa pagsiwalat nya ng “Weeeee” sa kahit anong munting bagay na nakapagpasaya sa kanya. Pilit ko ngang ginagaya ang boses ni Pong para sa mga nakababata kong kapatid.
Di kalaunan, lumaki ako at nagdalaga at hindi ko na nasundan pa kung ano ang nangyari sa mga karakter sa Batibot. Nag-iba ang hilig ko sa mga palabas. Ano naman ang silbi sa isang teenager ng isang programang pambata tulad nito? Kunsabagay, halos pahapyaw lang din ang pagdadalaga ko. Para lang ding isang kisapmata. Sa edad na labing-walo, nag-asawa ako at nagkaanak. Pagtuntong ko ng ikaapat na taon ng kolehiyo, dalawa na ang anak ko.
Kahit noon, mahirap ang buhay.
At syang kagulat gulat na ang creative director pala ng Batibot ay malapit na kaibigan ng dati kong guro sa Filipino, na siya namang nagbibigay sa aking ng minsang sideline sa mga textbook na sinusulat nilang mag-asawa.
Rene Villanueva ang pangalan ng creative director na ito. Isa siyang kilalang manunulat ng mga kuwentong pambata at ilang sanaysay at dula sa Pilipino. Madaling kausap si Sir Rene – aniya, nagpasya syang paniwalaan ang kanyang kaibigan na nagsabing ako raw ay mahusay at masipag (Ehem!). Hindi raw siya ipapahamak ng kanyang kaibigan lalo na sa larangan ng panulat. Sa gayon, wala nang interview-interview o exam-exam akong dinaanan, at ako, dadalawampung taong gulang, di pa man tapos ng kolehiyo, ay nagkaroon na ng trabaho.
Napapasyal ako sa set sa Saint John Street sa Cubao paminsan minsan kapag inihahatid ko ang mga script kong ginawa na pawang typewritten. Makinilya pa lang noon at hindi pa uso ang Internet o E-mail. Mga taong 1996 ito. Sa makabagong Batibot, Hindi na gaanong lumalabas ang mga karakter kong kinagisnan. Mas marami na ang batuhan ng salita ng mga puppet (ang ginagawa ko ngang script ay para sa kanila), iba't ibang child talents, pati na rin mga tampok na lugar sa Pilipinas.
At dahil ang Batibot para sa akin naging isang “raket” na isinasabay ko sa pagiging estudyante, asawa at batang ina, ni wala akong panahon para mapanood ang kahit isang episode kung saan binabanggit ang mga linya kong sinulat. Alam ko lang na nagagamit ang mga iyon dahil tuloy ang pagdating ng mga tseke. Minsan, 2 thousand, minsan, one thousand five hundred. Malaking bagay na ang ganitong halaga nung mga panahong iyon. Pagkagaling na pagkagaling ko sa pag-eencash ng tseke ko sa bangko, tuloy ako sa grocery para ibili iyon ng diaper, gatas, at gara-garapon ng baby food. Para naman hindi nakakahiya sa mga biyenan ko. Sa kanila kami nakapisan at sila pa ang gumagastos para sa lahat ng pangangailangan namin noon.
Sabi naman ng kapitbahay namin, totoo nga palang nagtatrabaho ako sa Batibot dahil sa closing credits ng programa ay naroon ang pangalang “Adelle Chua” bilang isa sa mga writers.
Pagka graduate ko ng kolehiyo ay nakahanap ako ng isang full time na trabaho at napadalang nang napadalang ang pagsusulat ko ng mga script hanggang sa tuluyang tumigil na ako dito. Bukod sa trabaho, kailangan ko nang magbiyahe ng apat na oras sa isang araw dahil sa Makati ako namamsukan at sa Valenzuela ako nakatira.
Hindi ko na tuloy masabi kung kailan nawala sa ere ang Batibot.
Unti-unti rin ay sumikat ang cable tv kung saan dumami ang pagpipilian ng mga bata kung ano ang gusto nilang panoorin. Nariyan ang Cartoon Network, and Nickelodeon at Disney Channel. At hindi nila kailangan mag hintay ng takdang oras o ng replay. Naimbento ang katagang 24/7.
Si Sir Rene, nakapagtipon ng mga sanaysay nya sa isang librong tinawag na “Personal.” Ang ganda ng libro na ito. Nagniningning sa kanyang kasimplehan. Walang ere, walang arte. Balak ko sanang itanong sa dati kong guro kung nasaan na sya ngayon. Gusto kong ipa-autograph ang libro. Pero nalaman ko na lang, namatay na pala si Sir Rene. Kelan lang. Hay.
Dekada na ang binilang mula nang kasikatan ng Batibot. Lahat kaming naaliw dito ay pawang tumanda na. Pero manantili akong isang batang Batibot. Mapagpasalamat sa mga maliliit na bagay. Masayahin. Maliksi. Masigla. Pilipino.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Beauty as a liability
published 16 Jun 2008, MST
On the second day of school, my daughter Sophia came home gushing at being elected muse of her third grade class. I was pleased to hear this and promptly congratulated her. Any mom would be happy to hear her daughter was adjudged prettiest.
But an hour later, she asked me if we could instead keep her first elective post a secret between the two of us. It was too late. I had already spread the word by texting my closest friends and her godmothers.
Could we then not inform the rest of the family, she asked, especially her ate, who was a high school junior, and her kuya, who was a freshman?
I was perplexed by this about-face. What was so embarrassing about being muse? I remembered being in school and wishing I would be named muse. Instead I got the square titles like class president or editor in chief. Oh well. It was a long shot -- I was fat and bespectacled and had frizzy hair. Go figure.
After much prodding, Sophia gave me a peek into the workings of her pretty eight-year-old head. She said she was afraid that people would say that she became muse because she could not be anything else. “What does a muse do, anyway?” she asked.
I grappled for an answer. “Well, you will represent your class in school programs. You will inspire your other officers to do their jobs well. You will promote goodwill and harmony and lessen conflicts. You...”
I stopped and shuddered at my explanation. How Imeldific. I wondered if I would have said something on the “true, the good and the beautiful” had I not caught myself on time.
I tried again. I said that more was expected of muses because they had to prove that while they can do all those things I earlier mentioned, their worth did not end there. “Being pretty is not an end,” I told her.
I did not know whether my daughter understood that part. I myself had not given the matter much prior thought. The thing is, most of us operate on the rather simplistic concept that girls have to be beautiful OR smart, but never both. Remember the stereotypical dumb blond? Booba? That contestant whose distraught answer to a pageant question made the rounds of YouTube? On the other hand, how can we forget those ferocious female lawyers who could clobber everybody else's argument except that, well, they were deemed not very pleasing to look at?
Ergo, if you are pretty, you have no business being smart, or talented, or both. All the other women who are smart and talented but homely are bound to pounce on you.
Worse still, no matter how hard you try to prove yourself, you will always, always be judged by men, who make up more or less half the workplace, according to their standards – standards that are determined by hormones. And then all you know and all you can deliver would be deemed secondary. Thus you will have to work really really hard just to be taken seriously. And even then, you could not be so sure.
Is it easier to champion gender equality if you are homely? When has beauty become such a liability?
**
According to Wikipedia, “the Muses are a sisterhood of goddesses or spirits,...who embody the arts and inspire the creation process with their graces through remembered and improvised song and stage, writing, traditional music, and dance.”
There are nine of them: Calliope, chief of the muses and the muse of epic or heroic poetry; Clio, of history; Erato, of love and erotic poetry; Euterpe, of music and lyric poetry; Melpomene, of tragedy; Polyhymnia, of sacred song; Terpsichore, of choral song and dance; Thalia, of comedy and bucolic poetry; and Urania, of astronomy.
Indeed, muses have been called “the key to the good life.” Think of the great artists who extolled their muses and credited them for enabling them to produce their work. For this I named my first-born Beatrice after the muse of Dante Aleghieri, of Paradiso and Infero fame.
Still, the word “amusement” is illustrative of how a muse is regarded as mere things to enable “great” men to do their thing. Herein lies the unflattering connotation that being a muse is, well, the cultural equivalent of dancing in short skirts, and waving pompoms and cheering on athletes or screaming over rock stars, following them wherever they went.
So on second thought, no, that's not the kind of muse I would like my Sophia to be.
Beauty provides false sense of security. Of course it does not hurt to be pretty. Beauty sells, after all. But the lovely features of your face or the proportion of your body parts does not define who you are. On the other hand, they do not also limit you from achieving more. Inasmuch as it should not be a source of false confidence, it should not be a dampener of one's dreams. No girl is “just a pretty face“ -- unless she deliberately chooses to stay that way.
Maybe labels such as “Class Muse” are irrelevant in this day and age.
In the meantime, Sophia holds on to her post as I convince her this school year -- and especially later when she ventures into the real world – that there are a few things that don't fade with time. One of these is self-possession, knowing oneself to be a gem with or without the incidentals of physical beauty, expensive education or a coveted talent. Each girl with a good heart, a sound mind and grounded feet is potentially a goddess.
Now that label is equally ancient, but immensely more flattering.
adelle_tulagan@yahoo.com
On the second day of school, my daughter Sophia came home gushing at being elected muse of her third grade class. I was pleased to hear this and promptly congratulated her. Any mom would be happy to hear her daughter was adjudged prettiest.
But an hour later, she asked me if we could instead keep her first elective post a secret between the two of us. It was too late. I had already spread the word by texting my closest friends and her godmothers.
Could we then not inform the rest of the family, she asked, especially her ate, who was a high school junior, and her kuya, who was a freshman?
I was perplexed by this about-face. What was so embarrassing about being muse? I remembered being in school and wishing I would be named muse. Instead I got the square titles like class president or editor in chief. Oh well. It was a long shot -- I was fat and bespectacled and had frizzy hair. Go figure.
After much prodding, Sophia gave me a peek into the workings of her pretty eight-year-old head. She said she was afraid that people would say that she became muse because she could not be anything else. “What does a muse do, anyway?” she asked.
I grappled for an answer. “Well, you will represent your class in school programs. You will inspire your other officers to do their jobs well. You will promote goodwill and harmony and lessen conflicts. You...”
I stopped and shuddered at my explanation. How Imeldific. I wondered if I would have said something on the “true, the good and the beautiful” had I not caught myself on time.
I tried again. I said that more was expected of muses because they had to prove that while they can do all those things I earlier mentioned, their worth did not end there. “Being pretty is not an end,” I told her.
I did not know whether my daughter understood that part. I myself had not given the matter much prior thought. The thing is, most of us operate on the rather simplistic concept that girls have to be beautiful OR smart, but never both. Remember the stereotypical dumb blond? Booba? That contestant whose distraught answer to a pageant question made the rounds of YouTube? On the other hand, how can we forget those ferocious female lawyers who could clobber everybody else's argument except that, well, they were deemed not very pleasing to look at?
Ergo, if you are pretty, you have no business being smart, or talented, or both. All the other women who are smart and talented but homely are bound to pounce on you.
Worse still, no matter how hard you try to prove yourself, you will always, always be judged by men, who make up more or less half the workplace, according to their standards – standards that are determined by hormones. And then all you know and all you can deliver would be deemed secondary. Thus you will have to work really really hard just to be taken seriously. And even then, you could not be so sure.
Is it easier to champion gender equality if you are homely? When has beauty become such a liability?
**
According to Wikipedia, “the Muses are a sisterhood of goddesses or spirits,...who embody the arts and inspire the creation process with their graces through remembered and improvised song and stage, writing, traditional music, and dance.”
There are nine of them: Calliope, chief of the muses and the muse of epic or heroic poetry; Clio, of history; Erato, of love and erotic poetry; Euterpe, of music and lyric poetry; Melpomene, of tragedy; Polyhymnia, of sacred song; Terpsichore, of choral song and dance; Thalia, of comedy and bucolic poetry; and Urania, of astronomy.
Indeed, muses have been called “the key to the good life.” Think of the great artists who extolled their muses and credited them for enabling them to produce their work. For this I named my first-born Beatrice after the muse of Dante Aleghieri, of Paradiso and Infero fame.
Still, the word “amusement” is illustrative of how a muse is regarded as mere things to enable “great” men to do their thing. Herein lies the unflattering connotation that being a muse is, well, the cultural equivalent of dancing in short skirts, and waving pompoms and cheering on athletes or screaming over rock stars, following them wherever they went.
So on second thought, no, that's not the kind of muse I would like my Sophia to be.
Beauty provides false sense of security. Of course it does not hurt to be pretty. Beauty sells, after all. But the lovely features of your face or the proportion of your body parts does not define who you are. On the other hand, they do not also limit you from achieving more. Inasmuch as it should not be a source of false confidence, it should not be a dampener of one's dreams. No girl is “just a pretty face“ -- unless she deliberately chooses to stay that way.
Maybe labels such as “Class Muse” are irrelevant in this day and age.
In the meantime, Sophia holds on to her post as I convince her this school year -- and especially later when she ventures into the real world – that there are a few things that don't fade with time. One of these is self-possession, knowing oneself to be a gem with or without the incidentals of physical beauty, expensive education or a coveted talent. Each girl with a good heart, a sound mind and grounded feet is potentially a goddess.
Now that label is equally ancient, but immensely more flattering.
adelle_tulagan@yahoo.com
Friday, June 13, 2008
Un-Boleyn
On Wednesday night I rewarded myself with a movie long after everbody had gone to sleep. I had been meaning to see "The Other Boleyn Girl" and actually had the disk in my drawer, waiting for the perfect time. It is about Anne Boleyn, Mary Boleyn and England's King Henry VIII.
A friend who had earlier seen the film was reminded of the ugliness of the royal-versus-commoner mentality, which he claims exists to the present time. He did not like that the kings could have their pick of just about any girl they wanted and then, having tired of them, feel no remorse whatsoever at discarding them just like rags. At the same time, he abhorred that commoners would elbow each other out for the rare "privilege" of being used by kings, especially since it would be beneficial to the family stature. Why, in the film, the Boleyn girls' father and uncle practically dragged the girls to the king's bed!
I say it's not a good thing, indeed, but in those days, what could they do? They were prisoners of their own time. They were born and raised to believe that was how things were. They had no way of knowing that other options were available to them. And I say this for the commoners as well as for the royals.
Fortunately, this is something we leave behind in the past. Think 1536.
Now there are options. Now we know which things should and should not be. Now we know it is possible to rise from the station one is born into, not by attaching a premium surname to one's own, jumping into a relationship with a high-and-mighty or forgetting about things one used to believe in. Now it is deemed better to work hard and advance on one's own merits. Now you don't get your head chopped off when you commit a blunder. You are actually given another chance.
Now everybody is able to do away with labels that arise from the circumstances one is born into. How random it all is! I often feel I am still blessed for being born in my country rather than in, say, Zimbabwe or Myanmar. I feel lucky at being born a girl. And I don't lament that I was born into an unconventional family, an illegitimate child of a teenaged mother and a very much married older man whom I never got to meet until I was 21.
I have no hand in all this. It's pure chance. And so I can't take credit for -- or lay the blame on -- things that are beyond my control.
What is within my control, however, is how I live my life. How much laughter and harmony and kindness there could still be in a family battered by harsh words and a bitter split. How I use the gifts I am just too fortunate to be bestowed with. How I stretch a few hundred pesos until payday yet still feel like a millionaire. How I dream of making a difference despite all I have been through.
With these, I feel even prettier than Natalie Portman and Scarlett Johansson. Combined.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Living to Tell
published 12 June 2008, MST
Today I will talk about two men: Daniel Pearl and Alan Johnston.
They were journalists. Pearl was a staff reporter for the Wall Street Journal while Johnston worked for the British Broadcasting Co. They were both kidnapped in the foreign country they were stationed in—Pearl in Karachi, Pakistan, and Johnston in Gaza. Their captors released videos enumerating demands on their respective governments and threatening to kill them if these demands were not met.
They made good on their threat to Pearl.
The story of Pearl’s kidnapping was the subject of the movie “A Mighty Heart” that was an entry to last year’s Cannes Film Festival. The film starred Angelina Jolie as Mariane Pearl, Daniel’s French wife, likewise a journalist, and who was six months pregnant at the time of her husband’s disappearance. The movie showed Mariane remaining stable all throughout the ordeal and managing to keep a level-headed attitude towards all the senseless killings around her. She recognized that her husband was only one of many—Pakistanis themselves included—whose lives were sacrificed in the hands of terrorists.
Pearl’s death was a shame. He was only 38, awaiting the birth of his first child. His abduction was owned up to by the National Movement for the Restoration of Pakistan Sovereignty who accused him of being a spy for the United States government and who demanded the immediate release of prisoners held in Guantanamo Bay in Cuba.
He had been investigating the case of Richard Reid, the “shoe bomber” and alleged links between Al Qaida and Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence. He was on his way to an interview for this story when he was kidnapped. The pursuit of material for his stories, the more prominent of which are archived in the Wall Street Journal’s Web site, had taken Daniel to many parts of the world. He had written a feature on the resurfacing of a Stradivarius violin made in Italy in 1732. He had published a story on songs that allegedly made pearl divers in Qatar go blind, on an enormous carpet as well as pop music in Iran, on the non-performing loans in Grameen Bank in Bangladesh, and on the war in Kosovo that, while savage, was not quite a case of genocide. Indeed, as his posthumous book was called, Daniel was “at home in the world.” According to Wikipedia, Pearl had “extraordinary skill as a writer” and “an eye for quirky stories.”
He would have turned in a good piece on his investigation, He would also have written a moving account of his captivity. But he had not been given the opportunity to do that. In early February 2002, Pearl’s throat was slit, his head chopped off and his body dismembered into 10 pieces. All this was in a video released by his captors.
In contrast, Johnston lived to tell about his experience. While driving on the streets of Gaza last year, his car was stopped and he was taken by gunpoint by militants. This happened 16 days before the end of his assignment in the area. Johnston spent 114 days in captivity, appeared in a video with explosives strapped to his body, and was even reported dead.
Eventually he was turned over to Hamas forces and set free. But in those four months, there were too many instances when he felt like he was at the lowest moment of his life and that death may be around the corner.
***
All this for a story, or a series of such. It is sad to hear that yet another journalist, along with her crew, is, as I write, held captive, her fate decided by strangers who don’t know her outside the image she projects on television and what she—and her network—stand for. I can imagine the frustration. Journalists are not known for allowing other people to run the course of their lives for them.
Some are quick to lay blame on reporters who stumble into harm. But they are entitled to their opinion. They would have probably stayed on the safe zone themselves. Some say the rush for an exclusive coverage, to the consequent advantage of the media organization and the career boost for the journalist, prompts him or her to tolerate a little more risk than usual. But believe it or not, it can also be possible for a journalist to believe a story is simply worth telling.
Whatever the motivations are, the fact is that there are people out there held against their will. There are organized groups that are figuring out how best to milk the situation to their benefit. And no, it’s not pretty at all. If it were only possible to be soberly outraged!
I would like to end by quoting the Johnston essay called My Kidnap Ordeal (www.news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/7048652.stm). I hope it gives inspiration to whomever it’s due.
“...the kidnap’s legacy is not all bad.
With its locks and chains, its solitary confinement and moments of terror, it was a kind of dark education.
I lived through things which before I would have struggled to imagine and maybe, in the end, I will be stronger for that.
I have gained too a deeper sense of the value of freedom.
Perhaps only if you have ever been some kind of prisoner can you truly understand its worth.
Even now, more than three months after I was freed, it can still seem faintly magical to do the simplest things, like walk down a street in the sunshine, or sit in a cafe with a newspaper.
And in my captivity in Gaza, I learnt again that oldest of lessons. That in life, all that really, really matters are the people you love.”
May everybody who’s ever had a dark education live to tell about it.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
First Day High
Today is the first day of school. It is nice to see that after their two-month hiatus, and with their diverse preoccupations this summer, my children are actually looking forward to “pursuing higher education.” Bea is entering her junior year; Josh will be a freshman. Sophie will be in third grade and little Elmo will be in Prep. They have a fancy term for this now, they call it “Advance Casa” whatever that means. But anyway. The children have their new things and have all told me they would try to do better this year. How nice to hear this.
Joshua however may have taken it too far. He has not slept all night. It is now three in the morning and even I am up, unable to sleep after he awakened me about an hour ago. He just would not stop talking.
I wonder how much of that is excitement – and how much is substance overdose. See this afternoon he had this idea of fixing himself iced coffee to refresh himself. He filled half a pitcher and stacked it into the freezer. After dinner he started gulping it down – and did not stop until he finished all of it. No wonder when I arrived from the office he was having a mini-show, playing songs in his guitar and actually singing along uninhibitedly. Usually he just plays. Talk about caffeine high.
As I type this we are now both downstairs, me planning my day and him tossing and turning, desperate to doze off but can't. “I'll never drink coffee again,” he declares.
And then it hits me: It takes an actual mistake to convince us something is bad for us and that we must never do something again. He would have dismissed me lightly if I told him coffee was not good for growing boys. It's in children's nature to dabble with the prohibited because it sounds so damn cool. I am a living example. Did I not bungle a promising future by getting pregnant and marrying in my teens?
And now my son has found the perfect argument against coffee. And he shoved it against his own throat. I wonder if he has to experience some more not-so-nice things before he stumbles into arguments against laziness in school, alcohol, bullying his sister, and much later, rushing into relationships, smoking, and all other follies of youth.
In a few hours they would be meeting their teachers and classmates again. But who says lessons are only learned in school?
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Hug
I have a new friend and its name is Hug.
It's the never-heard-of brand of my latest acquisition for the house. It's a brand new DVD/SVCD/DVCD/VCD/CD/MP3/MPEG4/USB (the box said so!) player I got on very friendly terms, a 2-year warranty and 20 free discs of my choice from the office guy we call Boy Muslim. Three gives, and that's the best part. Haha.
I have deferred the purchase of such an item repeatedly, wanting to make sure it was not a frivolous expense. I used to worry that it would render my cable TV subscription useless, thinking that maybe we would want to watch movies all the time. I was also concerned the children would use it to view "inappropriate" material. Or get too addicted to watching that they would hardly have time for anything else, their studies most of all.
Finally on the fourth month of my pondering I made a decision, and I took the darling home last week. Now I am convinced more than ever that I did the right thing. As always, planning and moderation are key.
It sits well with the kids. After all, they can take turns watching chick flicks, Naruto, Strawberry Shortcake or playing Super Mario when they can. I tell them to agree on time slots -- or else they better turn it off.
I like it just fine. I used to love watching films but they got to be too expensive and they took up too much time. So for a while I stopped, forgetting how good films give you a glimpse of the world and enrich you, plain and simple. I am re-discovering that joy, now that I am master of my time and I have resolved to see only worthy ones.
This early, I have a lot on my queue. No I won't even compete with the kids for time in front of the TV. On the contrary, I am setting aside two special me-times during the week on which I would view a pre-chosen (never arbitrary!) title I read or heard about. And must EARN this special treat by working hard and accomplishing much.
It's hardly a fancy Home Entertainment System. But it is mine and I am happy with it. I am looking forward to my treats.
It's the never-heard-of brand of my latest acquisition for the house. It's a brand new DVD/SVCD/DVCD/VCD/CD/MP3/MPEG4/USB (the box said so!) player I got on very friendly terms, a 2-year warranty and 20 free discs of my choice from the office guy we call Boy Muslim. Three gives, and that's the best part. Haha.
I have deferred the purchase of such an item repeatedly, wanting to make sure it was not a frivolous expense. I used to worry that it would render my cable TV subscription useless, thinking that maybe we would want to watch movies all the time. I was also concerned the children would use it to view "inappropriate" material. Or get too addicted to watching that they would hardly have time for anything else, their studies most of all.
Finally on the fourth month of my pondering I made a decision, and I took the darling home last week. Now I am convinced more than ever that I did the right thing. As always, planning and moderation are key.
It sits well with the kids. After all, they can take turns watching chick flicks, Naruto, Strawberry Shortcake or playing Super Mario when they can. I tell them to agree on time slots -- or else they better turn it off.
I like it just fine. I used to love watching films but they got to be too expensive and they took up too much time. So for a while I stopped, forgetting how good films give you a glimpse of the world and enrich you, plain and simple. I am re-discovering that joy, now that I am master of my time and I have resolved to see only worthy ones.
This early, I have a lot on my queue. No I won't even compete with the kids for time in front of the TV. On the contrary, I am setting aside two special me-times during the week on which I would view a pre-chosen (never arbitrary!) title I read or heard about. And must EARN this special treat by working hard and accomplishing much.
It's hardly a fancy Home Entertainment System. But it is mine and I am happy with it. I am looking forward to my treats.
Punlaan's seeds (conclusion)
published 02 Jun 2008, MST
During her speech as Most Outstanding Student of her graduating class, Barbra May Sia, 18, told the story of the challenges she faced in her pursuit of her diploma for the two-year vocational course in food and beverage services, a dual training program offered for free by Punlaan School in San Juan City.
Hers was a typical sob story but true and nevertheless moving. As a child, she attended good schools with the help of a well-meaning aunt. But this aunt went abroad and her parents could only afford to send her to a public high school. She adjusted well, remained an achiever in her class, and nursed the dream of obtaining a university degree. She wanted to land a good job and help out with the family expenses “so that my father would not be out all day earning a living.”
But one day her parents sat down with her and told her they could not afford to send her to college – any college – at all. Barbra was only the second of four children. The family was neck deep in debt. Her mother was a housewife and her father a carton box salesman.
At this point in her speech, Barbra could not hold back her tears. She remembered the feeling of hopelessness all too well. She tried to get hold of herself through a joke. “I don't want to cry because I will ruin my make-up.”
Her classmates, 53 of them, feigned giggles. But they hardly succeeded; after all, Barbra's story smacked too much of the adversities and frustrations they themselves had to deal with in obtaining their vocational degree.
Punlaan School is a project of the Foundation for Professional Training Inc., offering full scholarships to underprivileged young women. With its mission to help these girls get a fair chance at life, the school subsists on donations from individual patrons and industry partners as well as a livelihood program. This particular F&B course has been offered since 1993.
It has not been easy, since the girls' needs don't stop with their tuition payments. After all, they have to shell out money to get to and from school, or the establishments where they have their on-the-job training. They have to eat. Most often, even though their parents don't anymore have to worry about the school fees, the lack of money for transportation and food keeps them from showing up sometimes.
Indeed, behind every scholar is a story. It is no wonder every graduate felt she was speaking through Barbra in her speech. The good news is that the hardships are just an aspect of that story.
The better part, the real valediction, is the fact that these girls managed somehow to finish their course and do a great job so that the establishments they were training at eventually absorbed them as regular employees. Now they could start earning and help their families cope with hard times. Talk about real empowerment.
Over time, some of the school’s graduates have risen up the ladder, earning promotions and subsequent salary increases in their respective hotels or restaurants. Some have earned awards, gone abroad, or gone back to the school to impart their expertise. These girls’ humble beginnings inspired them to dream bigger and work harder.
For instance, Barbra, who is now working at Carpaccio, has modified her dream. When she was younger, she dreamed of taking up fine arts. Now she realizes that her degree in food and beverage services has not demanded her to let go of her dream. On the contrary, she is able to use her creative touch in preparing food for her restaurant’s guests. There is in fact more meaning now because everything she does has a purpose and the smallest detail of her work is consequential.
Maybe it’s an offshoot of the complementary values formation aspect of the program, which the personal prelature of Opus Dei directs. Opus Dei is known for its emphasis on love for work and the performance of even the most mundane of tasks for offering to God. Barbra also says that her sense of responsibility and initiative was enhanced in the last two years that she attended the school.
This attitude among Punlaan’s students have made industry partners, now totaling 30 hotels and 45 restaurants and sports clubs, take notice. Indeed, during the graduation rites, representatives of partner establishments were present in a show of support and recognition of the school’s noble causes.
For information on how you can assist the school, be an industry partner or inquire about the program, call 727-0581 to 82. Punlaan School is located at 173 M. Paterno Street, San Juan City.
During her speech as Most Outstanding Student of her graduating class, Barbra May Sia, 18, told the story of the challenges she faced in her pursuit of her diploma for the two-year vocational course in food and beverage services, a dual training program offered for free by Punlaan School in San Juan City.
Hers was a typical sob story but true and nevertheless moving. As a child, she attended good schools with the help of a well-meaning aunt. But this aunt went abroad and her parents could only afford to send her to a public high school. She adjusted well, remained an achiever in her class, and nursed the dream of obtaining a university degree. She wanted to land a good job and help out with the family expenses “so that my father would not be out all day earning a living.”
But one day her parents sat down with her and told her they could not afford to send her to college – any college – at all. Barbra was only the second of four children. The family was neck deep in debt. Her mother was a housewife and her father a carton box salesman.
At this point in her speech, Barbra could not hold back her tears. She remembered the feeling of hopelessness all too well. She tried to get hold of herself through a joke. “I don't want to cry because I will ruin my make-up.”
Her classmates, 53 of them, feigned giggles. But they hardly succeeded; after all, Barbra's story smacked too much of the adversities and frustrations they themselves had to deal with in obtaining their vocational degree.
Punlaan School is a project of the Foundation for Professional Training Inc., offering full scholarships to underprivileged young women. With its mission to help these girls get a fair chance at life, the school subsists on donations from individual patrons and industry partners as well as a livelihood program. This particular F&B course has been offered since 1993.
It has not been easy, since the girls' needs don't stop with their tuition payments. After all, they have to shell out money to get to and from school, or the establishments where they have their on-the-job training. They have to eat. Most often, even though their parents don't anymore have to worry about the school fees, the lack of money for transportation and food keeps them from showing up sometimes.
Indeed, behind every scholar is a story. It is no wonder every graduate felt she was speaking through Barbra in her speech. The good news is that the hardships are just an aspect of that story.
The better part, the real valediction, is the fact that these girls managed somehow to finish their course and do a great job so that the establishments they were training at eventually absorbed them as regular employees. Now they could start earning and help their families cope with hard times. Talk about real empowerment.
Over time, some of the school’s graduates have risen up the ladder, earning promotions and subsequent salary increases in their respective hotels or restaurants. Some have earned awards, gone abroad, or gone back to the school to impart their expertise. These girls’ humble beginnings inspired them to dream bigger and work harder.
For instance, Barbra, who is now working at Carpaccio, has modified her dream. When she was younger, she dreamed of taking up fine arts. Now she realizes that her degree in food and beverage services has not demanded her to let go of her dream. On the contrary, she is able to use her creative touch in preparing food for her restaurant’s guests. There is in fact more meaning now because everything she does has a purpose and the smallest detail of her work is consequential.
Maybe it’s an offshoot of the complementary values formation aspect of the program, which the personal prelature of Opus Dei directs. Opus Dei is known for its emphasis on love for work and the performance of even the most mundane of tasks for offering to God. Barbra also says that her sense of responsibility and initiative was enhanced in the last two years that she attended the school.
This attitude among Punlaan’s students have made industry partners, now totaling 30 hotels and 45 restaurants and sports clubs, take notice. Indeed, during the graduation rites, representatives of partner establishments were present in a show of support and recognition of the school’s noble causes.
For information on how you can assist the school, be an industry partner or inquire about the program, call 727-0581 to 82. Punlaan School is located at 173 M. Paterno Street, San Juan City.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Doraemon Summer
All of a sudden it is raining in the afternoons and I have a mountain of books and notebooks to cover. Don't get me wrong. I love plastic wrapping the children's things in the same way that I love carefully printing their names on the sides of their textbooks or rearranging the living room or bedroom furniture every six weeks or so. Odd indeed, it is -- but I'm not writing about my oddities tonight. What I am writing about is my summer, our summer, mine and my kids', that is drawing to a close.
It's our first summer in our modest two storey two bedroom apartment just across their school, which I rent for seven thousand pesos a month and which I furnished gradually over a period of six months. It's just us this time, myself and Bea (14) and Joshua (12) and, on Sunday evenings to Thursday mornings, Sophia (7) and Elmo (5). I am a single mom. I have been separated from their father since July last year.
At least this year I have access to funds predictably enough to enable me to make a financial plan -- and stick to it. That's also a first, and a happy one. Thus I took the liberty of giving the children something to be busy with during their summer break. The smaller ones I enrolled in a Taekwondo class sponsored by Milo. The thrice-a-week summer course is held at the auditorium of the school. The kids look adorable in their oversize white uniforms. I just hope they use the moves they learned to defend themselves from bullies, not against each other when they are fighting over toys or the television remote control.
The big ones I gave music lessons, about which they had been bugging me since September. Bea is doing drums while Joshua takes guitar. I tell them to spread their sessions as far apart as possible – they are enrolled for six – since I will be able to afford the second half of their program in faraway August.
So here's our typical day – a week day, when all four of them are with me, and i don't have to leave the house until 230 in the afternoon to go to the newsroom. I'm up by six thirty and then putter about the house, reveling in my early morning solitude. I make coffee, sit on my swivel chair, put my feet up and watch world news on BBC or CNN. That, or I take out my day planner or make lists of supplies I have to buy or things I have to do. Lists calm me. I like making them and I like, even better, affixing check marks on the underscore at the beginning of each item when I finish a particular task. But I digress.
I realize i won't be alone for long. I make breakfast. Eggs, corned beef, hash browns, pancakes, Lucky Me Pancit Canton. It has to be as generic as possible. Sometimes I feel like making tuyo and sinangag but remember only Bea and I are going to be happy. only Just before I finish, one or a permutation of them comes bouncing down the stairs. It's a good day when a smile is on his or her face. I chirp: “Good morning!” My kids are polite and they “good morning” me back, regardless of how they are feeling. At eight thirty thereabouts everybody is downstairs in front of the television, tuned to GMA 7 and waiting for our favorite show, Doraemon.
It's a Japanese cartoon, and an old one at that. It first appeared in magazines in Japan in 1969, and was a hit all through the 70s and 80s. In 2005, when its creator died, the series likewise ended. I found out that Doraemon, a cat-type robot, was (or would be) created on September 3, 2112 and was (would be) sent back in time by a boy named Sewashi to help his great great grandfather, Nobita Nobi. Doraemon's mission was to save the fourth grader Nobita from the bad luck he creates for himself and his future descendants. See, in the original timeline, Nobita's failures in school and subsequently, his career, have left his family line beset with financial problems.
Doraemon has a four-dimensional pocket on his tummy from which he pulls all sorts of futuristic gadgets to help fix Nobita's mishaps due to his laziness and irresponsibility. The cat robot is taken into Nobita's home and has become more like a best friend who constantly looks out for the boy.
Here in the Philippines, the series is famous, I think, by the voices of the dubbers and the formulaic plots. Doraemon's nasal voice was peculiar because it would prolong each sentence by stressing the last syllable of the last word. I would pretend I was the cat talking to any of the children admonishing them for their little misdeeds.
On the plot, Wikipedia has this to say: They are “usually focused on the everyday struggles of ...Nobita, the protagonist of the story. In a typical chapter, Nobita comes home crying about a problem he faces in school or the local neighborhood. After Nobita's pleading or goading, Doraemon produces a futuristic gadget to help Nobita fix his problem, enact revenge, or flaunt to his friends.
Nobita usually goes too far, despite Doraemon's best intentions, and gets into deeper trouble than before. Sometimes, Nobita's friends, usually Suneo or Jaian (in the local version, he is called Damulag, the big guy) steal the gadgets and end up misusing them. However, by the end of the story, there is usually retribution to the characters who end up misusing them, and a moral lesson is taught.
It's snapshot-worthy, when the five of us are seated there, transfixed on the show, laughing every now and then. The storyline is a no-brainer. The character are one-dimensional, even though Doraemon is cute and cuddly. But it's great because it's the only time of the day we sit down on a common activity. After the show, we go about our own business, and I single-handedly assume the very delicate role of holding everybody together, making sure we remain whole despite all we've been through. There will be no great great grandson sending me a cuddly robot to provide me quick fixes for my follies. There are no Take Twos so I better do it right.
Carrie-d Away
That's a line from Sex and The City, the movie I saw yesterday. I don't go to movie houses often but this was an exception.
It was Adelle's Day. After spending the morning and the early afternoon with a friend, I went to Robinsons Galleria to reward myself a little. I had worked hard at being mom, running my household and writing in the past weeks. I needed this break.
This was not just another movie. I've always liked the series when it was still airing over HBO. That was a few years ago and I was under very different circumstances. I was young but married, saddled with babies, and completely unenthusiastic about my life. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha, then supposed to be in their early or mid-thirties, and the fabulous lives they led in pre-9/11 New York City gave me a delicious escape from my mundanities. I had been fascinated with the girls' friendship, success (writer, art auctioneer, lawyer, PR specialist), wardrobe and confidence. What racy lives they led! New York City seemed great. And yet, the mistiness, the mush, the vulnerabilities, the yearning to find that One True Love made every girl identify with them nevertheless. That's universality for you.
Today it is different. The women have aged, albeit gracefully. They are now 40 (Samantha celebrated her 50th birthday, actually). Miranda is married and has a five year old son. Charlotte, the group's Pollyana, is married a second time and has an adopted daughter, Lily. She gets pregnant in the movie and gives birth to Rose. Samantha is rich and living in California with her gorgeous TV star boyfriend, whose career she also manages.
And then there is Carrie. I've always identified with Carrie – the one who adores shoes.
Maybe because she's a writer, too. She used write a column for a New York newspaper, but she has graduated from that to being book author. In the movie, she is working on her fourth. She remains single at 40. She has had her fair share of relationships but now she is back in Big's arms (Chris Noth, and he has a name!), after all they have been through, after all he put her through . See, Big has always been the classic commitment phobe. He says he loves Carrie, that she's the love of his life, The One, that she makes him very happy – but stops there. He does not ask her to marry him. He himself has had two failed marriages behind him. He seems to think marriage will ruin all the good things they have.
They decide on living together and getting a posh penthouse in Manhattan. But then Carrie is spooked by a story of a woman who had followed her heart and lived with a wealthy man, who never even talked about marriage. But one day, this woman found herself on the streets, homeless, after the man tired of her and found himself somebody new. Carrie brings up the subject of marriage to Big, in the context of material security. In a no-frills, businesslike, almost clinical manner as possible, Big asks her: “Why, did you want to get married?” and Carrie has to look as though marriage was really no big deal to her. They agree to do it.
But then every day it becomes a bigger deal than it was the day before and pretty soon Carrie and Big have 200 people on their guest list, and Carrie is wearing a designer bridal gown she modeled for Vogue with a blue bird in her head, and Big freaks out and jilts her at the steps of the city library, where the ceremony is about to be held. Wow, what a heartbreak. I felt for Carrie when she smashes her bouquet of white flowers onto Big's head.
Much later, towards the end, and amid all the plots of the rest of the girls, Big does get down on one knee and proposes to Carrie, they do end up getting married, minus the 200 guests, she in a label-less white business suit she only jazzed up with fabulous pumps, in the city hall. It's a grown-up ending, but still a happy one.
**
I walked out of the theater at dusk and boarded my bus. Tomorrow another work week would start. What a nice Adelle day. And my butter popcorn was great, too, As the vehicle sped-- no, more like crawled – along Edsa, I arrived at the following realizations:
1.True love can exist without the frills.
2.It usually comes late in life, to two mature individuals wisened by time and failures.
3.The goal of every loving relationship is marriage, not the ceremony but what happens afterwards. It is spending every day together, building a life upon the other's constant presence. Otherwise, no matter how powerful and earnest one's feelings may seem to be, it is an illusion. Unavailability, no matter how you jazz it up and rationalize it, is still that: unavailability.
4.A woman must be whole and self-sufficient whether or not she finds her OTL.
These are bittersweet thoughts, but sobering. I had a good night's sleep. And today, Sunday, I woke up, eager to start the rest of my week, the rest of my life.
A Book on Bad Excuses
I'm still in SATC mode. The other day I found a DVD containing all seven seasons of the show, right from the very beginning of its airing on HBO. Yesterday I saw the movie, and today I wrote a blog entry, “Carrie-d away”.
Now I am re-reading this black-and-pink book, titled “He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth To Understanding Guys”. It was written by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo, writers and consultants of Sex and The City, the series.
I've been reading this book since 2006 and thus far it is still on Flagship Row on my bookshelf. The book is simple, direct, incisive, painful but liberating.
I wont make a synopsis here. But for the benefit of my girl friends, or any other fabulous, beautiful, smart, classy woman who stumbles upon this blog of mine, I am listing down the chapters of the book, chapters which are actually situations where most probably, that man we are dating is probably just not that into us but is too much of a coward to give it to us straight. Read on:
1.He's Just Not That Into You If He's Not Asking You Out
2....If He's Not Calling You
3....If He's Not Dating You
4....If He's Not Having Sex With You
5....If He's Having Sex With Someone Else
6....If He Only Wants to See You When He's Drunk
7....If He Does Not Want to Marry You
8....If He's Breaking Up With You
9....If He's Disappeared On You
10....If He's Married (and other insane variations of being unavailable)
11....If He's a Selfish Jerk, A Bully, or a Really Big Freak
Everybody deserves to be happy, and to be so for all the right reasons. As the authors say: “Don't Waste The Pretty.”
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