  When I started out as a budding writer, I had to travel 4 hours by bus to Davao City on weekends to bring my short story manuscripts to Tita Lacambra-Ayala. She became my mentor and cheerleader. Their apartment behind a row of commercial establishments along Quirino Avenue, became my literary sanctuary. Joey and the rest of the brood went in and out of the house, planting a kiss on her cheek each time and surprising me with their calling her by her first name. Quite an unconventional set-up. Her husband Joe would come home Saturday morning from the banana plantation where he worked and leave in the afternoon with bags of freshly laundered/ironed clothes and provisions. Often he would also bring home some of the paintings he had finished. Some Davao artists and writers would also drop by to return/borrow books, for some chitchat, and to listen to what Tita had to say about the state of the arts in the city. We would consume a prodigious amount of cigarettes, rum coke and pomelo or some fruits in season while she read and critiqued my stories. When we finish early, she would have me tag along to exhibits, poetry reading, book hunting. Or she would ask me to reveal more of myself as a person. When I recounted to her how my father was shot dead by robbers, after I processed his SSS death benefits in Davao, she shed some tears. I should have joined her for a good cry, but I had to go back home that same day. I cried in the busride home. I was wearing a silver-coated crucifix on a string around my neck and a loose silk shirt embellished with blue peacocks that day. The next time I saw her, she showed me a column she wrote about how she felt over my father's death. And soon after she wrote a poem for me and included it in one of the anthologies in her self-published Roadmap series (a book in the form of a roadmap featuring paintings and poems of local artists and writers). This is the poem she wrote as published in Camels and Shapes of Darkness in a time of Olives, the poetry flipside of Friends - The Adventures of a Professional Amateur, her autobiography. This was published by UP Press as part of its Philippine Writer Series in 1998. Counterpoint in Double Poem (For Gilbert) thong around your neck speaks crucified in gold the blue peacocks
turn their eyes inwards
suspecting audiences
fanning summer's fall
smoke scrolls the sunset air with unlit fires secret conflagrations uncomposed poems
tumble into fits
of disaster
"some buses are longer than the bridges and cannot make a turn -- the roads are bordered with newtonian faults" where farther to
consider
the edge of things?
you are in their
continuous center
evolving platitudes
wise and angry against this ravage of violent abstractions 
In preparation for its 35th Grand Homecoming next year, Batch '73 would like to establish contact with its members worldwide. Notre Dame Dadiangas Girls alumni may contact Victoria Gonzaga-Firmalino at Vickee_gonzaga@yahoo.com.ph (cellphone # 09156546485) (landline 301-7366). Notre Dame Dadiangas Boys alumni may contact Danilo Sanchez at dansanz0956@yahoo.com (cellphone # 09062057090). Batchmates may also register in our yahoogroup: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDDCHighSchoolBatch1973/members or you can leave your contact info (email address, phone number, address, etc.) in the comments section (click below) this blogpost or in the message box at left margin of this page. Notre Dame Dadiangas Girls Batch '73: Monica Abucejo Evelyn Abueva-Olarte Alicia Acharon Marietta Alforte Severina Alforte Ma. Ofelia Altarejos Minda Andang* Mary Aprille Rose Anung Necita Arancon Julita Arquisa Antonia Asibal Victoria Avestruz Purisima Azarcon Crispina Azuela Judith Balajadia Expedelita Balan Evelyn Baloria Gilda Bantawig* Esmeralda Basaya^ Esterlina Barot* Rabia Batuwa Webina Bemon Helen Betonio Estrella Bolido Teresa Borgonia Ninfa Breta ña Agapita Cabradilla Lorna Calderon Elena Calvario Zenaida Campos Rosalind Ca nizares Salustiana Carillo Angelina Catapang Elvira Cauayan* Susan Chavez Rebecca Corporal Melinda de la Cruz* Teodora Cruz Lucia Cua Bibiana Cuajotor Rosanna Cuarenta* Aracelie Dagupioso Ma. Lani Dalisay †Erlinda Damicog Lolita Delfin Flor Delizo Bessie Deocampo Mae Diamonon Elizabeth Diapera Ma. Lourdes Dinopol Bernardita Diot Corazon Dizon Felma Domantay Erlinda Dulay+ Glynda Dumanig Fredisminda Dupalco Evelyn Duran Marilou Dypiangco* Nancy Elisan Rosalinda Erbina Adela Escote Corazon Estinoco Jasmin Fauni Leonida Felisan Aster Fernandez Marilyn Ferrariz Monserat Firmalino Mariame Franco Gloria Gamolo Anita Garcia Eden Garcia Sonia Garcia* Ma. Colleen Garcia Mercedita Geraldizo Victoria Gonzaga-Firmalino* Ceferina Graciosa Susan Guatlo-Acosta* Consuelo Guzman* Nelia de Guzman* Ma. Salome Inguillo Susan Jabonete Edna Javier Fernie de Jesus Mildred Joven Benilda Labos Myrna Lacsamana+ Eva Diana Lavega Jocelyn Leyva Zenaida Llerena Violeta Lopez* Marianita Loreco Loida Lubaton Eva Magallanes Inocencia Makilang Dalisay Malones Francisca Managbanag Erlinda Manaloto Angelita Mapalo Perla Maratas Teresita Mejorada Lourdes Mesina^ Edna Mirabueno Myrna Mirabueno Elena Mojado Sabiniana Mullanida Marialina Munez Prima Muring Florentina Nalugon Corazon Narciso Letecia Narte Thelma Narte Ma. Paz Natividad* Maria Navalta Susan Nu ñez
Corazon Ogaco
Amelia Olarte
Cristeta Olarte
Angelita Ondangan
Carmen Ongkingco
Ermelinda Orantoy
Norma Osorio
Andrea Padernal
Afdulia Padilla
Anne Palma
Amelia Pamintuan
Sernisa Pananguiton
Alicia Pelarco
Ninfa Perez
Jocelyn Pilapil
Arlene Elena Plata
Regina Prieto
Helen Posadas
Lolita Punla
Juliet Ras
Susan Raval
Angelina Regner
Teresita Rivera
Angela Romero
Florence dela Rosa
Jocelyn del Rosario
Regina Salcedo
Leah Saligumba
Elizabeth Sanchez*
Loida Sanz
Jurie Sendico*
Merlyn Soguilon
Judith Solon
Marietta Soon
Lurencia Sulanting
Elizabeth Sumajit
Edna Sunga*
Editha Tagalog
Ellen Tan
Emilita Tatel
Teresita Tatel
Elvira Templonuevo
Josephine Toledo*
Melody Tolentino
Teresita Tubao*
Remedios Tubon
Felicitacion Ugsang
Susana Verba
Helen Villanueva
Rowena Villanueva*
Marietta Villarin
Ma Wilhilmina Villasis*
Josefina Villegas
Elsa Vinculado †Conchita Yap †Celia Young
Emelina Yu*
Evangeline Yumang
Bernadette Yway
Angelina Zaulda
Herlina Zerrudo
† RIP * General Santos City based ^ South Cotabato based + Davao City based
 Several batchmates of Notre Dame of Dadiangas High School Batch '73 (NDDBD & NDDFG) met at Vir and Sonia (Garcia) Lauzon's home on July 8 to discuss preliminary plans for the 35th (Coral/Jade/Emerald) Grand Homecoming next year. Present were: Minda Andang, Mary Aprille Rose Anung, Gilda Bantawig, Esmeralda Basaya, Erlinda Dulay, Glynda Dumanig, Sonia Garcia, Victoria Gonzaga, Ceferina Graciosa, Nelia de Guzman, Consuelo Guzman, Ma. Paz Natividad, Jurie Sendico, Edna Sunga, Filbert Absin, Jose Alvarado Jr., Danilo Cababayao, Ben Cabradilla, Cyrus Carballo, Winston Jabonillo, Virgilio Lauzon, Carlito Lopez, Danilo Sanchez, Vivencio Soguilon Jr., Gilbert Tan. If you belong to NDD High School Batch '73, you may contact the following: Bebot Sanchez (09062057090), Vickee Gonzaga (09166546485). You may also want to join our yahoogroup: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDDCHighSchoolBatch1973/
Nineteen years ago, I had passed 13 comprehensive exams to complete the academic requirements for a Master in Business Administration degree. I also defended a thesis proposal on transportation needs in General Santos City.
Nineteen years ago, I transferred from a private Catholic college to a state university here. It was some culture shock I went through. From syllabi-bound and guided teaching to an academic freedom-driven one. I still remember my shock at being told at the university that the grading system is up to me (you decide the passing grade, you decide the raw score equivalents of 1.0 to 5.0).
For 19 years, I've helped send four siblings through school until they finished their college degrees. After a brief respite, I then sent nieces through school because their parents couldn't afford to do so (after producing a lot of them!)
Now it's my turn for me to be sent by myself to school. To reinstate my residency and eventually complete my MBA, I now need 15 units of academic subjects and 6 units of Research which basically will take 2 semesters and 1 summer.
What's weird is I'm enrolled in courses which I also teach in the undergraduate. Teacher by day, student by night. In my Human Resources Management class, I have two former students as my classmates. It's also a good thing I'm not the only "senior" student in class.
I look forward to attending my grad school subjects. Probably it's because I've always been a student at heart. I just love the cerebral stimulation in grad school.
 As a teacher, it warms my heart to see the eagerness of Manny Pacquiao to earn a college degree. While he initially announced his interest in pursuing a degree in Political Science which will eventually lead to a law degree, after the elections, he decided to enroll in a Business Administration degree. This, for me, is a telling sign of how he regards lawyers after his dismal failure in the May elections. He has already taken the entrance exam at Notre Dame of Dadiangas University (NDDU) and I heard he is to be a student under a home study program in consideration of his boxing career. He's back on the right track. His honor and integrity, while briefly tarnished by his short political foray, will be shining bright again as a beacon of hope for young Pinoys. I've always believed in his good heart and intentions which were unashamedly manipulated by others. I believe he has learned his lessons and will never let himself be used as pawn again. He may have made some wrong moves in the recent past, but he is willing to do what he thinks is right. Let's give him another chance. Good luck Pac Man to your studies!
My Lakbayan grade is B-! How much of the Philippines have you visited? Find out at Lakbayan! Created by Eugene Villar.
The map of the Philippines above shows how many places I've been to - thanks to the annual National Schools Press Conference (NSPC) where I served as consultant and coach to the contestants of Regions 11 and 12, the seminars I've attended as participant and resource person, and the few times I've saved enough to spend summers and Christmases there.
 When a TV station announced the Reading Room, a Hallmark film, as its weekend feature, it got me all excited, for obvious reasons. For one, I'm a bookworm. For another, this is one film that features reading and readers removed from the classroom and library setting. After the memorial service for his wife, William Campbell, played by James Earl Jones, watched one home video and in it his wife broached the idea of opening a community reading room in a storefront business he owns in his former inner-city neighborhood. Using their library collection and personal money, Campbell opened it and immediately earned the suspicions of various residents. Children and teeners thirsting for knowledge and hobbies slowly trooped into the Reading Room. Campbell's main problem was how to keep it open in spite of his being mugged and threatened. The Reading Room was also slightly burned but somehow that only spurred Campbell to continue with his wife's legacy. Through books and magazines, he was able to touch the lives of many people in the community. Unlike other films where libraries, readers and reading serve only as backdrops to some scenes, the Reading Room is the main focus where most of the action takes place. Its collection of books and magazines is modest compared to Lex Luthor's yacht library in Superman Returns. The film was endorsed by the National Center for Family Literacy of America. Among local films, Abakada Ina starring Lorna Tolentino as an illiterate mother comes to mind. Her mother-in-law (a teacher) looks down to her because she is "useless" and "unreliable." When one of her kids gets sick and the doctor prescribes some medicines, the latter has to put some colored stickers on the bottles to help her distinguish which to give for what symptoms. When one sticker gets unstuck, Lorna in her confusion gives the wrong medicine to her kid. When the kid gets hospitalized as a result, she realizes the importance of literacy. And in the final scene, she is seen with her daughter in class. In local cinema and TV programs, there is a dearth of positive roles showing readers in real-life terms. Readers are often portrayed as nerds and shrinking mimosa types complete with eyeglasses and thick book props. In one weekend show, a reader is shown as such but with a superpower (invisibility)! How I wish there were more positive reader roles in local entertainment like those in The Emperor's Club, Dead Poets Society, Finding Forrester, among others. With a literacy rate of 94%, why is this not reflected on local film and TV? Is it an inherent conflict of interest?
Before writing this blogpost, I googled for the word CoTObato and found 74 pages of websites (or 7,400 websites) where CoTAbato is misspelled. It's a shame, I tell you:To my surprise, even national/regional/provincial/local government offices misspell CoTAbato! One blog commenter even claims to have lived in CoTAbato for 17 years and yet cannot spell it right to show for those years of living in that part of our country. If a local resident cannot even spell it right, can we expect other non-residents to do so correctly? Even a website called Mindanao.com has misspelled it eight times! During the campaign and vote canvassing for the last election, national papers covering Manny Pacquiao's candidacy misspelled it! Even Wikipedia is not exempted from this misspelling! Persistent Misspelling/Mispronunciation
Since I learned to read in the 1950s, I became aware of misspelling CoTAbato as CoTObato. It irked me then and still irks me now. With the great strides in technology, the built-in spell checkers in browsers and word encoding programs, the misspellings are still as rampant as weeds.
The name "Cotabato" is derived from either the Maguindanao kuta wato or Malay kota batu, meaning "stone fort", which makes it a very good memory aide. Co TAbato as in KUTAng bato "stone fort." NOT CoTObato as in KUTOng bato "rock lice" (see picture below right).   Repeat after me, Co- TA-ba-to as in KUTAng bato! Theories for the persistence of misspelling/mispronunciation: 1. Low awareness is out of the question. With the mainstream media spouting good and bad news about CoTAbato, there is definitely medium to high awareness about this region. A folk song, Ang Bayan Kong Sinilangan originally sung by Asin and still popular up to now, contained five CoTAbato s in its lyrics. In UP campuses, there's a prominent group called Kutang Bato with members coming from CoTAbato. 2. POOR Editing. With the spell checker underlining the CoTObato in red every time it appears in a document, it becomes clear that the encoder is just too l-a-z-y to edit it. Even those who are supposed to be in the know are just too lazy to do so, thus perpetuating the misspelling. 3. Discrimination. While Cebu has never been spelled as CebO/SEbo/SEbU, the VisayaS has been plagued by the missing terminal s (the Visaya/Bisaya). With the misspelling of the VisayaS and CoTAbato, is this because people in Imperial Manila discriminate against promdis (those from the provinces)? 4. As to its mispronunciation, is it easier on the tongue to say CoTObato than CoTAbato? Unlike the case of Butuan which is seldom misspelled but often mispronounced (Locals insist it should be "But-wan" (two syllables) rather than "Bu-tu-an" (three syllables) because of the latter's Visayan sexual connotation, is it easier to say CO-TO because of the rhyme than the rhymeless CO-TA?
var clickExpire = "06/27/2007"; KANSAS CITY, Missouri (AP) -- Tom Wayne has amassed thousands of books in a warehouse during the 10 years he has run his used book store, Prospero's Books. His collection ranges from best sellers, such as Tom Clancy's "The Hunt for Red October" and Tom Wolfe's "Bonfire of the Vanities," to obscure titles, like a bound report from the Fourth Pan-American Conference held in Buenos Aires in 1910. But when he wanted to thin out the collection, he found he couldn't even give away books to libraries or thrift shops; they said they were full. So on Sunday, Wayne began burning his books in protest of what he sees as society's diminishing support for the printed word. "This is the funeral pyre for thought in America today," Wayne told spectators outside his bookstore as he lit the first batch of books. The fire blazed for about 50 minutes before the Kansas City Fire Department put it out because Wayne didn't have a permit for burning. Wayne said next time he will get a permit. He said he envisions monthly bonfires until his supply -- estimated at 20,000 books -- is exhausted. "After slogging through the tens of thousands of books we've slogged through, and to accumulate that many and to have people turn you away when you take them somewhere, it's just kind of a knee-jerk reaction," he said. "And it's a good excuse for fun." Wayne said he has seen fewer customers in recent years as people more often get their information from television or the Internet. He pointed to a 2002 study by the National Endowment for the Arts, that found that less than half of adult respondents reported reading for pleasure, down from almost 57 percent in 1982. Kansas City has seen the number of used bookstores decline in recent years, and there are few independent bookstores left in town, said Will Leathem, a co-owner of Prospero's Books. "There are segments of this city where you go to an estate sale and find five TVs and three books," Leathem said. The idea of burning the books horrified Marcia Trayford, who paid $20 Sunday to carry away an armload of tomes on art, education and music. "I've been trying to adopt as many books as I could," she said. Dozens of other people took advantage of the book-burning, searching through the books waiting to go into the flames for last-minute bargains. Mike Bechtel paid $10 for a stack of books, including an antique collection of children's literature, which he said he'd save for his 4-year-old son. "I think, given the fact it is a protest of people not reading books, it's the best way to do it," Bechtel said. "(Wayne has) made the point that not reading a book is as good as burning it."  Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury is a painful book to read if you're a bibliophile (that's booklover for you). Fahrenheit 451 is the temperature at which paper starts to burn. The book's plot recalls the censorship of the 1950s and the book burnings by Nazis in Germany. In recent times, we saw laughable versions of book burning by groups who opposed certain books (like The Da Vinci Code and Harry Potter series). Reading the book scared me as a college student and made me appreciate books and the written word all the more. Not surprisingly, the only fire extinguisher at home can be found in my library. I have spent a fortune on insecticides and pest termination to protect the books from termites, but they just k-e-e-p o-n c-o-m-i-n-g. Being the only one in our subdivision with a functioning library, my home has become the favorite destination of these pesky white-butt ants whose tastebuds go for hardbound books but snub newsprint editions. The terminator told me: Sir, if you were a termite, wouldn't you prefer newly-cooked food over reheated leftovers?I've had my share of book burning. I've cremated good books half-eaten therefore rendered useless by termites. In the process, I've incinerated millions of termites. I've cried while watching cherished books turn to ashes in the pyre. When I saw the above news on TV, it gave me goosebumps and raised my hackles. What a waste of books and the knowledge they contain! I cheered up at the sight of the bibliophiles who rescued the books. Those books could have been put to good use in Third World countries such as ours. But I've been told by book donors about the prohibitive cost of transporting books. If only the billionaires and millionaires of the First World could spare some of their loose change to buy up all of those used books and ship them to countries who need them the most.
If only. . .
  Stanley and Iris, starring Robert De Niro and Jane Fonda, was based in part on Pat Barker's debut novel, Union Street (1995 Booker Prize Winner) by Pat Barker. It was Jane Fonda's "retirement" film before she returned to the silver screen with Monster-in-law. It was marketed as a love story, hence the blurb which I used for the title of this blogpost. Not your typical date movie, Stanley and Iris serves a new twist to a love story. At the beginning of the film, when Iris learned that he was single, lived with his father and could cook, viewers jumped to the conclusion that he was gay. They both worked at a pastry factory: he in the cafeteria and she in the assembly line. Iris discovered Stanley can't read and write. The most moving part of the movie was when Stanley recounted to Iris what he had to go through because of his illiteracy. When the cafeteria boss accused Stanley of pilferage, Iris defended him and disclosed his secret disability which cost him his job. Stanley's illiteracy caused him to lose subsequent jobs and he had to bring his father to a nursing home because he couldn't take care of him. Confronting his predicament, Stanley swallowed his pride and asked Iris to teach him to read and write. Being newly-widowed, Iris found in Stanley qualities she never saw in her late husband. Stanley eventually learned to read and write and became a successful inventor. Spoiler: this movie has a happy ending. Man builds no structure which outlives a book. This quotation by Eugene Ware is featured in a sign at the library entrance where Iris brought Stanley for his initial steps towards literacy. One cannot emphasize enough the importance of books to society and the world. The national goverment, through the Department of Education and efforts of non-government organizations, has initiated steps to address adult illiteracy through the Alternative Learning System (ALS). Manny Pacquiao, the famed boxer from General Santos City, was the recent graduate of the ALS. He took accreditation and equivalency tests to graduate high school. ALS also offers (depending on regional needs) various programs like caregiving and other livelihood training. Let us not forget that adult illiteracy starts as child illiteracy. Despite free elementary and high school education here, poverty has forced many children to drop out of school to help eke out a living for their families. Many organizations including McDonalds and Jollibee are addressing this need by making books accessible to children in far-flung barrios. In our own little way, we can donate books and other reading materials to daycare and reading centers in our communities. Share your books with security guards, jeepney/tricycle/bus drivers and janitors. Wouldn't it be wonderful to see them reading during their free hours?
God - our heavenly Father.
Oh, God - and my father who is also in heaven.
May the light of this flickering candle illuminate the night the way
Your spirit illuminates my soul.
My Father was a quiet man, too quiet for comfort. During slow hours in our store, he was content to read his Chinese newspapers and magazines while relaxing on his rattan and wicker easy chair which had an adjustable back rest and extendable footrest (which I gave to him as a gift out of my first month's salary). We knew he was in a good mood if he hummed Chinese folk songs while reading. While immersed in reading, he would consume several pots of tea. Relatives on my Mama's side of the family taught me to read, but Papa was my first role model in reading as a hobby. He always looked calm and serene while reading. After closing the store, he would wear his favorite white sleeveless undershirt ( sando) and blue boxer shorts and do some more reading before going to bed. When he found something delightful in the papers, he would call me and point out to me a picture or article and explain it to me. Then we would share a hearty laugh. Papa loved to tell us his stowaway adventure. At the age of 13, he stowed away on a Compania Maritima ship bound from Iloilo City to Manila. During the trip he would ask leftovers from other passengers. Upon arriving at the port, he walked from Divisoria and found himself in Carriedo with its row of shops and stores. He found work in a grocery there owned by a Chinese businessman who hired him on the spot upon learning that he was part-Chinese. The boss taught him how to read and speak in Fookien and write in Chinese characters. His co-workers taught him the ABCs/Abakada using the brands found on labels of the grocery items they sold. When it came time for them to teach him the letter C, they showed him a Coca Cola bottle and told him to copy the capital C with a long tail (Coke calls this the dynamic ribbon, I think) on it. Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you see me?
Papa, can you find me in the night?
Papa, are you near me?
Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you help me not be frightened?
Papa loved babies and toddlers. He would cuddle and played with them for hours but he lost interest in them once they could speak in sentences and walked on their own. I and my siblings assumed he was the same way with us. In our photo albums, there were lots of baby pictures with us in his arms. But in subsequent photos, the closest we got to him was to sit on his lap during the photoshoots. The gap between him and us widened when we became teeners. He became distant and uncommunicative with us. We only heard his voice when he had wanted us to do something in the store or when he gave us a scolding. Looking at the skies I seem to see a million eyes Which ones are yours? Where are you now that yesterday has waved goodbye and closed its doors? The night is so much darker. The wind is so much colder.The world I see is so much bigger now that I'm alone.
He was too silent for comfort. As the eldest child, I could sense his growing frustration over the lessening income of our store. Martial Law saw the plunging business incomes nationwide. The bank foreclosed the land and store building because we failed to make the amortization payments. In spite of low sales, during the Christmas season, he would ask me to bring grocery bags of goodies to family friends. He would also ask us to wrap rums, calendars and t-shirts for loyal patrons. On several occasions, I would notice the slight tremor in his hand when he handed the wrapped rums to soldiers who came in the store, placed their armalites on his desk and asked him for their Christmas gifts. He survived two hold-up attempts - the first on a weekend with us children around his desk in the store while he showed us some funny items in his newspapers and magazines. The guy with a gun just came up to us and asked for the day's sales. Papa gave it to him and then the guy ran out of the store. The second time, we were in school. The men came to the store and closed it up. Papa was hogtied by two men while Mama locked herself in the comfort room. Papa was able to untie himself and yelled for help from the neighbors. The men ran away with the day's sales. He wouldn't be as lucky the third time around.
Papa, please forgive me.
Try to understand me.
Papa, don't you know I had no choice?
Can you hear me praying, anything I'm saying,
Even though the night is filled with voices?
1981. The last year of Martial Law. Exactly two months after celebrating his 61st birthday, Papa woke up as usual at 3 a.m. He was supposed to brew some tea before opening the store in front of our living quarters. Leaving the master's bedroom, he saw two men carrying boxes of goods from our store. Using a .45 caliber pistol, they shot him twice. And the men and a small boy, whom they ordered to get inside our house through the jalousie windows and open the door for them, rushed out. Papa rushed back to their bedroom, locked the door and told Mama what happened. Papa never made it to the hospital. I remember everything you taught me, every book I've ever read.
Can all the words in all the books help me to face what lies ahead?
The trees are so much taller and I feel so much smaller.
The moon is twice as lonely and the stars are half as bright.
Papa never saw his grandchildren. The kids were born after his death. And so as soon as they were a month old, they were brought to the cemetery and introduced to him and later, to Mama too. While there, we would recall funny times with Papa. I would retell how, as a reward for my being an honor student in high school, he treated me to a movie of my choice. I chose Fiddler on the Roof based on a Broadway musical. He slept all through it while I sat watching. The songs on screen were punctuated by his snores beside me. Mama would tell us about the time when she bought a framed poster of the Mona Lisa by Da Vinci from an ambulant vendor and hung it in the living room with the family photos. After closing the store and preparing to do his ritual reading, Papa noticed the new portrait and called out to Mama: Hey, who is this? Is she a relative of yours or mine? My sister retold her embarrassing experience with a German customer. When Papa saw her with a foreign customer, he went to assist her. German (examining a local rum brand): Hmmm, good rum (pronouncing it as "room")? Papa: No room for rent! German (looking at my sister): Is she your daughter? Papa: No! He's my son, my son! (At that time there was a popular local sitcom named "My Son, My Son" which starred Pugo and Jay Ilagan). The German left the store shaking his head. Papa, how I love you. Papa, how I need you. Papa, how I miss you Kissing me goodnight. Papa, to my eternal regret, I was not able to say I love you before you left us. Let me say it now: I LOVE YOU! And I MISS YOU DEARLY! Thank for loving us in your own silent way. Thank you for the quiet strength you had shown us during those critical times. Thank you for giving me the gift of education which was denied to you by poverty.
(Papa, Can You Hear Me? music by Michel Legrand, lyrics by Alan & Marilyn Bergman from Yentl. Click here for the clip from the film.)
with 5 days to go before the Hearts Day (Valentines Day, duh), i'd like to share the lyrics of one of my favorite songs - What Kind of Fool Am I? (Leslie Bricusse/Anthony Newley) What kind of fool am I
Who never fell in love
It seems that I'm the only one
that I have been thinking of What kind of man is this?
An empty shell-
A lonely cell in which
an empty heart must dwell What kind of lips are these
That lied with every kiss
That whispered empty words of love
that left me alone like this Why can't I fall in love
Like any other man
And maybe then I'll know what kind of fool I am. What kind of clown am I?
What do I know of life?
Why can't I cast away the mask of play
and live my life? Why can't I fall in love
Till I don't give a damn
And maybe then I'll know what kind of fool I am
 | Boracay | May 29, '07 1:14 AM
for everyone |
  Boracay is everything it is touted to be and more (or less)...
I find Boracay beach a fine stretch for strolling. But it isn't the kind of beach that relaxes strollers like me. When i stroll on a beach, i expect to see other life forms aside from bathers (sea and sun) - hermit crabs, crablets, ants, shells, corals... these i couldn't find as i strolled down Boracay. The powdery white sands are dazzling but without rocks, shells, hermit crabs and crablets, it doesn't look like a beach to me. Even the sea, while full of lumot (which a lumot brigade removes on site/sight), has no fish (jelly and other species). I am told that early each morning, the sands are combed by a tractor to remove other debris.
I find the grotto of the Virgin Mary a glaring juxtaposition to the topless foreign female tourists. I find the beachfront restos, bars and stores too pricey, too touristy. One look at the prices is enough to make the blood pressure soar. One has to take time to find affordable food. I find out that even the Aetas knew how to pose for local/foreign tourists' cameras.
But the locals are so friendly to both domestic/foreign tourists. They actually tell you how to stretch your precious pesos. The local police look good in their beach uniforms, but are unubiquitous (yet one knows they're around). And those are enough reasons to go back there.
| GILBERT | May 26, '07 9:50 AM
for everyone |
Caveat Lector (let the reader beware): This is an Ego-boosting blogpost. This blogpost is prompted by the message of Gibbs Cadiz asking for a link-up and telling me he's also Gilbert. I hope this blogpost will serve as a clarion call to the Gilberts of the world in uniting to make ourselves felt and known. Gilbert is of French-Germanic origin which means bright promise or pledge. Variations: Guilbert, Gilberto, Hilbert. First, a little history of how I got to be named so. When it came time for me to be baptized, a little discussion ensued. Mama: I want this baby named Leo or Leon after his father, Napoleon. (Lola's voice-over: The parish priest won't allow animal names for baptism!) Papa (thinking to himself): I want him to be my junior! Some relative (probably my religious aunt): According to the almanaque, the baby was born on the feast day of St. Martin of Tours so his name should be Martin! (imagine me now if named Martin Tan) Mama (2nd attempt): Since I was born in Luzon, Napoleon in Visayas, and the baby in Mindanao, let's call him Luzvimindo! (Again, imagine me now if named Luzvimindo Tan) Lola: He looks like a Gilbert to me! And that's final! And so with Gilbert, baptized I was. Was I glad I wasn't born in 1982 otherwise, I would have been named Rambo ( Rambo Tan!) by starstruck parents. I first became aware of the first of my many tukayo (namesake) at age 6 while exploring the plastic globe given to me by an aunt. I found Gilbert Islands in the Pacific.  In high school, I discovered the priest- detective Father Brown books written by Gilbert Keith Chesterton. This tukayo's wit was enviable: "My country, right or wrong," is a thing that no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying, "My mother, drunk or sober." I think this tukayo was my first inspiration to become a writer-journalist.  Then in college, I read to smithereens the small book of Gilbert Highet, The Art of Teaching. "These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. By taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart." His book planted the teaching seed in my heart.  In the 80s, a tukayo, Gilbert O'Sullivan topped the worldwide charts with his Alone Again Naturally. This song remains one of my personal faves:
In a little while from now  If I’m not feeling any less sour I promise myself to treat myself And visit a nearby tower And climbing to the top will throw myself off In an effort to make it clear to who Ever what it’s like when you’re shattered Left standing in the lurch at a church Where people saying: "My God, that’s tough She's stood him up" No point in us remaining We may as well go home as I did on my own Alone again, naturally To think that only yesterday I was cheerful, bright and gay Looking forward to well wouldn’t do The role I was about to play But as if to knock me down, reality came around And without so much as a mere touch Cut me into little pieces, leaving me to doubt Talk about God and His mercy or if He really does exist Why did He desert me in my hour of need I truly am indeed Alone again, naturally It seems to me that there are more hearts broken in the world that can’t be mended left unattended What do we do? What do we do? Alone again, naturally Now looking back over the years and whatever else that appears I remember I cried when my father died Never wishing to hide the tears And at sixty-five years old, my mother, God rest her soul, Couldn’t understand why the only man she had ever loved had been taken Leaving her to start with a heart so badly broken Despite encouragement from me, no words were ever spoken And when she passed away I cried and cried all day Alone again, naturally, Alone again, naturally. If you've read somewhere that if all the issues of National Geographic Magazine are stacked in one place on earth, that would tilt/change the Earth's axis, then you have Gilbert Grosvenor, its editor in chief to blame. :-)  Of course, let's not forget the devastating Hurricane Gilbert, recorded in history as the second most intense Atlantic hurricane next to Hurricane Wilma.  Then there's Gilbert the Great, a children's book by Jane Clarke about a smiling shark that looks like a cartoon character in Nemo/Shark's Tale.  And the early film of Johnny Depp, What's Eating Gilbert Grape? And lastly, a Hollywood hotel named Gilbert: 
When Manny Pacquiao declared his intention to run for Congressman of the first district of South Cotabato and General Santos City, he met such an intense opposition to it. Some of his well-meaning friends did so because they knew better - that Manny was being manipulated by some quarters to do so. However, my take on the majority of those opposed it did so because of their compartmentalized thinking. They love Manny as a boxer and therefore he should remain a boxer. In fact, Manny was criticized for excelling in billiards and going into commercial breeding of fighting cocks. Now with the poll winners declared, Manny is back in boxing and everything's well again with the world. Or so it seems...
I ran into trouble with a nosy neighbor recently. After spending five years of bearing children, she finally got ligated and now has plenty of time in her hands. Bored after taking care of her kids' meals, changes of diaper, milk formulas, bathing and putting them to bed, she has turned her eyes on me, particularly my garden which remains lushly green in spite of the heatwave and El Nino. Whenever I ask some teeners to cut the grass in my garden and trim the branches of the Chinese bamboo, Dama de Noche and Ilang-ilang, she would find a way to talk to them to tell me that I ought to cut down my trees because she considers them an eyesore. I told the teeners to tell her that she should add more hollow blocks to the wall dividing her house from mine so she won't see my plants and trees. Her yard boasts of a wide bermuda grass lawn and no plant taller than these grasses. The trouble is she has already compartmentalized me in her mind as a slob, lazy and too poor to hire a gardener to maintain my yard. She imagines my yard as a breeding ground of snakes and other creepy crawlies which might harm her and her kids. She forgets that her house was built on and near a dry creek riddled with warrens of mice and snakes.
In our University, we have a summer program called College Bound Program, an affirmative action program meant for incoming freshmen who come from the cultural communities and those who are products of poor barangay high schools. It aims to prepare them in English and Math so that when they start their freshman year, they are as able and competent to tackle these subjects with the rest of the freshmen. Some teachers refuse to teach in this program because they have compartmentalized the students under this program as slow learners and underachievers. The fact is some products of this program graduated with honors.
One major reason why I left my former school employer was that no matter what I did, I could never attain its mission statement: to develop the entire person of each of my students. How could I if I was not even treated as a whole person by the administrators? I taught business subjects because it was my field of specialization as a management major in college. But I was also a self-taught writer and journalist. I was a fairly good emcee and singer.
During my employment at that school, my feature articles and stories got published in national magazines and newspapers. I was told by the ranking and promotion committee that these outputs weren't given any point at all because their subjects were not related to my field of specialization. [Memo to me: Stop writing! Concentrate on just being a good management teacher!] From that time on, I turned down those who woud invite me to emcee or render an intermission number during school programs by claiming that emceeing and singing were not in my field of specialization. So they should get English/Filipino/Music teachers to do so.
During the March 1988 solar eclipse seen in General Santos City, I self-published a brochure Everything You Wanted to Know about Eclipses. The college dean told me it was a waste of time and money because it wasn't directly related to my field of specialization. So I told her jokingly, So Ma'am, you want me to change its title to How to Manage a Solar Eclipse or A Feasibility Study of Solar Eclipses so I could claim that it's directly related to my field of specialization?
A year earlier, the school invited resource speakers from De La Salle University to conduct a seminar-workshop on The Art of Questioning in our school. Classes were not suspended; not all teachers were required to attend it, only the Education teachers. So the school spent thousands of pesos for the speakers' airfare, room and board and honoraria to teach Education teachers the art of questioning which they already knew as part of their college education. The rest of the faculty had to wait for those who attended to do an echo seminar. Shouldn't the seminar be for those teachers with no Education units who could really benefit from it? Why should they be given an echo seminar when they could have attended the same seminar conducted on campus?
Akin to stereotyping, compartmentalized thinking has been long declared by social psychologists as responsible for closing the minds of people and distorting their vision of reality. By conveniently putting people in neat categorized boxes, we seem to see order in the world as we know it. In reality, stereotyping and compartmentalized thinking kill whatever creativity, skill, and initiative people around us inherently have. I dread to see the day when and if these deadly duo will get a stranglehold on us.
*GMRC - Good Manners & Right Conduct. The idea for this blogpost comes from my whole day of malling today. These I witnessed or happened to me on that day: - I got jostled by old people, people my age, younger people, kids. Not one excuse me did I hear from them.
- I had to say excuse me to people in pairs or groups who were hogging the stairs, hallways.
- Grown-ups asking a small boy: What's Daddy's problem?, the boy answering by tapping his right index finger on his left palm (for those not in the know, this gesture means sex) which elicited laughter from the adults and comments of how cute!.
- College students playing the Salute game (they have to salute when they see the target; last one to do so gets "punished") using gays as targets, laughing their heads off and making heads turn to their direction.
- A young lady smartly dressed in long sleeved shirt, jeans and high heels ignoring the cue of people in the fastfood counter, bossily pointing to the crew the meal combo she wants.
- A group of high schoolers in a theater showing Spiderman 3 more interested in talking about who's going out with whom than in the action on screen, who upon being shushed, increased the decibel of their voices.
- Security guards, fastfood crew, salesladies who were courteous to customers from the moment they step into their shops up to the time they leave.
It used to be that GMRC was a subject taught in elementary and high school in the Philippines way before values education became the vogue. It used to be that even before GMRC, Filipinos were taught by their parents the proper etiquette in dealing with the elderly, people in authority, playmates, strangers, visitors, et. al. I believe that good manners and values are better caught than taught. Contrary to popular belief, etiquette is not only about which spoon to use with what dish. What is key in good manners or etiquette is that it is a norm of behavior, specially in public, which shows that one practising it has respect and consideration for others. At my age, I have learned that respect doesn't always beget respect. I've prided myself for being respectful to others regardless of their gender, age, status in life. But imagine this: After hailing a tricycle, I tell the driver my destination. He seems distracted and looks away until I tell him I'm paying P25. He looks interestedly back at me and asks P25? By then I am already hailing another tricycle. December 2005. My purchases reached the amount which made me eligible to join the computer game and raffle. At the table provided for filling up the raffle coupons, I sat beside an old woman who brought her own pen. Looking around and finding all the other pens being used, I asked her if I could borrow her pen to fill up my one coupon (she was about to finish with her 10 or so coupons). She flatly said NO and left in a huff. My face turned crimson. After dropping the raffle stub in the box, I cued at the computer game. The old woman was in the other line ahead of me. The Lady Santa pointed the two of us to adjoining computers where we had to key in 3-digit numbers. The alarm sounded after I entered my numbers - I won a four-layer plastic clothes cabinet, one of the major prizes. She looked at me with envy as her monitor showed she won a number of plastic cups, pencils, cheap kid's socks. I told her: Karma, manang.
It gives me great pleasure to meet my students in college who are now gainfully employed or have businesses of their own. A few months earlier, a former student processed the savings account I opened with the bank where she worked. Several weeks later, I saw her while on my way out of the mall. So I flashed her a smile which promptly died on my lips when she pointedly ignored me and changed direction so she wouldn't have to rub elbows with me. She stepped on the metal grill of the mall's drainage system (which looked unevenly put over the canal). It gave way and one of her legs fell into the canal while she toppled over. She was sprawled on the pavement with the bottom of her panties showing when her miniskirt rode up her waist. The tricycle drivers rushed to her aid. I went on my way, the smile returning on my lips. Assignment: In the course of one day, tally the number of people who has thanked you for what you did to and for them. How many thanked you in a business transaction? Compare it to the ones who thanked you in non-business situations. Food for thought: Has GMRC/etiquette gone the commercial route? Are people courteous and accommodating to others only because it's part of their jobs or because there's money at stake? As to rude, unruly, inconsiderate behavior, are we witnessing an overdose of self-ishness? Have we become so engrossed with the hustle and bustle of everyday life that we have forgotten our manners?
 As a teacher and a writer, I have always advised others to make use of their other hand - the hand they don't use for writing. Whether right- or left-handed, we are used to doing so many things with our dominant hand. Imagine this: you lift the phone receiver/cellphone using your dominant hand to answer a call, then the caller tells you to jot down something, what do you do? Either you put down the phone and look for paper and pen or you transfer the phone to your other hand, then use your dominant hand to look for paper and pen. How about this: During an exam you are writing down your answers then you come to a problem solving question which requires a calculator. So you put down your pen, take out the calculator and compute. Then you pick up your pen and copy the answer. What's wrong with these pictures? You're taxing your dominant hand and wasting time! If you answer the call with your non-dominant hand, you can use the dominant hand to look for paper and pen and jot down the message. If you use your non-dominant hand to compute with the calculator, you can take down notes and answer with your dominant hand. I've seen young people texting with both hands on their cellphones. It's a safety practice specially if they text in public - makes it harder for snatchers to take off with a cellphone held by two hands. But I wonder what they will do if they receive a text message that needs to written down. I've heard stories of left-handed people who commit the mistake of offering platters of food to their Arab friends using their dominant hand. In Saudi Arabia and Muslim countries, the left hand is used for cleansing themselves while the right one is used for good and polite acts. Training programs for police, military and security guards emphasize the need to leave the hand used for holding a gun free. If they use that hand to hold a cigarette and an armed enemy approaches, the seconds wasted on dropping the cigarette can spell injury or death to them. It's never to late to teach ourselves to be ambidextrous.
I will never forget that day in 1990. I traveled three days by boat to be on hand for Mama's triple heart bypass at the Philippine Heart Center. When the ship docked at the harbor, news reached us that there was an ongoing transport strike. A fellow passenger, with whom I got acquainted on the boat and knew the circumstances, kindly offered me a ride up to the corner of Delta Theater. And so from there I walked to the hospital. What struck me from the moment I entered it were the jolly smiles from almost everyone. The hospital layout gave me the impression of maze-like compartments in a beehive.
When I finally saw Mama, I dropped my luggage and rushed to embrace her. She had been in the hospital for two months in preparation for her operation. Earlier, when a second opinion confirmed the need for her operation, we (the siblings) were dismayed. We knew we didn't have the money for it. I asked for help from the Department of Social Welfare local office. Upon presenting to them the required paperwork, I learned that the salary I received from the University I worked for was below the poverty threshold, thus, qualifying Mama to receive assistance in terms of free medication and discounted medical services.
After two months, Mama was ready for her operation. Having three granddaughters at that time, she wanted so much to live long enough to see her grandson(s). Her nurses and doctors were optimistic about the outcome. On the other hand, my brother (who watched over her during those two months) and I were briefed by her surgeon on what to expect. Dominican seminarians of Santo Domingo Church donated blood for her operation two days later. Dominican priests and nuns offered masses for her successful operation.
One hour before the operation, we embraced. She asked me to take care of my siblings specially our "bad boy" and his family. When she was wheeled to the operating room, I gave her a brave smile. It was Friday, 10 a.m.
Eight hours later, the surgeon came to see my brother and me. The triple bypass was finished and the heart & lung machine turned off. But Mama's heart was failing to restart beating and her lungs were filling up with liquid. He told us they were about to perform the ultimate measure to revive Mama - inserting a tube into her heart to help restart it. I saw a nurse bringing the styrofoam box which contained the donated blood out of the operating room. My brother said he was going down to the chapel to pray. I was left to hold vigil outside the operating room.
An hour or so later, bad news! Mama didn't make it. My brother and I waited at the morgue for her body. He was hoarse from shouting Mama's name and got so hysterical upon hearing the news from me, he had to be sedated. When we were shown her body wrapped in a white shroud, we raced to embrace her.
It has been 17 years since Mama left us. In those years, I would have the chance to get close to mothers of my friends, neighborly mothers, Mama's friends, and motherly friends. My friends would rib me for being a nanay-napper because I would share in their bonding time. These times were filled with exchanged laughter and embraces. There is really nothing like a mother's embrace - soothing, consoling, calming, reassuring children, regardless of age, that all is well in our broken imperfect world.
Every time Mother's Day rolled in, I would usually be advanced in greeting my surrogate mothers. And every time, I would get in trouble with their children specially those who forgot to greet their mothers. I would then "nag" my friends not to take their mothers for granted.
Through the years, several of my surrogate mothers had moved on. Now I can count with my fingers the last remaining ones. And these are the ones I continue to cherish for being part of my life, for unselfishly sharing their loving embraces with me. To you Mama and my nanays, Happy Mother's Day! Thank you for your love and embraces.
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