bits of chocolate

Hello, 2012

2011-12-31T02:18:00.000-08:00

Are you truly living or merely existing?

Almost a year ago, I gave myself a challenge to find my answer to that question. And a challenge to write more than once for the year.

I guess the latter was a bit harder to accomplish – what with all the juggling a striving young professional has to deal with these days. Then again, I might just be full of excuses. Writing requires time and discipline. And I shamelessly lack both. Wink, wink. Anyway, my ramblings on the creative process of writing belong to a different post, which has been sitting idly on my laptop for quite some time. I will go back to that soon. But for now, the challenge I set for myself is begging for an answer.

What does it take to live? What does it take to exist? To exist is to eat, to breathe, to clothe oneself, and to do everything that enables one to physically survive. To live, however, is to go beyond this mere existence.

To live is to love, to pursue your greatest passions, to read a book, to write, to laugh out loud, to travel and see the marvels of the world, to learn new things, to take risks, to conquer fears, to experience the full spectrum of human emotions, and the list goes on.

I have to admit, existing is so much easier than living. But what kind of life would that be? I only have one shot at this life, and I don’t even know how long I’ll live, so I gotta KICK.ASS.AT.THIS!

2012 brings another 366 days of as yet unknown struggles, joys, challenges, and rewards. But even before all those come around, the beginning of the year gives us a chance to define for ourselves the kind of life we truly want to live. For me, right now, that’s all that matters.

So 2012, bring it on. Happy New Year, everyone. La vita e bella.

Are you truly living or merely existing?

2011-01-22T05:08:00.000-08:00

The words just leapt off the page of the book that I was reading and landed smack on my head. My brain stopped right there. It’s a simple question, supposedly, yet it left me grasping at straws. There’s nothing complicated about how it’s stated, but the answer would tell you how much or how little you know about life and living.

I will not make any attempt to answer that question right now. In my head, I have vague scribbles that could pass for answers but I figured I have a year ahead of me to test, de-bunk, and re-formulate my theories. For the past 2 years, I always start (and end – yeah, somehow, I never get past the first post) the year with a melodramatic post of new chances, new beginnings, and new employers. So this year, I’m going to start it with a challenge to find my own answer to that question. And yes, to write more than once for the year. It’s on for the next 365 days. Yeah, baby!

2010 has got to be one of the craziest calendar years ever. It was the year of the unexpected, the year of surprises, the year of my heart’s highs and lows, and so many more labels I can call it by. But in the end, I am still grateful for all the blessings and struggles I’ve had to deal with in the past year. I’m thankful for the new people I met and made friends with and for every challenge that made me discover a lot more about myself. Above all, I am even more grateful for the gift called family. My family, whose love, patience, and understanding are probably one of the constant things in this ever-changing world.

2011, I’m ready for you. Are you ready for me?

Just Around the River Bend

2010-01-26T14:43:00.000-08:00

It’s been almost 3 years since I stepped out of the hallowed halls of the university. I’m on the “third leg” of my career path, averaging 9.33 months per employer – with each from totally different and seemingly unrelated industries. Sometimes, I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. But then I look around and I see others in a pretty much similar situation. So I think I’m still normal, save for a few loose bolts and screws hanging around there somewhere.

It’s probably the idealism wearing off, or should I say crushed by the dead weight of reality. Whereas in my student years, I was but a mere spectator and a critique of the real world, now I am in it, struggling against losing what is now left of my so-called idealism. Boy, when reality looms large right in front of you staring at you in the eye, it is just so damn hard to keep a straight face.

They say it’s the natural order of things. I’ve heard countless of testimonies from people who once took the journey to Utopia and have fallen off course. That should have been enough to leave me utterly disillusioned. But as one wise colleague of mine pointed out, we should still carry idealism in our hearts, this time without the illusions. No pretensions, no trimmings, no frills. Our world is an imperfect one – and we’re all well aware of that. We just have to accept reality as it is. And should we have the opportunity to make it better for ourselves and for other people, the truly idealistic will grab every chance to make a difference.

My first three years in the corporate world have been nothing short of erratic but everything’s just a blur to me now. Either I’m temporarily suffering from a case of short-term memory loss or I was too wrapped up with the cares of this world. I’m glad to note though that I have stayed with my current company for more than a year now. Still, I’m far from being relaxed. People born in the year of the tiger like me are known to be restless and unpredictable. Well, it’s going to be another “let’s wait and see” year for me, like it has been for the past years. If anything but a consolation to the unforeseeable future, I’d like to take comfort in my favorite lines from the song Just Around the River Bend (Pocahontas) by Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz:

What I love most about rivers is, you can’t step in the same river twice.
The water’s always changing, always flowing.
But people, I guess, can’t live like that. We all must pay a price.
To be safe, we lose our chance of ever knowing.
What’s around the river bend. Just around the river bend.
I look once more. Just around the river bend.
Beyond the shore. Somewhere past the sea.
Don’t know what for.
Why do all my dreams extend just around the river bend?

I was planning to round up the year that was but I thought it would be better to leave behind things that are better off in the past. In a nutshell, the previous year made me think and re-think about love, faith, career, and most especially friendship. Whatever those lessons are, it’s for me to dwell on and safe keep, at least for now. And while all my dreams extend just around the river bend, I’m gonna have to live in the now with tomorrow in mind, taking my chances and giving it my best shot.

The nth shot at life

2009-01-04T04:15:00.000-08:00

A tiny flicker has been lit. It doesn’t matter now how many wrongs we’ve made for the past 365 days. A fresh start is right ahead of us. A new chance. A new hope. And the single most significant question of the time, almost a resounding battle cry, is: What can we do to make those wrongs right?

I just love the New Year. For me, it does not stand as a mere occasion that I have to perfunctorily celebrate just because the whole world tells me to do so. Let’s just say I’ve come to appreciate New Years in a special, personal way…

Not too long ago, I was failing one after another, even in what seemed like the simplest tasks. I was utterly dejected, forlorn, and lost and every inch of me slowly flowed down the drain. I almost envisioned myself walking in the hallmark of failures, like it was my destiny to be there. The only thing that gave me my last string of confidence was the New Year and the hope that it always brings. I know it sounds really cliché and unoriginal. But when you’re there spiraling towards the bottom pit of hopelessness, you have to hang on to every last piece that gives you strength. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t even be here right now.

The New Year reminds me that no matter how bleak and desolate life seems to be at the moment, we will always find the light. It may take some time though. But with the right amount of patience and positive thinking, you will find it in the most surprising places. Up to this point of writing, the New Year has never failed me. I don’t mean to say of course, that I never committed any failures since then. I am still as imperfect as I was 5 or 10 years ago. But I’m learning my lessons well, one year at a time. And with every year that comes and goes, the New Year always throws back a challenge at me, tauntingly saying, “So, Imperfect One, what are you going to do right this time?” To which, I would just smile and say, “Just wait and see. You might be in for a big surprise.”

Happy New Year everyone. Cheers to a full, promising year ahead!

22 and counting

2008-08-15T16:15:00.000-07:00

Hi guys! You’re cordially invited to my advanced birthday celebration tomorrow at Lamesa Grill in SM Northwing, 7:00 PM. Please don’t spread the word. Limited seats only.

I’m now officially and irrevocably 22 years old. And unlike before when you really had to torture me before I would admit I’m older, this time I calmly handled with poise what others would consider as tragedy. As a matter of fact, I welcomed my birthday as soon as the clock struck twelve. I celebrated my birthday a day in advance. Instead of 08/09/08, I celebrated it on 08/08/08 – not that I’m superstitious. But it was the perfect day to celebrate, what with the UP Cebu Cookout rocking at the UP Cebu Grounds. The few chosen guests who were close friends, my brother, and his girlfriend and soon-to-be-wife were all available that day. And that was a Friday. What more could the birthday girl ask for?

I chose to celebrate my birthday through a nice dinner. Celebrating it on a beach with family and friends seemed impossible with the erratic schedules my call center friends follow, so dinner was the next best thing. I chose Lamesa Grill on impulse because I started “planning” 5 days before my actual birthday. But I knew I made the right decision when we checked out the place. I totally fell in love with it! The shell lamps that give a soft glimmer to the dark night were a beauty. The bamboo blinds and the wooden fixtures that adorned the place gave it a Filipino accent. I certainly didn’t mind having to trade the beach for a place such as that. It’s a pity I didn’t take more pictures of the place but I swear on my knees, everyone should try it out. The food is fantastic. The service is superb. The crew kept asking if we enjoyed the food and if we needed anything else. Actually, their customer relations skills were excellent, even short of them spoon feeding us. It’s a bit pricey but it is just lovely.

You be the judge if we committed gluttony that night. Our table was laden with pinatayong manok, pork belly, lad apahap kinulob (a kind of fish – don’t ask me further, we ordered it because Mark was recovering from skin allergy), sinigang na salmon head, mixed seafood ala gambas, seafood rice, leche flan, and buko macapuno rumble. But is this gluttony? We were just enjoying good food. I would have wanted to take pictures of all the stuff we ate that night but I didn’t want to look like a total nerd, going around the table and taking pictures of every dish served.

The crew of Lamesa Grill found out that it was my birthday celebration so they embarrassed – I mean, surprised me by singing a rather loud Happy Birthday song and gave me a cassava cake with a candle on top. Awww, that was really sweet. Joining me that night were Mark, Arrah, April, my brother Amiel, and his girlfriend Michelle. I have also invited Phrixel but due to last minute work delays, he wasn’t able to catch up. I honestly wanted to invite my blockmates Noreen, Krishna, Ivy, Delna, Yarry, and the others but my budget was not so accommodating. I owe you something guys. I’ll make up for it someday.

After dinner, we headed to UP Cebu to party. It was the annual UP Cebu Cookout but what made it extra special is that it was the Centennial Cookout. I enjoyed the performances and though there were areas that could be improved, it was all in all a great Cookout. At the UP Grounds, I fell in love with Refrain (everybody did, too – or all the girls did) and saw my old friends and schoolmates in UP. I spent most of the time talking, actually. And while I ignored the pasimple hints that I should give a treat, they were nice enough to greet me at 12m.n.

The main attraction of the event was the performance of Manila-based Slapshock. While they performed and everybody flocked near the stage, my friends and I kept talking while one even slept! Pasaway. And in the middle of their performance, the sleeping Jason Baguia woke up and told us he was going home. Okay, I thought that was enough for the day. It was 2AM and I myself could barely keep my eyes open. I decided to go home, too. I still have to work the next day.

Though tired and sleepy, I had to stay awake for one more ceremony before dozing off: opening my gifts. Much love and thank you to Mark and Arrah who surprised me with presents. Mark even tried to throw off suspicion by telling me through text that the traffic was almost impossible to deal with and that he had no time to pick up a present for me. But when he showed up at the restaurant, he was carrying this Blue Magic paper bag. Mark gave me a very cute pink teddy bear named Monina. It smelled nice too. I had to keep it in the closet because I’m pretty sure if it stays on my bed, the pink color would magically turn grey after quite some time. Arrah gave me an original cd of my latest obsession – Daughtry! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! I loved it.

Presents or no presents, I loved every minute of my birthday celebration. Despite sleeping late, I am thankful I still woke up just in time the next day to prepare myself for work. My officemates never found out it was my birthday until I told them late afternoon. But that’s a different story.

Reunion and Retreat

2008-07-13T17:16:00.000-07:00

Reunions
Call it perfect timing that two of my batch mates and dear friends came to Cebu for a visit within two months. One of them, Athea, left the country six years ago when her whole family migrated to Alaska. Raissa, on the other hand, moved to Iloilo while we were still in first year high school.

I don’t know how it is with other batches but ours is a closely-knit one. Blame it on the numbers and the years we spent fighting and caring for each other. We were probably 45 when we graduated. Roughly 90% received a Loyalty Award, which means we’ve been together since we were still peeing in our pants. To date, we occasionally meet to eat out, catch up with other batch mates who aren’t Cebu-based, drink from dusk ‘til dawn, sing to our hearts’ desire, talk nonstop excitedly, and simply relish each other’s company. And those are exactly what we did when Athea and Raissa dropped by.

To sum it all up, I had fun. Who wouldn’t? I guess this text message from, coincidentally a batch mate gives the exact reason why: Your college friends know who you are. But your high school friends know why.

Retreat
In less than a month, I’m turning 22. Like all my other birthdays in the past, I look forward to it with much anticipation, anxiety, sureness, and uncertainty. Unlike my last birthday however, I felt that I lived most if not all, my 21st year living it – taking life as it comes and never being too busy to miss a lunch date with a good friend or just laze around on a Sunday morning enjoying coffee. I’ve experienced being overly stressed out in the past that there wasn’t just time for me to steal for myself or for my family. Perhaps that was one of the main reasons why I felt like I’ve lived for so long in this world. And I don’t want that to happen. Life is too short to not live it the way it should be lived.

So, as I was saying, it’s going to be my birthday in a few weeks. I must have a little hangover from the hospital because I’m eager to make an escape during my special day. Right now, I’m dreaming of the beach or the mountains with food, music, and friends. But as much as I would like it to be the reality, I can only drool over it. Apparently, the hospital experience dug a hole into my resources. And unfortunately, my birthday falls on a work day. What else is there to say but, “Let’s wait and see.”

Slow down, you’re going too fast

2008-07-08T17:21:00.000-07:00

For the second time in five years, I was admitted at a hospital in Cebu. The diagnosis: classical dengue fever. For once, I was relieved that the cause of my latest distress in life was a blood-sucking Aedes aegypti and not because I couldn’t keep myself from chomping down contaminated food. The first time I was ever admitted at the hospital was when I was a freshie in college. I was admitted due to typhoid fever. Then on the summer before my senior year, I got mild amoebiasis (and nearly got hospitalized). Geez, bacteria love me so much they find a way to invade my system through the food I eat.

Anyway, what’s more important is that I’m well now and back to work after six days of bed rest, fluids, and anti-inflammatory pills (for the rashes). Although I feel a little bad of having to leave work for a couple of days, I somehow felt that it was a welcome respite for me. I’m not glad that I got sick. But boy was I glad to have taken a break from work. Some of my friends who visited me at the hospital actually envied me and would gladly take my place at the hospital bed. But well, I wouldn’t give up my slot either. Except for the incessant poking of needles in my arm to draw blood samples, everything else made me feel like I’m on vacation. Kudos to the hospital and its staff! If only the hospital was tucked somewhere in the mountains or near the beach, it would have been the perfect escape.

On a more serious note, being confined at the hospital gave me a good time for contemplation and reflection. I couldn’t help it, you know. My bosses were really understanding enough not to pester me with work and would rather check whether I was fine. So I had all the time mostly to myself. And I wondered what could have I possibly done this time to be in this situation. The answer: none. I certainly didn’t want to be bitten by a dengue-carrying mosquito in the first place and I could have gotten it in a lot of possible places – the boarding house, the office, the mall… But among all the people in all those places, it chose to bite me. Why me, I asked. Perhaps, I needed a little jolt.

For me, it was a natural roadblock. Unexpected, sometimes unwanted but almost always desperately needed. You see, most of the time we want to take full control of our life – driving it at topmost speed and making the most out of the little time we are given. And that’s not bad. It’s just that sometimes, we get so caught up with our job and our everyday struggles that we tend to miss the very little but very important details in life that actually matter – family, friends, love, and even life itself. In other words, it is simply life’s way of saying, “Slow down, you’re going too fast.” Life must have, at first, tried to warn me about it but I didn’t listen or I was too busy to even hear what it was saying. So it deliberately stepped on the brakes so I would stop. Stop and breathe. Stop and savor every single moment. Stop. And start all over again.

So today, I am back at the wheel, coursing through uncharted paths. I make right turns and sometimes bump into the wrong ones. Sometimes, I drive back. Sometimes, I speed up. But I’m fervently hoping this time, I’ll know when I need to stop.

meme from Tim

2008-06-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

A friend from college Tim tagged me for a meme. So as a courtesy to the friend I haven’t seen for a long time, I’m involving myself in the tradition of answering it and passing it on to others.

If you are to leave an important memory, what would that be? You can answer the question either by posting a picture, a video, writing a poem or whatever you think would best describe the memory that you want to share.

A family picture taken three years ago, this picture was taken by my trusty Nikon manual SLR (single lens reflex) camera at our living room in Leyte after attending Mass on New Year’s Day. I was the photographer. I had everyone positioned, adjusted the aperture and the shutter speed, and set the timer. Then I rushed to my place and put on my biggest smile.

Like Tim, I am often stricken with nostalgia especially now that I am living on my own alone and at my own expense. My brother Amiel just moved out last week to live with his pregnant girlfriend and soon-to-be wife. My parents are in Leyte. My other brother Jake and his family are also in Leyte but in a different house. I just miss those days when we are all living in one house together, even if it means quarreling like cats and mice with my brothers. It would feel nice to see everybody you love after a stressful day at work and eat dinner together as one big family. But right now, I just have to accept that this is the way it’s supposed to be. It would give each and everyone of us the space to grow and the opportunity to be better and more responsible persons.

Copy the entire list and add your name below the person who tagged you. Then tag at least 5 friends (But you can tag as many as you like) and visit their blog to let them know you tagged them.

Bloggers who shared their important memories 1.) Kaptyurd 2.) and so I am 3.) Princess Vien 4.) Princess Bela 5.) Our Journey to Life 6.) My Planet Purple 7.) Women Xplore 8.) Crazy, Happy Arevalos 9.) MEComposing 10.) Hope This Helps You 11.) Raising Riel 12.) Chismis Today 13.) Dakilang Nomad 14.) Bits of Chocolate 15.) Add your site here…

I'm tagging Noreen , Inez , and Francis . (Pasaway! I’m passing it on to three people only.)

Do cats get claustrophobic too?

2008-06-10T17:29:00.000-07:00

I have an uncanny knack of making feral cats my pets, especially if they exhibit outward signs of human sociability. I always pounce on that weakness. For instance, my first-ever pet cat Clovis was a wild cat which I slowly lured to domestication by appealing to its voracious appetite. The others that followed were drawn by basically the same motivation. But not Dr. Jinx.

Or maybe he was when our friendship started. The memory of our first meeting was lost in the blurry of my college years. All I remember was that as soon as I stepped on the topmost rung of the staircase that leads to the door of my boarding house, he sprinted towards me, meowing like crazy, and rubbed his white and orange head against my legs. I was a bit taken aback by his aggressiveness. Never have I encountered such behavior unless the cat and I are already friends, which we weren’t. But ever the diplomatic person who will not thwack any unfamiliar cat’s butt, I sweetly said hello. I could not remember if I shared some leftovers that night but my brief greeting further goaded him to come near me. The next day, he was at his antics again and this time, he was clever enough to get ahead of me in entering the room. Up to the present, I wrestle with him at the door as he futilely attempts to bypass my towering frame. I think his goal in life is to just set his furry paws in our cozy room.

Anyway, since it has been his habit to hang out in our room, I let him indulge in this desire every once in a while. In fact, I let him sleep there. And so far, he hasn’t chewed on my toes or peed on my shoes yet so it’s fine with me. One day, while I was watching a movie from the computer, a small rat tiptoed across the computer table right in front of me. I wanted to scream but the image of the rat jumping at me and landing right into my mouth shut me up. As I found out later from my brother, the rat George has been disturbing us for quite some time. (Yes, my brother and I name our mammal friends. The only creatures I don’t give names are cockroaches because one, they’re the grossest things on earth. Two, they’re not mammals. And lastly, they’re not our friends.) I decided it was payback time. I let Dr. Jinx inside the room and waited. I was about to drift off to slumber when I heard a crash. (By the way, I named the cat Dr. Jinx because I feel that our electric fan is at the brink of extinction every time he roughly brushes his head against it, as if he really plans to jinx it up.) Sure enough, George’s tail was wiggling like a lollipop outside Dr. Jinx’s mouth. Eeewww. Well, at least I’m happy and Dr. Jinx is happy. That’s all that matters. And I thought that was the end of the Georges.

One night, I was stripped down at the bathroom ready for a ritual evening bath, humming to my heart’s content when a George lurking somewhere popped its small pointed head and ran around the bathroom in squares. I instinctively jumped on the toilet seat and my soft humming evolved to natural screaming. I got dressed quickly, locked the bathroom door behind me, and called on Dr. Jinx for help. For some weird reason, Dr. Jinx was scared of the bathroom. No matter how many times I tried to shove him towards it, he would always find a way to evade the damn bathroom. Unmoved, I dragged him to the bathroom and locked him inside. As soon as I closed the door, Dr. Jinx started whimpering! Jinxie, find George and eat him alive, I pleaded through the door. The whimpering continued. Then I heard a scratch. I thought he finally caught George. Imagine my astonishment when I opened the bathroom door and saw Dr. Jinx, not on the floor but at the top of the thin laundry line wobbling for dear life with wide eyes. I could not imagine how he got up there, considering that the laundry line was way over my head. Being trapped in a bathroom seemed to pump some adrenaline into the poor cat. Seriously, are cats capable of getting claustrophobia? Anyway, I got Dr. Jinx out of the bathroom and forcefully shooed George out. (while shrieking, of course) The moment George skittered on the room premises, Dr. Jinx grabbed him and chomped him down. But the whole ordeal left indelible memories on Dr. Jinx’s system. After that night, he never dared go anywhere near the bathroom door and would rather lie down at the bottom of the double-decked bed near my shoes. No George has been pestering us since then and I’m almost looking forward to meeting another George. Why? Well, he might be the key to finding out another one of Dr. Jinx’s well-kept secrets.

Are you the perfect Pinay?

2008-05-25T17:29:00.000-07:00

“Paglaki ko, gusto ko malaki suso ko…kasi yan po ang maganda at hinahangaan.” (When I grow up, I want my breasts to be big because that is what is beautiful and admired.)

My jaw dropped, nearly down to my knees. Although I did not hear the child say it herself, it was both a shocking and an enlightening piece of statement for me, for the host, and for the guest. I watched an episode of Media in Focus on ANC two weeks ago. Hosted by Luchi Cruz-Valdez, she talked about “The Perfect Pinay” with several guests from the media, most notably Emily Abrera, the incumbent Chairman Emeritus of advertising agency McCann Erickson Philippines. Abrera related to Valdez the results of a research they did on little kids aged five to seven. They asked the kids a lot of questions, one of which was what they want to be when they grow up. That was when a young girl dropped the bomb at their feet.

What the little girl said was not even close to what she should have answered but it definitely gave us an inkling as to how advertising has corrupted the most innocent of minds. We are raising a generation that is heavily exposed to mass media advertising. Television, print, radio, and the web all carry different kinds of messages that a young person absorbs, consciously or unconsciously each day. Due to the recurring nature of mass media, messages are reinforced, causing people to believe in them after several constant repetitions.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder but in reality, people generally have a common notion of what is beautiful and what is not. One of my teachers used to joke around saying, “If you don’t have good self-esteem, don’t look at the magazines. You’ll only get frustrated.” The beautiful image, the image of a “perfect Pinay” always presented by media is one who is fair-skinned, slim, booby, and flawless. No wonder people spend billions and billions of money on liposuction, breast enhancements, whitening products, and slimming pills just to fit the high standards of beauty that media has set. What the people don’t know and we probably never will is how much enhancement is being done behind the glamorous commercials and photo shoots. We will never know, for instance, how much of the pictures we see on the glossies are edited with photoshop or how the models were positioned against the camera to hide the wrong curves. So you see, the very industry that tries to promote the concept of a “perfect Pinay” is struggling to meet the standards of beauty, as well.

What I just don’t like about this whole distorted image of beauty is its effect on a child, like the child who was the inspiration for this article. Children are still at their formative years, trying to establish their own identity – trying to establish the kind of person they want to be. Exposing them to the image of beauty like the one currently projected by mainstream media will affect the way they want their own image to be. I wonder if in the future, we’ll see more people looking like they just popped out of a magazine. Even so, this view of beauty is so superficial I think God would complain that this is not the way He envisioned beauty to be. For such a deep word such as that being equated to merely being white, slim, booby, and flawless – oh my, we have a LOT of serious work to do.

The Miley Cyrus brouhaha

2008-05-15T19:22:00.000-07:00

It’s not one of those art versus pornography debates. Posing bareback while clutching a piece of silk cloth to cover the rest of her body, 15-year-old teen icon Miley Cyrus is a far cry from the sweet and innocent character she plays in Disney channel’s top-rating Hannah Montana. Since 2006, Cyrus has been hitting the boob tube with her portrayal of ordinary girl-next-door Miley Stewart who has a secret life of a pop star in the person of Hannah Montana. The show was an instant blockbuster, thrusting Cyrus further into the limelight. Last year, Forbes named her as one of the top 20 earners under 25 and today, she has earned two multi-platinum records. But along with her rise to fame comes an expected price: a bout of controversies.

In her case, all of them were controversial photos that spread through the internet. There are pictures of Cyrus sharing what seems to be licorice with a female friend, causing rumors of her being a lesbian. Then there are pictures of her wearing underwear with pouting, seductive lips. There are also pictures of her and her boyfriend kissing. The most recent addition to her growing collection of controversial photos was the bareback one that Vanity Fair released, stirring the sensibilities of a culture that witnessed similar precedents. Parents were a bit shocked and grew concerned of their little girls aged 12 to 18, who adore and emulate Cyrus short of kissing her toes. Will Cyrus continue to be a “good” role model? Will she follow the career trajectory of former teen stars Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears?

I started watching Hannah Montana last year and I enjoyed the show for its wholesome and comical nature, which makes it very lovable indeed. Had I been younger, I would have worshipped Cyrus like a goddess. However, I’m way over my teen years and all this hullabaloo over one photo doesn’t affect me at all. In fact, I love the photo. Very artistic and beautiful. Question is, do teenagers think the same way?

After the controversy broke out, I decided to watch Hannah Montana a little more closely. Like most people, the young can easily fall into the trap of thinking that the actress in real life is the same person they see and adore on television. They forget that they are two different persons existing in two different worlds of television and reality. It doesn’t help that the character’s name Miley is the real life actress’ name and the father of the character is played by her real life dad Billy Ray Cyrus. How can we tell the difference between the Miley on TV and the Miley in reality?

I may never know the real Miley Cyrus – the one without the lights, the camera, and the heavy makeup. If the Vanity Fair issue gave away a part of who she really is, I certainly don’t mind. After all, she is 15 and counting. We cannot hold her back from growing up into a more mature person. Whoever she is, I will still love the Miley on TV. If she graduates from her teenybopper role and start taking on more mature characters, well, that’s a different story.

My little piece of paradise

2008-04-23T12:16:00.000-07:00

So far, it has been one literal hell of a summer. Paranoid over coming down with heat stroke and dehydration, I have put into practice all the scientific and the unorthodox ways of coping with too much heat. That includes guzzling more than a dozen glasses of water per day, cutting my hair short, opening all windows in our living room, putting the air conditioning unit to maximum level, sweeping the floor of my bedroom every after 3 or 4 hours (I feel the room getting hotter when it’s messy. And if my parents are lucky, I would include their room in my cleaning agenda for the day.), wearing sunglasses inside the house, occasionally popping my head inside the freezer, and a whole lot more. Trust me, if the heat goes on longer, I swear I’m going to go nuts.

At times like these, all I really want is to be in this place – a little piece of paradise on earth.

This picture was taken on Black Saturday last Holy Week. Our clan was capping off the weeklong reunion, as we always do, on a small resort in Barili, Cebu. While the others were busy cooking food, eating, playing volleyball or mahjong, swimming, and singing (courtesy of the very trusty karaoke machine), I wandered off for a while and surveyed the beach. There, I found my place.

It was a shady spot where I could feel the soft billowing of the cool breeze, hear the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, and watch the blue sea stretching out to forever. I couldn’t resist the urge to bask in a glorious moment like that. I took my towel, spread it out like a mat, and sat cross-legged with a book, a pen, and a little notebook on my lap. I plugged some good music to my ears, drowning the sound of merrymaking in the background. Then, I got lost. Lost in all the beauty unfolding before me. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, slowly, painstakingly…like I was never going to breathe again. In my mind, I devoured the richness of life and pondered on the splendor of nature, making me realize I’m so lucky to be alive – to be able to see and feel how everything around me lives as well. It was, truly, a magical moment.

I would have stayed there the whole afternoon but you all know how our relatives are – always asking what we are up to. Turned out, while I was lost in my own world, the people from the real world were looking for me. Soon, I was tapped back to the present with them approaching and asking me, “What are you doing?” I just smiled and said, “Nothing.” Then I winked at them. If only they knew where I’ve been to.

Goodbye, Captain

2008-04-13T11:14:00.000-07:00

I vividly recall the day Captain came into my life. The midday sun was scorching hot and we were in my high school Science laboratory working on some experiment. My classmate Christian arrived with a backpack, the main zipper of which was slightly open. Out popped the head of the cutest dog I have ever seen! He was a plump little Japanese spitz with white and brown fur. My classmates and I squealed in delight. I have been pestering my classmates to give me a pup of my own and on that day, my wish was granted.

When I first brought him to our house, he was a quiet little fella. He didn’t know where to go or what to do so he just followed me around. I sat on the floor beside him. After a few seconds, he gently put his head on my lap and slept. Such a sweet dog. Of course, he was a pain in the neck at times. Few days after, he became very hyperactive that he chewed on our carpet and crashed on my stuffed toys. That was just the beginning of his craziness. Months later, he would chase my cats and knock over our neighbors’ flower pots.

I remember how he used to hate my cats because he was jealous of them. Whenever my attention was focused on the cats, he would whimper loudly. But later on, he befriended the cats and even went as far as playfully biting their tails. (I suspect it was some sort of revenge)

Despite all that, Captain was my best friend. It didn’t matter to him whether I was the best or the worst master. He gives me a look of assurance telling me that no matter what happens, he will always back me up. At times when I am down in the dumps, all I really need to do is to sit down in silence. His presence would be comforting enough. Sometimes, I even feel guilty for leaving him when I had to study in college. But whenever I get back home, he would still be the same Captain I left behind – mischievous, playful, and loyal. Sadly, today, no faithful comrade would be standing by the door to meet me.

I miss stroking his fur behind his ear. I miss giving him a bath. I miss changing the water on his bowl. I miss purposely tickling his ear with a piece of dry leaf. I miss cuddling him with all my might. I miss him jumping at me whenever I arrive after how many months of being in school. Above all, I just miss him. But then again, he might be in a better place now.

Goodbye Captain, my Captain, I’m still missing you…

Cebuano music at its best

2008-02-18T00:35:00.000-08:00

It has been over a month since the 28th Cebu Popular Music Festival but I still keep playing the songs over and over in my mind that I swear I don’t know when the last song(s) syndrome would end. I’m probably in awe because early this month, I ransacked music stores for a copy of the album. I finally found it in the music section of Metro Ayala. Anyway, I got the chance to hear and appreciate each song and I was awed not only by the entries but also by the arrangement of each piece. I rarely buy original albums because they cost a fortune for someone like me who’s used to coaxing friends into copying the songs or taking it the cheaper way – buy them from the streets. But since the album was locally produced and I couldn’t get a copy from my cousin Japril, (who by the way is the main reason why I even bothered to look for the album as she is one of the interpreters) I took the risk and shelved some of my savings that’s more than enough to buy myself a McDonald’s burger meal or a slice of Red Ribbon Chocolate Marjolaine. But upon hearing all those tracks in the album, I’d say it was all worth it.

Yeah I know that’s not really something new. To say that Cebuanos are musically gifted is like emphasizing a point that has already been underscored because a lot of artists who came from Cebu and other parts in Visayas and Mindanao are making it big in the industry. What amazes me is that the quality of the music is at par with those created in Manila. Musically speaking, we are ready to create and develop our own music industry right here in the south. But a greater and a more important question is: are we, the public, ready for it?

Personally, I am ready for it even if I was not exactly a fan of the language. Before, I would balk at the thought of reading something in Cebuano because I couldn’t understand the words. Even as a kid, I favored the English language in subtle ways. In the face of danger with a snake wriggling its tail at my feet, I could have shouted, “Bitin! Bitin!” Instead, I screamed, “Snake! Snake!” I was about five years old then. And when I talk in my sleep, my nanny would tell me in the morning I was speaking in English the whole time. But seeing how extremely talented our musicians, singers, and composers are and hearing how rich and sweet the Cebuano language sounds in a song, I’d say I’m looking forward to hearing more songs that would reflect our culture and our nature as a people. And it’s safe to say that I’ve changed my perspective about the language.

But there’s more to preparation than just appreciating the language. That’s just the first step. The next crucial step would involve asking ourselves how far we will go to support the industry. Because the music industry, as in any other industry, would still rely on financial returns. It may survive but it could struggle against people’s reluctance to buy the albums and the preference as well to buy the original copy than the pirated version. (Ouch, did something just hit me or what?) Well, that’s something to mull about. As for me, I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

bicentennial man teaches social science

2008-02-11T22:51:00.000-08:00

Flipping across channels on a Sunday night, I came across Bicentennial Man. The first few scenes seemed familiar but halfway through, I realized I haven’t watched the whole movie so I put down the remote control and watched it until the end. Bicentennial Man was played by the very talented Robin Williams, who happens to be one of my favorite actors of all time. The story was set in a futuristic era where robots coexist with humans. Williams plays a robot named Andrew. He was sent to a family, who treated him well as if he really was part of it. Then the unthinkable happened. Andrew started to acquire human emotions and intelligence. I doubt if that is technologically possible but anyway, this entry isn’t a review of the movie. There was one scene in the movie that keeps playing again and again in my mind.

It was the scene where Andrew’s master discovered that he had a potential. Andrew used to help around the house. Andrew’s master told him at that moment that he will no longer work and will just focus on reading and studying – which of course was one of the factors as to why he became a really smart robot. That scene reminded me of my social science class where my teacher Sir Mike asked us what we noticed about the kids in a milk commercial that promises to spawn “gifted” children. If you drink that milk, your child could have an IQ so high your kid can be a pianist, violinist, math whiz, or a chess champ. Impressive huh. So if a ratty kid from the street drinks that milk, will he have more chances of becoming any of those above? Well, the thing with that milk commercial, it portrays kids from well-off families.

If we watch the commercial closely, these kids are well-dressed, educated, and can spend all the time in the world focusing on becoming who they want to be because their parents can back them up. In contrast, the kid from the street does not have all the luxury and lives each day finding food for himself and his family so they can eat and survive. Translate that to psychology and we come face to face with Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, which states that physiological needs come first before self-fulfillment. Of course, how would you expect a kid to pursue his talents with an empty stomach?

I’m not saying that underprivileged kids are doomed because a lot of people have proven that they can rise above the odds with patience and a lot of hard work. In the end, what matters more is how we cope with our respective situations. I just hope they know that.

sinfully sweet

2008-01-28T21:24:00.000-08:00

Now this is supposed to look yummy. It's a Chocolate Marjolaine cake from Red Ribbon I indulged in last week when we stopped over at Ayala Mall before going home from training. It was really delicious but somehow in the picture, it looks kind of weird and when I showed the picture to my brother, he wasn't at all interested. (Said the cake doesn't look appetizing enough for him.) The lighting is a little bad. But while tinkering with the computer and all the wonders you can do with Picture Manager, I managed to make it more interesting.

Now this looks more tempting. Agree? Yum. Yum. Yum!

chopsuey for New Year

2008-01-18T17:26:00.000-08:00

I didn’t exactly have chopsuey on New Year’s Eve.

I had pansit, sweet and sour fish fillet, beef, and lechon so small we suspected it was a Chihuahua in disguise. But my experiences during the months before the year ended were bursting with a variety of fun moments and bittersweet realizations that it seemed I just swallowed a whole bowl of chopsuey!

Let me start with the more serious part of this entry. Several months have passed since my last post. The last post I wrote was about my current occupation of answering calls from people at the other side of the globe. Well, I still do now. The only difference before and now is that I’m getting the hang of it – to the point that if my customer gets irate, I get irate too. Hahaha! Not that I advise it. I mean, we’re supposed to “care” for our customers. But when people get mad, their overwhelming emotions cloud their judgment and they say a lot of things irrelevant to the issue. I just want to give them a taste of their own medicine, so either I answer back or channel my anger in more subtle ways like putting them on hold longer. Newbies, you shouldn’t be reading this. Anyway, the good thing is I have fulfilled my end of the contract. But to be honest about it, I’m not only relieved. I’m anxious as well. Why? Because that means I have to face another crossroad: What next and where to? If there is one good thing about this current job, it is that it made me realize that you have to find a job that you’re really passionate about because you spend almost all your day working. If you’re unhappy about your job, you’re going to be unhappy for most of the day…and logically, for most of your life! Been there. Still am there. So if it all boils down to passion, what am I passionate about?

“I have decided to avoid employment in mainstream media because I do not want to be caught in a situation where I have to compromise my ethical values. The media is one of those places where you can most likely trade your ideals for money. I’d rather be employed in a corporation, whose nature is admittedly profit-oriented than be employed in a media institution, whose nature is also profit-oriented, hiding under the guise of public service. I was once fooled into thinking that if I become a part of mainstream media, I could affect people’s lives and fight for what is true. Well, that is partly correct. But it happens if and only if it will not collide with the personal interests of the media owners. Otherwise, it is best to shut up if you don’t want to be fired. At least in a private company, I know clearly what I am working for. No icing on the cake. No false guises. Just… reality. And just what I want at this point in my life…”

Shortly after I graduated, I boldly made a statement about being employed in mainstream media. Looking back, I realized that the way I wrote it, I gave the impression that it is media per se that I’m trying to avoid. But what I was only trying to avoid is the kind of inner conflict I’ve dealt with as a Mass Communication student. I thought that by getting away from the field I’ve been in for four years would mean getting away from all the conflict. But now, 6 months later and with more gray hairs on my head, I realized it’s not where you are – whether you’re in media or you’re in a corporation – that matters. Wherever you are, you will always and continually encounter struggles within and beyond yourself. Struggles that test you how far your principles and your personal values can go. But these are actually little details of life that make you scream and fight. And in the end, they make a stronger person out of you. It’s quite interesting, looking back at all these and wondering why I wasn’t able to see the grain of truth hidden behind all these. But then again, now that I’m already out in the real world, the hallowed halls of my school can no longer shelter me from causing myself further trouble. Whereas before, my teachers could just warn me of impending dangers ahead, now I have to steer the wheel and explore it all on my own while picking up my lessons along the way. It’s tough but it’s inevitable. Well, this is life, as what they all say…

I don’t want to turn this post into a melodrama of sorts so let’s get to the fun part. Whoopee! I’ve always been a fun-loving person. With all the unnecessary stress we get from our job, three of my batch mates and currently my colleagues in the call center industry, and I decided to go out after the last shift of the week before the year ended – probably to ward the stress and bad luck for the coming year. Mark, Jeiko, Raine, and I went knocking pins and pulling each other’s leg at SM Bowling Center. Then our childhood kept haunting us back that we couldn’t resist a ride in bumper cars. I guess what was a little embarrassing was that our competitors were little kids but we didn’t care and just stepped hard on the pedal, trying to avoid bumping into each other and the kids. We watched a movie next, ate pizza, and to top the big event… tadaaaa… karaoke galore with the drinks on the side! We sang and drank and danced to our hearts’ delight. We even wanted to go bar-hopping after that but the beer had already taken its toll so we decided to end the night with an after-drink dinner instead.

The Power Four at Yellow Cab

Strike! (Please don't embarrass me...)

I'm innocent! I was just singing and you accuse me of...drinking?!?

That’s just about it. Not exactly ending the year with a bang but lessons were learned and friends were made. So I’m just contented about it. The new year has come and I’m wondering what’s in store for me. I can’t wait to find out.

first stop: call center

2007-09-15T01:55:00.000-07:00

"What?!? You’re working in a call center?!?" (Translation: Are you out of your mind?) "Well, it’s your choice…" (Translation: You are indeed out of your mind and you’re making a wrong decision.)

When I verbally announced my plans of working in a call center, I was swarmed with a lot of people – not to wish me luck or pat my back for a wise decision made, but to object and hopefully dissuade me from doing such. Truth of the matter is, it was an expected reaction from people. I mean, I too, was one of those people who’d rank a call center as the last in my list of prospective workplaces. Before, I could have almost sworn that I won’t ever work in a call center. Good thing I didn’t because, well, here I am. In the flesh. Working as a call center agent.

No, I’m not out of my mind (yet). The first few days of training were so fun that I actually looked forward to go to work everyday. Aside from it being a totally new experience for me, I met other people and learned a couple of other stuff. It was like going back to school but this time, it was all about our client and their products. It was all about the right things to say and being able to say it in a matter of seconds. Sounds pretty easy, right? But lately, we’ve been thrown to the dungeon of lions that it got me asking, "What have I gotten into?"

In layman’s terms, we’ve been taking in calls and that means being the target of upset and irate customers who’d do anything and everything to get on your nerves if you can’t give them what they want. Just like everyone else, I thought working in a call center meant an easy job – just taking in calls and answering people’s questions. I wish it was as simple as that. But customer service is not. On top of hitting specific metrics like how good the call was or how we treated the customer (even if the customer is yelling like hell) or if we ever attempted to sell products of the client, we are primarily the middle ground between our client and our customers. To the client, we are the voice of the customers. To the customers, we are the voice of the client. And sometimes, it’s hard to hold both of them on the same ground.

It’s been two months going on three and I’d be a real hypocrite if I say, without batting an eyelash, that I like what I do. That I never attempted to walk away from this job. That I never whined about the high stress levels I had to put up with. Charge me, I’m guilty. To make things worse, people kept on telling me I won’t get anything out of this job but stress and additional pounds and I actually started to believe it. I started to complain. And complained some more when I realized I can’t just walk away from my job because of the contract I signed. Damn contract. I could actually just walk away, you know, but I felt somehow liable for it. Even in my disappointed state, it felt so wrong to do that. So you see, I wedged myself in a very tight situation where the only reasonable option is to stay. I sulked, nagged, and screamed. I cursed my job and I abhorred my callers. Everyday was an agony to the point that I’d lose my appetite just thinking that I have to go back to work again.

I couldn’t remember how or when but it must have been the point where I was just too tired to complain when it dawned on me that I may not have full control of all the circumstances but I do have a choice – no, not a choice between staying and leaving, but a choice on how I’m going to live my life despite the fact that it didn’t take me to where I really wanted to be. A thought occurred to me that perhaps what I needed at this point in my life is a change in perspective. What if I just stop complaining? It’s doing me no good anyway. Besides, I presume it won’t be the first and the last time I’ll get myself into this sticky situation. What if I just look at all these in a different, positive light? Would my life now be any better? That thought lingered on my mind for days for the first time in four years, the saying I’ve long adored, "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul," gave me a new meaning. I may never hold the power to calm the maddening waves in the sea but I can change the way I maneuver my ship so I can still reach my destination safely. In this lifetime, circumstances and our own actions may lead us to places where we don’t want to go but let us consider them part of our journey and instead, turn them into opportunities for learning. Lessons. We can never have too much of them. In every situation and in every circumstance, there will always be little truths and little lessons that we can uncover. It’s just a matter of knowing where and how to find them.

So now, it’s been two months going on three. Yes, I’m still stuck in this job. Despite everything, I still consider myself fortunate. Many people would kill just to have a job. In this country where the jobless greatly outnumber the job opportunities, I’m one lucky dudette. Yes, I’m still stuck in this job but the lessons keep coming. And I’m staying – at least for now. Let’s just say that in the course of my career path, I’m taking my first stop. I’ll never know for sure. It might not be what I wanted but it might be the very thing I needed…

why media is not for me

2007-06-30T23:05:00.000-07:00

“…and remember, dress properly, be courteous…” And so goes the litany of last-minute reminders. I was packing my things for my trip back to Cebu after a two-week vacation in my hometown in Leyte. (where all I did was to eat, maximize our cable television, surf the internet at wee hours, and sleep) My mother was going in and out of my bedroom, bringing my ironed clothes and checking if I forgot to pack any of my belongings. We managed to slip in the perfunctory mother-daughter conversation. Had I known better, my mother is as anxious as I am in entering the yet unfamiliar terrains of the real world – the world after university education, where one has to deal with real problems concerning survival, money, and career.

Fresh graduates have an edge over more seasoned workers when it comes to applying for jobs, a colleague of mine once remarked, because their minds are still teeming with much gusto and idealism. College students, when they graduate, set their gears in motion to put into practice all the years of theory that school has taught them. They are eager and excited to take on the new challenges of life.

Imagine them as little kids who have just discovered the power of their arms and hands. To their delight, they start to crawl around and crawl some more until they, too, find out about their legs and the marvels they could do with those two tiny feet. Fresh graduates are like those kids, trying to take a big plunge into that great career pool and testing the current if it is calm enough for one to be allowed to struggle in and across it, and if the circumstances are favorable, he or she may be swimming towards the other side in no time. But while others have gone diving – discovering their strengths and weaknesses in their fields, I have remained at the edges with much conviction, skittering…skittering…and skittering still.

When people leave the halls of the university, they have more or less conceived notions on how they will be spending most of their lives. I had my ideas, too. In fact, way before college, I was determined to pursue a career in journalism. My greatest ambition then was to work as a journalist in one of the nation’s daily broadsheets. The vision was simple: me, sitting on a desk, typing away words that come bumping into my head, and finding that article on print the very next day. I was so enamored by the thought that without hesitations, I told my parents I was going to take up Mass Communication in college. Even if I knew they wanted me to follow their footsteps and take an education course, they gave me their blessing. Back then, people prophesied that I’d be the next Korina Sanchez or Bobby Nalzaro. Though I was quick to dismiss their forecasts as premature, I still dreamed my childhood dream and I thought nothing could ever dissuade me from pursuing such. But then, reality took on an entirely different meaning in college. Reality was…REAL…so real that I could smell it, touch it, and grasp it with my own hands. So real that the little things I used to ignore were now larger than what my eyes could take in. So real that one by one, the pieces started falling into place – but not without first landing smack on my face.

One of the most frustrating moments in your life is when you realize how different and how great the difference is between reality and idealism. In the four walls of the classroom, you are taught clearly what is black and white but outside the confines of that room, you’ll see that the world is marked with a lot of grey areas. I’m one of those ordinary people whose ideas are not lived up to by reality. When one gets to see the starkness of reality, one would feel giddy about it on impulse – having seen something so close which others are not privy to. At first, one would feel an overwhelming sense of power that comes from the mere knowledge of it. But those first moments have long passed and now I am only left with one thing: reality, in its naked form.

In school, we have always been taught that media is the fourth estate of a democracy and an important catalyst of change. Media practitioners should be objective, fair, and at all times, ethical. But in this world where there is no equality, where money is powerful, and where greedy people run the political system, all those high-sounding words, remain to be words…and ideas in our heads. The great burning dream of mine was reduced to ashes that dissipated, piece by piece, to the wind and nevermore. Thus, I stumbled across one of the many roadblocks in life.

I have decided to avoid employment in mainstream media because I do not want to be caught in a situation where I have to compromise my ethical values. The media is one of those places where you can most likely trade your ideals for money. I’d rather be employed in a corporation, whose nature is admittedly profit-oriented than be employed in a media institution, whose nature is also profit-oriented, hiding under the guise of public service. I was once fooled into thinking that if I become a part of mainstream media, I could affect people’s lives and fight for what is true. Well, that is partly correct. But it happens if and only if it will not collide with the personal interests of the media owners. Otherwise, it is best to shut up if you don’t want to be fired. At least in a private company, I know clearly what I am working for. No icing on the cake. No false guises. Just… reality. And just what I want at this point in my life…

best place next to home

2007-06-03T11:11:00.000-07:00

For the past twenty years of my existence, I have spent most of my Holy Weeks in Barili, the hometown of my father located at the southern part of Cebu. Save for that particular week during the year, my grandmother’s house is relatively quiet. But as Holy Tuesday steps in, people start pouring into the house, lugging baggages, appliances, little kids, and beautiful memories behind. My grandmother’s house would seem to glow from all the noise and bustle inside it – the sound of hammers fixing the wooden figures of the family caro, the music and the voices coming from the rented karaoke machine, the crying and screaming of little kids, the laughter of binatas and the dalagas talking about the latest happenings in their lives, the conversations of the mothers, fathers, aunts, and uncles on how the kids have grown, and so on and so forth. It is no longer the lonely house it was during most of the days of the year. For the next few days, it becomes our home.

Tradition has it that every Holy Week, all the eleven sons and daughters of my lola Guadalupe Alquizola-Yap gather in her house not only to observe the Holy Week but also to participate in a family-held custom – to decorate, arrange, and parade the family caro every Holy Wednesday. In a way, we are obliged to be there since it’s a family thing. But then, as the saying “the more, the merrier” goes, all the preparations we undertake can hardly be called tasks since we enjoy working together and catching up on each other in between. Amid all the fuss of arranging the flowers and dressing up the life-sized figures of Jesus the Nazarene, Simon, the Centurion, and the rest, we manage to pop in a little chitchat. Our efforts, after all, are not in vain. We are rewarded by delicious meals prepared by the mothers at home. And it’s no ordinary meal. In honor of the occasion, it’s almost like a feast.

Tuesdays and Wednesdays seem to roll by quickly with the busy schedule. But as Thursday morning peeps in, everyone can sit back, relax, and savor the rest of the week. I know Holy Week should be a time for reflection and prayer but it seems to be the only perfect excuse for everyone to leave their jobs and classes behind. We only meet once a year as a big family so we don’t let it pass without having some fun. This is where the karaoke showdown, the movie marathon, and the small trips to scenic spots come in. The week is usually concluded with a day or a day and a night at the beach, complete with the inuman sessions, night swimming, and eating.

On a personal note, here are the things that I really love most about staying in Barili for the Holy Week: (1) I like the feel of being united as a big family, despite the generation differences. Today, there are about three generations of our family gathering in my lola’s house and our family just keeps on growing! (2) I especially like meal times, even if we have to go by batches since the dining table can definitely not accommodate all of us in one sitting. I like meal times because aside from my obvious affection for food, meal times are usually accompanied by small jokes thrown at each other at the dining table. (3) Bedtimes are sometimes a headache. The house has only five rooms. Imagine trying to fit in eleven sons and daughters plus the children and the grandchildren in one house. Some end up sleeping on mats spread out on the floor. Just last Holy Week, the five of the older girl-cousins – that’s me, Japril, Pauline, Ella, and Julie Ann – had to make do with one bed. Three of us had to sleep sideways so we won’t all fall out of the bed. Hahaha! That’s actually a fun part of it. Since we girls are inseparable during those days, we push the limits harder. Even the smallest nook of the house can become a haven as long as we’re together and we can talk about our love lives and sing together. (4) Do you know that since time immemorial, (okay, that was just an overstatement) we girl-cousins take a bath together? I’m not really sure if it saves time and water. But we love it anyway. (5) Lastly, I love being with my cousins. I’m lucky that I have cousins who have (more or less) the same age as mine. I see how we have grown from awkward kids to mature adolescents. I can now recollect fond memories of my childhood in that house and I can see the difference between then and now. For instance, back then we really love riding the trisikad at night to get some fresh air and to tour around the town proper. Now, we do it because we want to be on the lookout for cute guys. Before, we play with our toys and we even cringe at the mere thought of us having boyfriends. But today, guess the main topic of our conversations? Mostly about the things we eewed and ughed before – boys plus relationship and dating. We really have grown up.

As I write this article, a wave of nostalgia hits me as I realize that as we grow up, our priorities change. For those who have finished college like me, our work becomes our priority. Some of my cousins cannot make it to the Holy Week gatherings because they work as seamen abroad. And with the looming crisis facing our country, some members of our family plan to leave the country for good. I hope that one day, I wouldn’t have to miss the gathering for other things in this life. But just in case I do, I still would like to go back to that house once in a while – Holy Week or not. It is, after all, the best place next to home.

Thank you

2007-05-03T12:47:00.000-07:00

It has been over a week since I graduated. Yes, the ordeal is over. After what seemed like an eternity waiting for the verdict of the University Council, I finally donned my sablay, walked onstage, took the fruit of my four years’ hard work, and shook hands with the university president. Man, that was just overwhelming. I was nearly brought to tears as I was walking up the stage with my parents because it was only until then when the reality that I was actually graduating sank in! The problem with our curriculum threatened our chances for graduation but I was not overly worried about it. Well, my teachers were confident that the council would let us graduate, considering it wasn’t our fault to begin with and considering the consequence that we would probably sue them if they wouldn’t. Still, graduating was like a distant dream for me. All the time, I was hovering in my own little world of dreams that I didn’t notice one of them was coming true – for real. You see, after the final defense of my thesis, I temporarily shut myself out to the world. I was dead tired and drained to the last drop of blood and tears. I took a supposedly short break during the Holy Week and spent it with my musically-inclined family and relatives in my father’s hometown in Barili. But I missed vacation too much that I generously allowed myself to bum the week after that. The thought of graduation was far from my mind since I wasn’t sure I would be graduating anyway. So when the good news broke out that majority of the members of the University Council decided to let us graduate after the deliberations, all I did was to shout, in my half-drunken state, “Makagraduate ko!” I jumped up and down, sang my heart out, drank more than a little, ate a full meal after, and threw up. (I’m actually allergic to beer. My brothers say it’s in the genes.) In other words, it seemed as if I just heard a joke and I laughed it off. Silly me. But well, I did graduate and reality finally snapped me back to the present.

So now I’m standing at the door of a new chapter of my life. I’m about to join the country’s labor and tax-paying force. As of press time, I haven’t sent an application letter or résumé. Er, maybe I’ll bum a little more while planning my next moves in the chessboard of life. In the meantime, my heart is bursting with profuse thanks for the people who helped me course through my college life. For sure, they didn’t make the journey easier but they made the trip worth it. To my parents, for giving me the go signal in the times when I’m about to venture into something new and for knowing when to bring down the red light when my foolishness got the better of me. My brothers and my sister-in-law, for being my professional support system. You guys might suspect that I have more crazy bones in my body but you still backed me up whatever decision I made. To my teachers, whom I have cursed because I sometimes found them unreasonable and unjust, thank you – for all the things I’ve learned in the four years that I stayed in the university. To my block mates, who have seen me grow (and ehem, mature?) and practically grew up with me. You brought the best and the worst in me. I didn’t cry during graduation (it didn’t occur to me yet that from now on, we’d go our own separate ways) but I know that days from now, I’ll be sobbing on my own because I’ll be terribly missing our food trips, night-outs, even the casual conversations in class. To my friends and all the good acquaintances I’ve made, you made my college years rock and roll. You’re the best! Lastly, and definitely not the least, the Lord Almighty, whom I have doubted, trusted, doubted again, and trusted again but who – amidst all those weaknesses, always picked me up when I fell and never failed to teach me the right lessons. For embracing me with loving arms, Father, I thank you. Have Your will in me.

pre-graduation jitters

2007-04-14T06:23:00.000-07:00

After going through several moments of despair over a backlog of thesis work set aside for other demanding short-term requirements, after crying over the spilled milk of an exam not answered well because you hung out at the local videoke stop-over with friends believing it would “energize” your already tired brains and muscles and help you in the next day’s exam, after working straight hours to beat the deadliest deadlines even if it meant missing baths and meals, I now sit here in front of our trusty computer, praying it would not shut itself down after being abused over the past four years of my college existence. I sit here while sipping hot Swiss Miss chocolate and reminiscing the past months of blog silence, wondering where I should start picking the pieces up to fill in what happened to me in those times. But truth to tell, I barely noticed those three months pass me by. Everything now seems like a blur and I am momentarily experiencing a short-term memory loss because I am just too overwhelmed to have been able to comply with my school requirements. I am now looking forward to graduation, which is set on the 26^th of April. But oh well, compliance to requirements aside, an unforeseen dilemma caught us all off guard. Our batch was supposedly the first batch to graduate under the new curriculum but along the way of the bureaucratic process, our college was not furnished with the formal notice regarding the implementation of the curriculum. Hence, our division continued using the old curriculum. After we processed our papers for graduation, we found out, to our dismay, that we lacked three units. Uh-oh. So as of the moment, our graduation is still pending. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a positive outcome.

In the meantime, while enduring the torturous wait for our fate, I have to do some editing for my thesis. While on the process of editing, I remembered my memorable experiences working on it. Once, I had to visit the Christ for Asia Foundation office for an important interview. There I was, looking dignified and all, waiting for my interviewee who was still on field. Christ for Asia has a shelter for street kids both boys and girls. Because it was break time, they were so busy running around, climbing, shouting, and all the other things a kid would normally do. I just sat there contentedly watching them and reminiscing my own childhood days while the wind was silently blowing in my face. I was ready to drift off to dreamland when a kid took special notice of my hair and remarked that I had a grey hair sticking out of my head. Without any further ado, he gathered all his guts and triumphantly pulled the gray hair out and handed it to me. Chuckling a little, I managed to mumble a word of thanks. But instead of dropping it, he was more motivated to go on. He pulled out another one. And another. And another. In my head, I pictured him as the eager kid scientist and I was the unwilling specimen. But the kid scientist, it seemed, wanted to consult other scientists of his latest discovery. He called on his other colleagues for help! What?!? Before I could protest, the kids who were once rambunctiously playing were swarming around me and started picking out my gray hairs. Some were even boasting that they could pull out three gray hairs in one picking. Oh dear! I wanted to grip the scrunchie that was holding my hair but one mischievous little boy took it off. My hair was all over my head and I could only smile sheepishly at the passersby who were probably wondering what on earth was going on. Despite everything, I initiated a little chitchat with the kids, telling them to remember to leave a little hair on my head. We talked a little more. I tried to make them guess my age. Gray hairs must be kind of deceiving. One kid confidently announced, “Ninety!” I was so amused I couldn’t stop laughing. The naughty kids I saw in them seemed to transform into young adults, even telling me things like, “Te, daghan kaayo kag uban. Ayaw anang daghan kaayo kag uban kay lain man tan-awon. Bata pa ra ba ka.” I could only nod and smile in agreement. It felt weird being told by little kids half my age. But I don’t know. I kind of liked it. Maybe because it made me feel younger than my actual age. Maybe because I felt good hearing the thoughts of those young minds. Or maybe, right then and there – I was simply struck at the care those kids showed. To think, they need it more than I do. Yet they were unselfish about it. An hour later, I left with lesser gray hairs and a bigger realization: Never ever underestimate kids in their innocence. Sometimes, they make more sense than we do. Sometimes, they give more than we do. And sometimes, they enjoy life more than we do because they see its simple joys and little rewards.

And oh, before I left, the little girls combed through my hair with their hands, smoothed my hair, and put back my scrunchie and hairpins on. Although I could have done my hair better, I never touched it until I got home.

the first stretch of 2007

2007-01-21T22:29:00.000-08:00

It’s the first stretch of the year 2007. A literal stretch. A few days after classes resumed, I literally stretched my lazy bones and muscles to keep up with my daily student routine. After weeks of getting used to sleeping late, watching movies on HBO and cartoons on Cartoon Network and Disney nonstop, stuffing my tummy with anything my eyes deliciously feasted on, playing with my dog Captain and cat Mijay who loves to chomp my toes, and surfing the net during the wee hours in the morning, I wasn’t ready to go back to school. Not yet. Really, I think I acted like a bum during the first week of classes. I missed vacation so much that I swore after the last day of this semester, (that would be graduation day, granting of course…) I’m taking a mandatory rest period for me to enjoy myself. I’m thinking beach, food, cool air…

And before I drift off to dreamland, here are random things I’ve taken note of since I got back during the holidays:

a box of old notes and letters
I have a box of old notes and letters stashed in one of the upper cabinets in my bedroom in Leyte. I don’t know what got into me but it never occurred to me to throw them away because even if they are mere pieces of paper, they are precious. During the holidays, I had the luxury of browsing through those notes and letters that already smelled like antique pieces of furniture. I savored each note and letter with nostalgia and bliss. A lot of them revealed what was going on in my growing up years – the little tampuhans of my friends, my infatuation moments, and mostly, just about what went on around the classroom during discussions. I think I missed passing notes around. They rarely happen now in college when cell phones are allowed in the classroom. There’s a big difference between a note and a text message. Notes exude a personal touch; you can either hate or admire the handwriting of the sender, not to mention that the message is written in full text, which makes the message clearer and almost always undisputable. Text messages are impersonal, sent in the same font and color and written in abbreviations that will take more minutes to decipher if you’re not used to it. The message loses its momentum. Notes are passed by human hands. (hopefully, not the teacher’s as the note will surely be confiscated) It adds excitement as each curious hand tries to pry open the note. The sender glares at the intruder of the privacy hopefully to scare his guts off. The intruder, your classmate, winks jokingly in surrender and proceeds with the human networking of the message. Text messages are sent via the communication company’s network, which sometimes goes haywire and the message ends up with the wrong person. You might end up in an altercation who first texted who. Well, I’m a traditionalist so I find notes and letters more appealing. So if you do have time, drop me a note for me to keep in my stash.

Metro Manila Film Festival
Yesterday, I was able to watch a portion of the live telecast of the Golden Globe Awards. Hollywood stars donned their best gowns and tuxedos for that great opportunity to be thrust into the limelight. They looked beautiful, elegant, and dignified. Dignified, not because they are wearing multi-million dollar clothes but dignified, because the event itself exudes an aura of dignity and credibility. I can’t help but compare the Golden Globe to our controversial Metro Manila Film Festival. I haven’t watched any of those films vying for awards at the MMFF so I’m in no position to say which film should have won the Best Picture. But if the rebuttal of our dear MMDA Chairman Bayani Fernando, who happens to be one of the judges, includes the revelation that forty percent (40%) of the criteria rests on movie earnings, well excuse me, I beg to disagree. Point Sir, earnings are indeed a determining factor of a really good movie but it’s not always the case, especially in the Philippine setting. The problem with our current film industry today is that producers are so contentedly wrapped up in their comfort zones, relying on tried-and-tested formulas for blockbuster hits. As long as they earn, they don’t care at all even if the movie is a copy of some Hollywood movie. I’m talking of quality films here. Films that move people to think. Films that educate. Films that expose social realities. Apparently, what we have right now are more of entertainment. Put in a hunk of an actor, a super hero, or a scantily-clad sexy star and you’re good to go. You’re going to rake in big bucks, baby! But what do the people get? An hour or two’s worth of entertainment? And then what next? Sadly, that’s the politics of it all. Sheesh. Even in movies, politics exists. Well, as political science students always assert, everything is political.

A kid again

2006-12-30T13:57:00.000-08:00

Another year has again gone by. And age is surely catching up with me. But before I turn this entry into one of those sentimental, waah!-I-am-getting-older posts, happy holidays to everyone! Don’t we just love this season? A season of giving and loving and eating. And in my case, a season of going back to the neighborhood I grew up in.

As soon as vacation stepped in, I rushed home to Leyte. Ah, my neighborhood is still basically the same one I left four years ago when I decided to study in Cebu for college. Not many people would find my neighborhood very appealing but for someone like me who grew up there, every street, every tree, and every living mark of my childhood is precious to me. They hold a thousand memories forever carved in my consciousness. It can’t be helped that when you walk through all those things in the present, you recall your past. Once, when I passed by the small canal near our house, I nearly laughed my head off when I remembered how I unsuccessfully tried to do an acrobatic trick – walk across it using a flat piece of wood. Thing is, I was competing for space with a huge basin of water because that wood was actually used to hold basins when people get water from the faucet beside it. I tried in vain to walk around it with my arms spread out as if I were a bird. One problem with me, however, is that I have poor balance. Whoosh! The wood tipped to one side, dropping me into the canal with the basin of water tumbling after and over me. Not really my idea of a good bath.

When I also look at the banana trees in our place, it brings to my mind the days when my adventurous spirit overwhelmed me while my neighbors and I were playing a sort of Indiana Jones game. I grabbed one dead banana branch still hanging from the trunk. I tugged once. I tugged twice. Hah! Perfect. It’s intact. Summoning all my strength and the powers of Tarzan, I swung myself from the branch. I might as well have shouted, “A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h….o-w-w-w-w!” As the branch snapped, I fell on my butt, and slid downhill. Oh well, so much for role-playing games.

It’s a refreshing and fulfilling experience altogether to realize you were once foolish, naughty, and clumsy. And even more surprising, when you find out you still are today. Whoever said that there’s always a child within us is a genius. And sometimes, it’s good to revert to the child we once were because in childhood, there is simplicity and wonder in how we look at the things in life. There’s always that spark, that magic that keeps us awed at how beautiful and fun life can be.

A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year everyone. This season, let the kids in us shine forth with happiness and love, just like the child who was born in a manger wrapped in swaddling clothes, and brought us peace and salvation here on earth.

The Glare, the Blot, and the Wave

2006-11-12T08:28:00.000-08:00

What is there behind the glare of the lights, the blot of the ink, and the wave of the sound?

Political scientists define democracy as the rule of the people, by the people, and for the people. To us Filipinos, it means nothing greater than the shedding of the lifeblood by a few of our fellow countrymen in sheer defiance of passively sucking the miasma of tyranny and oppression that slowly poisoned the whole nation. Our country has a long, despotic history of colonial rule. Add to that 20 years of Martial Law and we now see a nation battered by the past and bereft of a “real” identity. But on the other side of the coin, history made a vigilant people out of us. EDSA 1 and 2 proved that we are no longer tolerant of erring leaders – that we no longer wanted to be subjected to any kind of force that would suppress our will. We thirsted for freedom more than anything else!

FREEDOM. It is one of the most basic tenets of democracy. Freedom of speech. Freedom of the press. Media is, after all, the fourth estate that helped restore this democracy – from the underground newspapers run by propagandists during the Spanish colonial rule, to the radio power during EDSA 1 and to the multimedia revolt of EDSA 2.

Idealistically speaking, media exists as a supporting link in a check-and-balance system of a democracy. But being a private enterprise, media has its share of issues that are too hard to ignore.

Media as a business is one big issue because the question on objectivity and fairness is always raised against the social, political, and economic interests of the media owners. The clash of news versus entertainment is another battleground as news organizations are reminded to fulfill their social responsibility and public accountability. Media practitioners today face serious threats as the country climbs to the second spot of being the most dangerous place for journalists to work in. Since the Marcos era, the number of journalist killings has been rising. And out of this number, only a few were resolved.

This year’s celebration of press freedom week attempted to touch base with these issues through a film showing, panel discussions, and open fora on matters relevant to the industry. And so, as a mass communication student myself, I thus make an attempt to make some sense of all the inputs I have consolidated during the weeklong celebration.

KILLING JOURNALISTS: The Cebu Experience

As their contribution to the press freedom week celebration, Sun Star Cebu copy editor Publio Briones III produced and directed a documentary, Killing Journalists: The Cebu Experience written by none other than Sun Star Editor-in-Chief himself Atty. Pachico Seares and edited by Ruel Antipuesto. The title of the documentary speaks volumes of the topic: the spate of killings that has claimed numerous lives of journalists.

The film showing was followed by an open forum with a panel of reactors from different media organizations/institutions and with a curious audience of students, some journalists, and visitors from other sectors of the society.

The film pointed out that most of the killings are not job-related. Some journalists sidelined as police assets and public relations agents for politicians. Others practiced corruption. Although journalist killings can be considered as an attack to the media, the motive is not to stifle the media people but rather to correct or probably to strike back in vengeance for what the media people did that have no bearing at all in being a journalist. Which brings us to the issue of secondary employment.

It is a well-known fact that a journalist’s job doesn’t pay much, which is mainly the reason why some journalists resort to other income-generating side lines to augment their salary. Madam Mayette Tabada rightfully raised the issue on how the news organizations can assist their reporters in assuring them the security of their tenure so that they will no longer seek other jobs that could compromise their safety and values (conflict of interest).

“Why hire them (reporters with secondary employment)?” somebody pointed out. If secondary employment is the root of the killings, why should media institutions plunge deeper into dangerous grounds? I am only familiar with Sun Star Cebu’s policy on secondary employment – that reporters are required to divulge their side line jobs. But it doesn’t necessarily prevent reporters from taking other jobs.

Personally, I think we should accept as part of the reality that we cannot control other people’s decisions to take other jobs for extra income to sustain their daily needs.

“What about killings that are work-related?” Somewhere along this line of thinking, my thoughts branched out to the Mass Communication students. Since we are well-acquainted with both the skills and the ethics of working in the media, why are these still happening? In our ethics class, the best standard of ethics is a clear conscience. Lunsay nga konsensya, if Mr. Leo Lastimosa were to put it. But a closer look at the media right now would reveal that most of them are not Mass Communication graduates. I remember Ms. Portia Dacalos from the Office of the Student Affairs once asked me why is it that our course is female-dominated yet media remains to be male-dominated. (although the latter is starting to change through the years) Point is, where are Mass Communication graduates going? And why are they not in the media industry? It’s an interesting topic of study. Is it because of the relatively low financial compensation? Is it because of the dangers of the profession? Is it because of disillusionment? I can only speculate.

For those interested in pursuing a career in journalism however, I emphasize that ethics and conscience should be the guiding principles in reporting the news. Sun Star columnist Eddie Barrita said, “Don’t call him crazy even if he is.”

I would also like to note that the kind of media that we have right now is an “attack-and-attack” media, which I believe is not a healthy sign of the current state of the industry. When I interviewed radio personality Nanding Celeste for the CJJ2 handbook, he said: “Musaway gani ka, kanang dili sad ka salawayon. Unya pananlitan mu-criticize ka, kinahanglang naa kay suggestions… the principle is this, musulti lang gyud ka sa tinuod. I think media should go beyond criticizing the government or the ordinary people because theoretically, agenda-setting will mould people’s minds that officials are generally corrupt and there is no hope for our country to prosper so we might as well leave the country for good. I am not favoring the side of politicians. I myself am convinced that corruption exists. What I am trying to say is that we have yet to see a kind of media that would offer solutions (constructive criticism) and not just merely comment on what is happening around.

To end this reaction, I would like to share this quote from Nanding Celeste who has spent 47 years in the media industry. (Note: He said this in the context of “new trends” in radio broadcasting, like being able to say bad words like “buang” to a judge on air.)

“Himuang inspirasyon ang proper ethics sa journalism. Sunod gyud sa inyong nakat-unan, nga dili tungod kay nay bag-ong trend nga wa gitudlo diha kaninyo nga mulunot mo sa bag-ong trend.”

Goodnight and Good Luck

Directed by George Clooney, the movie “Good Night and Good Luck” candidly portrays the conflict of interests surrounding the broadcast media industry. At the outset, the battle between Edward Murrow and Senator Joseph McCarthy is the most obvious conflict. Exchanging heated words on air, the two caught the attention of all America. Further analysis however, would reveal that behind the broadcast media’s ubiquity and influence, issues exist such as news versus entertainment and business versus social responsibility.

The face of Filipino prime time television is ENTERTAINMENT. Which is why we now have Koreanovelas and fantaseryes invading our households every night. Apart from the statistics that indicate a greater number of the masa than ABC classes, I believe it is more of the culture that we have. Filipinos are very fatalistic – bahala na, to put it more concretely. Somehow, we are a passive people, brought about by the long periods of colonial rule. Television is our escape medium from all our troubles. Momentarily, we are swept by dramatic and comedic moments on television. But it doesn’t mean that media should necessarily give what the people want. If the media has a firm will to give the people more relevant programs, it actually can. However, most or all of time, at the mercy of the second issue highlighted in the movie.

Business vs. Social Responsibility. Here is a snippet from one of my past interviews with Super Balita Managing Editor Emmanuel Mongaya:

“We try to cater to BCD nga market bitaw. Sa BCD market, the usual tabloid stuff. Hold-up. Patay. Artista. What sells. Kung as far as social concerns, we try to put it inside. Ambot lang. Nasuwayan namo sa una, mga issues nga makaayo sa tawo [ibutang sa front page], di mamalit. Daghan kaayong magreklamo mga teachers, students. Ethics kuno, nganong pirmi patay. Pero people don’t buy it. Mamatay ang newspaper.”

The quote vividly illustrates the conflict of running a paper (or a media institution). Media is a private enterprise our country so although it is free from government control, its freedom can not go that far as it should brings profit to the media owners or please its advertisers. Again, it is one reality we can never change.

But news reporters can still control the way they report the news.

“Tell stories in an engaging, relevant manner. There has to be a clear connection to the readers.” Eileen G. Mangubat, Cebu Daily News’ publisher tipped the students during the open forum following the film showing.

So what is there behind the glare of the lights, the blot of the ink, and the wave of the sound? What is there that controls the fate of the people struggling in their snares? Is it really a what? Or would it make more sense if I say who? And if I do, who?...

my two-year love affair (part 2)

2006-10-30T23:22:00.000-08:00

My only concern two years ago was just how to pass my subjects. I attended classes regularly, took exams, and let loose once in a while. Pretty much the traditional “four-walled” approach to learning. However, I enrolled myself in an educational institution that deliberately delimited our number of units to 18 every semester so we could explore the world outside the classroom. I barely understood what that meant. And then came Madam Mayette’s Journalism classes.

I love Journalism classes. Okay, I admit there is a blot of prejudice in that remark. Biases aside though, I especially love the subject for its unexpected twists and unforgettable lessons, not to mention that we had a mentor who willingly shared her wisdom and wits to our discussion. We were sent on field to gather necessary data, which only meant one thing: we had to talk – to people. Lots of them. I wasn’t exactly a misanthropic being back then but for someone who spent almost her entire childhood locked up in the solitary confines of her room, it took quite a generous amount of effort to break free from the so-called comfort zone. But it was a make or break situation. I had to do it.

Surprisingly, I found out that there’s a dormant part of me who is not that silent and aloof. Where on earth were you hiding all these years?! The discovery didn’t happen in a single snap of the fingers but the rewards far outweighed the costs that I was soon crawling out of my shell.

I enjoyed talking to people. There was so much to be learned. Fresh ideas. New perspectives. I was learning theories and practicing them on field at the same time. Now this is what I call learning the alternative way! Later, when we were required to publish articles on local newspapers, I had to interact with a more varied mix of personalities. But the greater challenge lay in writing their individual stories.

confessions of a budding writer
I started writing for Sun Star Weekend two years ago. It wasn’t initially part of my plan to contribute an article for the section. First of all, I had no interesting interviewee. But God’s hand shoved in an interviewee in my direction one fine morning while I was busy taking pictures of the magnificent view at Café Orchidia for my photography class. I looked at her. She looked at me. We both smiled at each other. She said hello and made her way towards me. She was Eufemia “Minnie” Solomon Crouse, a filmmaker and my very first interviewee for the section.

Looking back, I think my interview with her was experimental in a way that it determined my interest in writing personality profiles. She had lots of stories and lessons to share that we had to do two separate interviews. It was also my first lengthy interview experience that I was a bit clueless how to go about with the interview. Sure, I had ideas on what questions to ask but how to ask them and when are considerations an interviewer has to take into account. Interviewing is an art, you know. One should know how to listen, when to talk, (to interrupt a deliriously endless chatter or to inject an important question in momentum) and how to talk.

As if it isn’t difficult enough to interview a person, it’s harder to capture a person’s life in a single story. It’s a hurdle I had to overcome with every story I wrote. A lot of times, I had to face a blank screen for what seems like eternity. An idea pops ups and my fingers get busy clicking away the keys only to delete most or everything out in the end. Poof! (Woe to the delete button.) Sometimes, I have a clear plan on how to construct my story. In the middle of it all, I thwart it and segue to another path. Ahh, this is what my teachers have been saying about writing – it’s a recursive process. A complicated process that oftentimes got my brain insides all jumbled up and distorted that I had to distract myself to keep myself from banging my head on the computer screen. I would take a power nap, (the nap often evolves into deep sleep so yes, I wrote some stories in haste)watch television, eat, sing until my throat gets hoarse, or play computer games. Despite all these, I loved what I did. Why? Because I found precious gems in the insights of my interviewees. I met a lot of people who looked at things in a different light and who have inspired me to shape my own destiny.

quotable quotes
There’s a story behind every story. But of course, I would have to allot several posts to tell each and every story. So let me just leave you with snippets of my interviews for the sections Weekend Magazine, Community Force, and Live!.

Helen Niaga (Child Development Worker): “Dili jud mabayran sa sapi ang kalipay.”
(Can you imagine going to a community bringing toys and books for the children to prepare them for school? Can you imagine holding your classes under the trees? Yup, she does all those for an honorarium of a thousand pesos per month.)

Eufemia “Minnie” Solomon – Crouse (Filmmaker; Best Documentary 2002 Cinemanila International Film Festival, Prix Sylvie Auzas Award): “Filmmaking is like my appetizer, my hors d’oeuvre. It has changed my life. Because of it, I now have the opportunity to express myself. I didn’t realize I was beautiful. I was very challenging. I was real.”

Ronaldo Herry Armando Tan (Production Designer of Panaghoy sa Suba, President: Cebu Filmmakers’ Society): “Naa baya nang kakulba nga bag-o pa lang ang grupo pero dako kaayo ning tahas. Apan kon kining kalibutana mapuno og tao nga hadlukan, wa gyuy mahitabo sa atoa.”

Gretchen Malalad (Sea Games 2005 Gold Medalist in Karatedo): “When we train in the gym, sparring kunyari, yung mga kapatid ko talagang binabanatan ako! Once, pumutok talaga ‘yung labi ko. Umuwi ako tapos nagsumbong ako sa parents ko. Alam mo sagot ng parents ko? ‘Di ka kasi marunong umilag.’”

Bong Abela (Proprietor, Koncepts and More): “Every one has to understand their mission in life and out of that mission, identify what for them is significant and important. Is my action attuned to what I really want in life now? Even if you’re radical with your ideas or values, you have to remember that you have accountability.”

Jude Thaddeus Gitamondoc (Song Writer: Gary V’s Wait Forever, In Another Lifetime, Kailan Pa, Only A Friend, and Sana Bukas): “It’s a cliché but it is really something indescribable and unique. To hear something that you made up in the little nook and corner of your room. To actually have an effect on people. And yet to retain that level of anonymity. It’s the ultimate dream of every artist. It’s a beautiful feeling.”

Homer Cang (Music Producer and Arranger): “When I was a kid, when I play the piano, I would imagine myself playing all the other instruments. During recitals, my teacher would ask me to break from the piece and just play what I want. I remember when I was in grade two, the piano teacher announced to the audience I was doing my own arrangement.”

Chloe Canton (Pianist): “Music is one of the best things in life that are free. People who enjoy music enjoy life.”

Leonardo Chiu (Filmmaker, “Nagbreakfast Ka Na Ba?”): “I like dark movies. As a filmmaker, I go out and hurt people. I’ve seen that the realities around us are painful. They are not something to laugh at.”

Kristoffer Villarino (Filmmaker, “Binaliw”): “Ang ganahan nako nga future sa cinema, artistically, is something that will speak much about the Cebuanos – as ourselves, not pretending to be a revised character from an old Hollywood film.”

Adonis Durado (Filmmaker, “Pa-ak”): “There is a reason to revive Cebuano film. Ganahan ko muhimo og Cebuano films kay Cebuano ko. Kahibalo ko kung unsaon nako pag-handle. Dili lang necessary nga Cebuano ang language kon dili, ang point of view Cebuano sad.”

Mark de los Reyes (2004 Outstanding Industrial Coordinator): “I’m a risk-taker. I would never quit, whatever happens.”

Bryan Albert Lim (2005 Outstanding Cebuano Youth Leader): “Passion without discipline is useless. Intelligence without passion is a nerdy thing. And without gratitude, passion and intellect would just be a selfish thing.”

Cheryl Pages (Owner, Sastre): “For me, the business world is exciting… (as a kid) I would buy candies and sell them at a higher price to my relatives.”

Dearlie Gerodias (1st Southern Philippines “Dancesport sa Sugbo” Champion): ”Dance from the heart. In dancesport, tanan naa’y technique. One must have that something from the heart to spice up one’s moves.”

Jane Pacaide (Founder and President, Cebu Cancer Fight, Inc.): “Jesus has plans different from ours. We pray for healing until the very end. But if Jesus thinks that this person is ready, we release the person to Him because now, he’s in a better place.”

Justin Paul Aguilar (Founder, Volkswagen Club sa Sugbo): “Honestly, I feel happy because of all the generations nga mga sakyanan nga nangabot diri sa Pilipinas, it is the ba-o that has an impact to the public and to people of all ages.”

Marricar Endico (Bangga sa Kinaadman 2005 Champion): “Looking at me, you will really not think or believe that I belong to the Dean’s List. Who would find intelligent someone who keeps on cracking out jokes even the corniest ones, laughs out so loud in public and crosses the street when the traffic light’s still green?”

Gerry Graham Gonzales (Cellist, Participant to the 2005 International Cello Congress): “I am a musician. Every one can be one. You just need to have the heart to be one -- that you have to explore within you, and when you find it, share it to other people. Now you can call yourself an artist.”

Jibbie Rose Reyes (Cellist, Participant to the 2005 International Cello Congress): “Life with music is full of colors. Your life has a meaning. Mao gani, ni-ana akong mga classmates na if they see me, they see Jibbie. But when they see me play my cello, they see a different person.”

John Amor (President, Rogues Gallery Studios): “When you start admiring only popular art, you’re limiting yourself to popular art. Whereas if you have a hunger within yourself to find something better, you’ll be able to pave a whole new landscape.”

Paolo Dy (Filmmaker, “Miko”; 2004 MTV Asia’s “The Pitch” screenwriting competition winner): “Passion, passion, passion. And not just I-talk-about-films-a-lot passion or Filipino-films-suck passion. I mean the we’ve-been-shooting-for-five-days-straight-without-sleep-but-I-don’t-care-I’m-gonna-finish-this-freaking-film kind of passion. Filmmaking is hard, hard, hard work. You can’t afford to be lazy or ‘arte’. You have to be willing to drive to the convenience store across town at three in the morning to get batteries for the boom microphone. You have to be willing to pick up garbage, move heavy equipment around, get dirty, and exhaust yourself to near breakdown to get the work done. It’s this willingness to contribute to the success of the film that will convince other filmmakers to collaborate with you.”

Apolinario Lopez (CCCI Web Awards Winner – Best in Multimedia Presentation): “I would present a beautiful and well-developed Cebu with responsible people and that which is rich with historical places – truly a place where tourists would like to go.”

Francis Moreno (CCCI Web Awards Winner – Best in Animation): “Break the limit. Kung ibutang lang gyud nila sa ilang huna-huna nga kaya ni nila, kaya man gyud nila. Wala may makapugong nila kay sila may nagdiktar sa ilang limitation.”

Rodney Co (Owner, 3D Storm Studio): “Design improves our lives. I believe that everything in this world is designed – it has its purpose, either intentionally or accidentally. Architecturally speaking, the orientation of your house determines how you access and enter it. The way your room is oriented affects how you move in your house. The colors and lighting of your room affect your mood. The furniture you use may affect your posture. Good design shapes our lives for the better, makes us more productive, inspires us when driving our car, and makes us beautiful with the clothes and jewelries that we wear.”

my two-year love affair (part 1)

2006-10-21T04:49:00.000-07:00

I first fell in love when I was in third grade.

I thought it was sheer infatuation. A temporary madness bound for oblivion in my later years. But even up to this date, no matter how I tried to get him off my mind, the thought of him just keeps popping in my head. They all say that love stands the test of time so I think: then this must be love!

It wasn’t love at first sight, mind you. I got to know him through my teacher. I remember he wore a blue shirt the day we met. He really didn’t look like a dashing prince charming ready to save a damsel in distress. Imagine admitting to me at that first meeting that he was a fan of Juday! “Whoa, this guy is a bit questionable, huh?” I thought. But his eyes twinkled like the stars when he smiled. “On second thought, he’s nice. A new friend wouldn’t be that bad,” I told myself. I entertained him as if he was like the others. But even in my childhood innocence, I sensed that there was something special about him. While I had other friends and I would assume that he did, too, I would say he was the best among the rest.

He was sincere and understanding. He listened to me as if no one else ever would. He would wipe my eyes dry even before the first drop of tear could roll down my cheeks. He never judged me for being a tad foolish at times. In fact, he was my accomplice in everything else. We shared secrets and dreams. We sang the same songs. Ahh, young love it was indeed.

That love I nurtured until it bloomed into a lifelong passion. First love never dies indeed. Even now in my senior year in college, I keep going back to the “thick and thin” times we’ve been through – the times when I felt like giving him up, the times when I almost denied my feelings towards him, and the times when I had to hide him from my older brothers in fear that they would beat him up.

But looking back at all those only makes me fall helplessly in love with him again and again and again and again…

Yes, my friends, I am in love. Sooooo muuuucchhh in looooove!

So much that I took up Mass Communication to cherish the young bud of love. So much that I set up this blog to whisper sweet nothings to the world with him. So much that I decided that he will always have a piece of my heart even if I stay single for the rest of my life.

It didn’t occur to me that the “love of my life” would start from a journal-writing class. My first diary was a blue notebook with Juday posing on the front cover. I didn’t take diary-writing seriously back in third grade. I had lots of those dear-diary-Carlo-sat-beside-me-today and dear-diary-I-ate-spaghetti entries in my notebook. Nonsense, yes, but I wrote all that crap anyway than end up being scolded for not doing my homework. I don’t know what got into me but one day while strolling around the bookstore, I found myself picking up a real diary and dropping it into the basket. (while adding a “puppy dog look” on my face when my mom gave me a weird look) Since then, when I wasn’t playing, I would be writing about my experiences, mostly during summers and Christmas breaks – how I got lost in whatever-place this time, how I met my crushes or simply how my day went. I hid my diary carefully just in case my brothers or my neighbors would snoop around my room and pounce on it like a hungry prey. (Those days, I had an invisible sensor attached to my brain that would send an alert signal when a brother or a neighbor would try to invade my room. I would appear at the doorway with my hands on my hips, sporting a really huge scowl on my face, a raised eyebrow, and a stern voice that would say, “Out!” Sometimes, it doesn’t work and I either had to drag them or push them out.)

As I grew up, I wrote more than what the diary pages could accommodate. I bought a new diary, filled it with my heart and soul, and treasured it more than anything else in the world. What is more fulfilling is that every time I read what I wrote, I seemed to be traveling in the past. How I laughed at my silliness, cried over my frustrations, and yes, cringed over my wrong grammar. I wrote what I thought. I wrote what I felt. No pretensions. Just me. The real me.

I took up Mass Communication because of this passion to write. And even if I don’t really pursue any profession related to journalism, I just know that writing will be with me until the very end of time.

Note: This is the first of a two-part blog post celebrating the joys that writing almost all of my life gave me.

Preview to Part 2: What is it like to talk to people and write about their stories?

tribute to mom

2006-09-25T02:06:00.000-07:00

Every morning, all groggy and grumpy from being snapped awake by the alarm clock into the reality that bedtime is over, I rub my eyes as I traipse the hallway that separates the sleeping quarters from the dining area. From there, I can hear a solo concert emerging in the master’s bathroom to the tune of the faucet’s flowing waters. As always, there is harmony. She may have been my first music teacher, singing to me while I was still in her womb. I reach the dining table that by then will be all set for us. My hot chocolate still steaming – and oftentimes concocted with egg white – which she thought I never noticed but which I actually knew all along. I guzzle my breakfast and head back quickly to my room. I meet her in the hallway all fresh and perked up. She breaks into a wide smile, pecks a kiss on my cheek, hugs me really tight despite the odor clash and greets me, “Good morning, my darling, my little sweet…” A litany of good morning greetings follows. Ah, my morning has just begun…

I’m talking about the woman I have always looked up to since birth. She is the bestest best friend in the whole wide world, an angel with her wings arching across distances and time, an educator with an everlasting patience and loving attitude, a faithful companion, a servant-leader, a wife, and a mother. My mother. Everyday, I whisper a million thanks to the Big Guy up there who gave me to her – she, who unselfishly allowed the doctors to open her belly for me to take my first breath of air and whom I always run to whenever my mischievous antics get me in trouble with my father and my brothers. Of course! I am an only daughter and her youngest child. Technically, I had the biggest potential to grow up a spoiled brat. I would instinctively hide behind my mom whenever my “horns” or just sheer playfulness hurt others. But being an objective mother, she would expose me to the pain of facing the consequences of my actions. I felt the whip of the belt lash around my legs and the weight of the books on top of my outstretched arms. When she sees my eyes puffy and my nose red from crying, I know it tugs her heart with pity but she is firm in her resolve to let the lessons sink in.

My mom is a simple woman. Her kindness and her simplicity are both great attractions that pull people to gravitate around her. Her positive energies are so strong that despite the 40-year gap, (Yup, you read that right. She gave birth to me when she was 41.) she looks and acts as though youth was always on her side. She played with me when I was a kid, read books, or put me to sleep with her own version of fairytales. I remember she would emphatically and animatedly narrate the stories of Little Red Riding Hood and Cinderella while my dumbfounded self would just stare at her with all attention. Probably because it took a lot of effort to pull off one story, in the middle of one story, her eyelids would slowly droop while I couldn’t make out her warbled words. She would discreetly “head bang” to sleep. I wasn’t merciful as a kid and I would nudge her gently. She would wake up with a start and although she would sweetly complain, “Katulgon naman ko oi,” to which I would counter “Sige na Ma, pleeeaaassse?” oftentimes with a little hug and kiss, she would move on to finish the story. Now that I’m too old for fairytales, I do most of the storytelling. In high school, it was about crushes, experiences in school, and encounters with terror teachers. Today, I share to her my dreams for my future, my infatuations, and my views about life.

My mom is a very talented woman. She can cook really well. Just the thought of her biko, spaghetti, and pansit among all other dishes leaves me salivating and yearning to go home. She sings and dances well, too. She taught me to dance swing, boogie, tango, and cha-cha. And I am definitely looking forward to our Tell Him duet ala Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand.

My mom is a real beauty inside and out. She was a reyna in her younger years. Today, her crown incontestably remains with her. For us, she is the queen of all things bright and beautiful: of deep understanding, of sincere compassion, of true selflessness, and of unconditional love.

I wholeheartedly dedicate this post to my mom, who has been my strength, my inspiration, my confidante, and my best friend.

Ma, you once told me you and Papa are not “perfect parents.” I think there’s no such thing as “perfect parents.” Rather, I believe you did a perfect job of raising Manoy, Kuya, and me – perfect not in the sense that you never committed any mistake but perfect in the sense that despite all the mistakes, you were able to bring out the best persons in us. I couldn’t just imagine how hard it was to raise a stubborn and a temperamental child like me. (Hehehe. Must have been really hard.) But you were always patient, kind, and loving. There are so many things I love about you. I could go on forever. But more than anything else, I love you very much, Mama. For being YOU and for being my Mama. Happy Birthday!

P.S. Happy christening to my über-cute nephew Jakob Emmanuel “Yanis” L. Yap!

the chopsuey chronicles

2006-08-31T03:51:00.000-07:00

chips and chocolates
I am a chaotic eater. I eat food stuff by mere convenience. Last week, I made a record by thriving on Mr. Chips junk food and Demolino chocolates as my dinner for three nights in a row. I have just resumed duty for my internship at ABS-CBN Cebu weeks after coming home from South Korea and catching up with my classes. As of now, I could only spare the evenings so right after school, I would travel to Jagobiao, Mandaue. Man, I tell you, travel time alone eats up a big chunk of my time and my allowance. I’d be home really late that when I arrive in Lahug, all nearby carenderias would already be closed. And by then, I’d be too tired to travel elsewhere to eat. So I quickly settle for whatever’s available – junk food and chocolates – to my delight, of course, as you know how helplessly addicted I am to chocolates. My parents won’t forgive me if they find out but I have no intentions of pursuing this kind of habit, either. I can hear my bodily systems whining at me in frustration for the abusive treatment. No way, Sir. I don’t want to get sick again! Waaaaah!

close encounters with stardom and star-doom
Ever since I started television internship, I have had, uhm, close encounters with stardom. Not just once but many times. A wee bit more and I’ll be a star! Hahaha! But kidding aside, my face has been flashed a lot of times on TV Patrol Central Visayas because I’m an intern and a student. It’s either you catch me tagging along with a senior reporter, attending an ABS-CBN-hosted event, or being a participant of whatever ventures I’m currently into. For me, it’s nothing really. As long as I’m not caught doing something silly, I would be perfectly fine. But if there’s one thing I should have remembered, it’s that every little thing has a corresponding counterpart. In the language of physics, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. If there’s such thing as stardom, then there’s what I call star-doom. (Vianney’s Vocabulary 101, Category: Coinages) What could be more shocking than this? When I resumed duty last week for the news department, I once visited the production office to wait for my classmates who were also on duty so we could go home together. I helped them cut out confetti or cut out papers for prompters. We chatted, watched My Girl in between, (which, by the way, I was not a fan of… my classmates and my mom could relate better when it comes to koreanovelas) and just enjoyed what we did. Suddenly, one of the staff came to us and told us, “Excuse me, himuon mo namong extra sa Milyonaryong Mini ha? Mangaplay kuno mo para Japan.” (Excuse me, we’ll get you as extras for Milyonaryong Mini okay? You’ll be applying to go to Japan.) I just laughed it off, thinking she was joking around. Only when she said, “Pangita mog sinina sa dressing room.” (Look for clothes in the dressing room.) when I realized she was dead serious. My eyes grew wide and my jaws dropped as I blurted out to myself, “Hah!?! Ang akoang dignidad!” (Hah!?! My dignity!) It wasn’t even part of my internship! I was a mere victim of circumstances. Waaaah! Poor Krishna, Noreen, and I – we were made to dress up like, you know, dancers applying for Japan. I assume you know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about sexy, skimpy blouses. What a dare! I felt the cold sweat forming at strategic points. I can’t even wear sleeveless on normal days and there I go wearing that stuff and playing that role! All throughout the taping, I tried my best to take cover between Krishna and Noreen. (I hope I was successful enough.) We just sat down while the cameras rolled and taped the scene. Oh dear, I hope that when the final cut comes out, there will be no traces of our encounter with star-doom.

like father, like mother, like daughter
Some people tell me I look like my father. And an almost equal number tell me I look like my mother. But really, when I look at the mirror, I see none of their facial features. Rather, I see a healthy blend of both except for my forehead, which I non-disputably inherited from my father. (My high school classmates couldn’t agree more on this.) Actually, who I am, what I am and what I love today are pretty much inspired by both of them. So if you’re complaining that I write too much, blame my father. I think I would never be in this course had he not introduced the habit of reading to me. I remember the all the excitement and enthusiasm that sprung from my little heart when he handed me my very first book, Karen’s Toothache way back in third grade. Blame my mother, too. Had she not been patient teaching me the proper spelling and grammar (which she usually does as she is an English major), I wouldn’t be as meticulous as I am today. So when my father told me he also set up his own blog, I wasn’t surprised at all. Writing has also been part of his routine as an educator. And I’m very proud to say that he writes really well. You can check out his blog http://www.simplyme-bookworm.blogspot.com/ or you can click on the links at the left side. (As of now, my mother still needs to be convinced to display her writings online, as well as to be acquainted with the computer and all these internet stuff. It’s already 2006 yet my mom still writes her memos using a typewriter.)

Of Eye Bags and Foot Spas

2006-08-23T05:47:00.000-07:00

I just had one of the most hectic weekends I will most probably have in my senior year in college. I presented a class report, prepared for a major school activity, and attended a business summit. Sounds chicken. But put them together in consecutive days and what does Vianney get? Additional pounds, lack of sleep, and a heightened determination to implement world-extermination strategies. All the madness and the mayhem started with the preparations for my report in class.

My report was about the extent of the independence of the television documentaries, considering their ownership and the timeslot they occupy, which is always past the primetime. (as in the case of the two major competing stations) The topic was a bit hard to explain because one, I knew those two factors weren’t the only factors surrounding the situation. Two, there was a dearth of materials dealing on the issue. So it took me long to figure out how to make do with the little material I had. (which were taken from email interviews with Kuya Tops Brugada, Executive Producer for I-Witness, and a few media people including Kuya Don Gonzalez, a creative writer who just slammed his way to victory in a story writing competition. Thanks so much to these two heaven-sent angels who saved me from total doom.) I started preparing last Wednesday night. So there I was, typing my way to the completion of my report. But in the middle of it all, our PC shut down. I panicked. I had no back-up file saved in my flash disk yet! After a few minutes of praying over the computer, it functioned again. I ended up sleeping only for 30 minutes and had to rush to the 7AM class for the report. The whole day on Thursday went like a blur. I stole hours in between classes to go home and catch up on sleep. On that day, last-minute preparations were also being undertaken for Cookout 2006, the annual “acquaintance party” of UP Cebu. Meetings here. Stuffs to do there. Good thing I wasn’t in charge of any major committee. I had the luxury of napping in between meetings. At the end of the seemingly long day, I decided to drop by the salon to do the one thing I haven’t done in my “teen” years – get my nails done. I’m not too vain with nails and stuff but I was attending a business summit the next day. Under normal circumstances, I would have cleaned my nails myself using just a nail cutter and alcohol for cleansing, but I was so dead tired that I knew if I went home, I would only collapse on my bed and snore to sleep.

At the salon, my eyes caught the sign “Foot Spa with Pedicure.” It sounded like a good deal so I decided to try the service. Before the procedure, I casually talked the manicurista into being extra gentle as images of bloody nails and girlish shrieks flashed on my mind – recollections of my high school Home Economics class when my classmates experimented on each other’s nails. But the manicurista adeptly cleaned and polished my nails to a perfect finish. I enjoyed the small chitchat as I found out she was from Leyte and knew the people I knew. (Whoa. The world really is small.) I loved the ticklish feel of the foot scrub. I felt relaxed as I imagined that my soles were inches thinner. Wow, I so savored the moment.

I went home and as expected, I went straight to bed.

That would have been a perfect ending to an exhausting day but why else would I be yakking about eye bags if I didn’t have them? Somewhere in dreamland after the manicure and pedicure, my alarm clock popped me awake at 2AM on Friday to prepare for the summit. I had to iron my business casual clothes – yellow polo, black slacks, and black blazer. In between, I had to answer text messages regarding the Cookout preparations, as well as rantings from my friends who were already complaining how tired they were with the event. My Friday was overloaded with educational and interactive talks with Aboitiz leaders and food. Yup, one thing I notice when you’re holding your conventions or seminars at Waterfront Hotel (Lahug) is that the participants never go hungry. From the Sun Star Economic Forum 2005, to the 19th Philippine Advertising Congress up to the Aboitiz Future Leaders Business Summit, the food was absolutely overwhelming! (And the best thing about all those I have attended is that I never spent a single centavo on them. Hahaha.) At the end of the day, I had to rush back to school for the Cookout. I had a quick change of clothes and went on duty – FROM THE WHOLE EVENING UNTIL DAWN. I ended up being a mobile production assistant. I barely noticed how tired I was until around 3AM, when all the running and walking took a toll on my already aching feet. I did enjoy the Cookout though, especially when my friends from the Math block danced Britney Spears’ Toxic, wearing trash bags and neon green gloves. I kept on jumping up and down while my tears rolled over my cheeks in too much amusement. I did not really expect to see my Kapatid na Jasper, Mark, Joseph, Tepoy, and Val dance like that. Hey, if you see them around campus, you’d think these were a bunch of serious guys talking just about numbers and here they come dancing like crazy onstage with the weirdest and wackiest steppings that you wouldn’t even dare doing in a dance. And in front of a lot people, at that! Yoohoo! For me, that was just a masterpiece. I confronted my foster brother after their number and told him, “Kapatid! Napakamakabag-damdamin ng iyong ginawa at ako’y pinaiyak mo.” Anyway, after all the fun, the exhaustion set in and at 4AM, I could no longer keep my eyelids open and I was murmuring a lot (um, that’s what you call pre-sleep mumbles). When the program ended at nearly 5AM, I dashed for the exit, went home, and slept. At 7:30, I woke up startled as the second day of the summit was supposed to start around 8. That day, I forced down a lot of caffeine in my system to keep me awake in our brainstorming, deliberation, and defense of our case study. Phew!

The loooong weekend is finally over. The pounds are in and the baggies are taking shape. But the loooong, intermittent sleeps are still coming…

Post-Entry Comments:
Welcome to the world Jakob Emmanuel “Yanis” Labra-Yap! I haven’t met you yet but rumor has it that you’re the next singer in the clan, judging by your “singing” [actually, wailing] moments. Hehehe.

happy birthday to me, myself, and me!

2006-08-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

I am officially turning 20 today, August 9, 2006. That means I am stepping out of my “teen” years. And as reluctant as I am to let go of the carefree years, I stubbornly insist that I still am a teen. Tween-ty, that is – another one of my coinages, triggered by a sheer defiance to the pressing symptoms of growing a year older: (1) Being more emotional, (2) Being a bit silly at times, and (3) Being too busy with just about anything and everything.

I truly wonder whether I am just being paranoid when I pay too much attention to normal circumstances. But contemplation is just inevitable with the coming of another year, aside of course from the usual scrutiny of graying hairs or visible lines.

(1) Last weekend, I got sick, most probably from the swift weather change. Now that’s not really unusual. I’m not that sickly but I’m not in tiptop shape either. If I counted it right, I’ve gone to the doctor five times last year. Anyway, while I was sniffing and barely breathing (because my nose was clogged) around the rented room my older brother and I share, I lulled myself to sleep with good music literally plugged to my ears through my brother’s MP3 player. As my dreams closed in on me such that they were a mere tap away, a song played. For some strange reason, I chose to suspend myself in that half-conscious state with heightened senses, listening quite intently to the song. It was not the first time I heard the song. I heard it many times while I was preparing for an interview with its songwriter, producer, and arranger Homer Cang. Blame it on the situation, perhaps, but the song struck the most sensitive and emotional chord. Something in the melody of the song whispered deep sadness that shot right into my heart. Guess what happened next. I bolted straight up and for the next ten minutes, soaked my blanket with tears. I cried. A lot. It’s not even the lyrics. The song You’ve Fallen Out of Love speaks about the feeling when somebody falls out of love with you. Heck, I don’t even know the feeling! In my 20 years of existence, that’s the very first song that gripped the tears out of my eyes, not because the song was packaged in a situation where it’s supposed to be a tearjerker, like in a movie but because plainly speaking, the song strongly speaks of the raw emotion itself. It doesn’t need a context to make it more realistic or more convincing. I wish I could just block the song out when it plays but being a personal landmark case of discovering the extent of my sentimentality, I can’t. I won’t.

(2) Gray streaks of hair are genetically determined. In our family, they show up early in the adolescent stage. As early as high school, the streaks were already showing a lot of promise in my hair. People say they symbolize wisdom. (*Coughs*) But I think it could also be the other way around. At times, we forget the simplest things and tend to assume too much that we already know. Take this: I ran out of body lotion and a couple of other stuff so I took a brief trip to the supermarket. I love shopping for groceries! I bounced happily on the grocery aisles while humming along in an adult-like manner and grabbing items from the shelves, sometimes without even looking at the labels. One morning while preparing for a 7:00 class, I squeezed a generous amount from the alleged lotion bottle. I could practice the routine blindfolded and pass it with flying colors. (Duh, what’s so hard about it anyway?) So I don’t really pay much attention to it. I hastily put it on my arms and gasp! I nearly freaked out when I saw my arms covered in gooey white stuff. I finally read the bottle label: Body Wash. Sheesh. Not bad for a twenty-year-old, huh?

(3) I have been confiding to my kuya that I felt like I have lived in this world for more than 20 years though I’m still 20. “That’s because you’re always up to something,” he pointed out. Whether that’s something positive or negative, I am not so certain. All I know is that I find thrill and adventure in traveling, meeting lots of different people, trying out new things, and challenging my limitations, but at times, all at the expense of overlooking my inner growth as a person in terms of spiritual maturity. I must say I am still trying to master the art of balancing my life’s different aspects. And today must be the right time to restart and revamp the process.

Happy birthday to me!

I am planning no special what-to-do’s today. Earlier plans were thwarted by lack of finances and are indefinitely postponed. But to those who have been hinting at a blowout or something, I choose to keep my birthday simple – as of press time, the plan is a pizza dinner with my older brother Amiel. Haha… Sorry guys, family first…

Credits to the people closest to my heart:
My family – Papa, for being my life mentor, for bringing music closer to me, and for being a good father, above all. Mama, for being my best friend, my confidante, and my strength. My eldest brother Manoy Jake, for the free dinners (hahaha…just kidding!), for the guiding eye during my critical first year in college, for the overflowing ideas, and for always being there with love and care especially when I was sick (which, I most often was). My other brother Kuya Amiel, for all the concern despite our endless arguments, for the pieces of advice when it comes to heart matters, and for laughing at even my silliest jokes. My sister-in-law Ate Mae, and the better half of my Manoy Jake, for being the sister I never had, for all the inputs and inspiration, and for telling me I’m still young. (hehe…yehey!) My soon-to-be-born nephew Yanis, I can’t wait to see you! When we shopped for your clothes and stuff, I was already brimming with excitement. The world is waiting for you…

My relatives – To my Lola Oping, all my uncles, aunties, ( It would take one blog entry to name all…ehehehe…) and cousins – Holy Week in Barili will never be complete without preparations for the karo, FOOD, nonstop karaoke concert, and beach outings.

My Mass Communication blockmates, a.k.a. UP ComMEDIAns, I love the crazy moments, beer-bonding sessions (Ehem, I wish to be excused from this already. My tummy’s already bulging.), and night-outs. We can pull off Cookout 2006 guys! All for one and one for all…

My friends – April, for the coffee night-outs and the socio-political “intellectual” discourse. Jane, for being ever-supportive in all my endeavors. (Hope to see you in magazine covers soon! Hehehe… Miss you already Bes…) Athea, for all the inspiration and the never-ending sharings about love and God… For the rest, for just being there to talk to me when I’m happy, even when I’m fuming with rage, and through ups and downs – Marinel, Allen, Mark, Kapatid na Jasper, Joseph, Paolo, Elayne, Phrixel, Ate Narsheen, Yangyang, Maam Betchai and my inaanak Franco Luis, Ate Quimbee, Princess, Jackie, Mirzi, Chinky, Carmel, Christian, Chetoy, Mojo, Genry…

My Destiny and Special Someone, when are you finally coming? Hahaha…

Memories of Gangwon

2006-07-27T21:21:00.000-07:00

I left my footprints in the sand;
But they got washed away by the sea.
I left my footprints in my EATOF friends’ hearts;
They stay there forever.

I have developed a love-hate relationship with the Last Song Syndrome. I love it when it gains momentum and keeps me humming to a beat, touching a string of emotion to spice up an otherwise dull life experience. But how I hate it when at crucial and vulnerable points, I can’t help but expose the feeling, sensitive part of me.

I have lost track of how many songs I have “absorbed”. They are infinite – because for every turn my life makes, there will always be a soundtrack or two. Last weekend, after two incredible weeks of friendship and cultural interaction, it didn’t take me long to find one song and keep it playing on my mind.

Indulge my nostalgia. Indulge the one thing that, despite all the tears and goodbyes, keeps me looking forward to the future with a fervent hope that someday, somewhere, and sometime, our paths would cross again.

With the two weeks officially over, I still feel the same sense of longing for the laughter and the camaraderie, the girl talks and the boy talks, the serious moments and most of all, our never-ending foolishness and witticisms – the “Malaysian porn soup” talks (thanks to our resident porn star Nikk Adam), the “Thai-Tegu” jokes in Korean class (thanks to Nikk’s 5-minute girlfriend Pai), the chorus singing of the most popular Japanese song (Doraemon) in the world headed by Sho, the picture-perfect moments inspired by our in-house environmentalist cum fashion fanatic Kinuko, the fasten-your-seatbelt-and-you’ll-be-much-safer type of driving of our oppa (brother) Chang Kyu, the “Otoke!” (How!) musings of Boogie, the “Germany” bloopers of our official photographer Da-Ho, the “seriousness” (but he’s not serious, I swear!) of the official model Himmi (He’s probably had the most number of pictures on the cd!), the bonding with Alisa at the children’s playground on camping night, the surprise-birthday-party-with-icing-on-her-face for Nadya, the “I’ll kiss you” message of Tunga to our teacher Mr. Hosung Timothy Rhee, the I-will-eat-breakfast-today-because-it’s-Tuesday-or-Friday-and-breakfast-is-really-yummy-on-those-days deal with my roommate and co-UPian Princess, the dance moves of the youngest in the group Wulan, the shyness of Ki-Beak and his blooming relationship with beauty queen potential Izora (What’s up with you guys? Everybody noticed something. Haha.), the cool tandem of “tutors” (and sometimes room raiders, so they can talk until morning) Korean-Chinese Xue Hua and Korean-Japanese Yuri, the intonation-conscious pronunciation of Jah’s name (Ja-a-a-a-a-h!), the ice skater moves of Ji-Soo, the beautiful girl-leader Joo-Hyun, the Winter Sonata drama of Hai Lan, and the all-smiles nature and always-on-the-go attitude of Mi-Jin.

Two weeks might be too long but I felt it was too short to spend a great deal of quality time with such wonderful people. Throughout the trip to the airport, I was trying so hard to benumb myself of the growing nostalgia that I then felt. But at the airport, when everybody sent each other off with moist eyes and warm hugs, I gave in to a paroxysm of tears. All the more I sobbed when I waved goodbye to them while the boarding area gates closed. I couldn’t even look straight at their eyes for fear that I might just slump down on the floor. Even until the immigration check, I was still sniffing that the agent commented something in Korean that I didn’t understand. And when I told him, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Korean,” he motioned his hand to his eyes as if to ask if I had been crying and I just muffled, “I just said goodbye to some friends.” Then everything was like a blur – like a dream that was slowly coming to an end. Then I remembered the night before when Nikk told us, “Tomorrow, I will wake up from this dream…” How right he was. And at that moment, I was so inspired to answer, “If this was a dream, I would never want to wake up...”

Half the world is sleeping, half the world's awake.
Half can hear their hearts beat, half just hear them break.
I am but a traveler, in most every way.
Ask me what you want...to know.

The East Asian Inter-Regional Tourism Forum 2006 delegates with Ms. Emily Lim, EATOF Project Coordinator and our gracious bus driver! Photo taken at Chuncheon Drama Gallery, Chuncheon City.

What a journey it has been and the end is not in sight.
But the stars are out tonight and they're bound to guide my way.

Outdoor Picnic at Mang-Sang Auto Camp Resort

When they're shining on my life, I can see a better day.
I won't let the darkness in, what a journey it has been.

With our “Big Brother” Chang Kyu in a campaign for world peace.

I have been to sorrow, I have been to bliss.
Where I'll be tomorrow, I can only guess.

At the Flower Garden Museum with Boogie, Sher Hwa, and Wulan. Uh-huh-huh. Rainy days won’t leave us screaming.

Through the darkest desert, through the deepest snow.
Forward always forward, I go.

Birthday in Korea? Why not! At Princess’ “surprise” birthday party.

When they're shining on my life,
I can see a better day.
I won't let the darkness in.
What a journey it has been.

The 2006 EATOF delegation

Today, I’m back to the rustle and bustle of my student life. I’m back in the Philippines, back to Cebu, back to where I am currently pursuing my studies. I’m home now.

And somehow, my tear ducts have gone dry.
I so want to ask myself why,
But now I can honestly say,
My heart is still on its way…
Home.

cockroaches to slumber: the journey of a blog post

2006-07-02T00:04:00.000-07:00

You should know that by the next few minutes, you are going to dissect my brain. Take care not to touch the nerves. They’re ultra-sensitive.

After wrestling with a million possible topics for a blog post, I am finally convinced that writers, in their most desperate times often resort to the most ridiculous ideas just for the heck of writing something.

Last night, annoyed at seeing another cockroach delightfully skittering at the bottom of the television rack, I scampered for the nearest pesticide and sprayed an amount too generous to the filthy being. And as it dashed for refuge, I went down on my knees, stuck my right cheek on the dusty ground, and squinted my left eye to follow its whereabouts. Lo and behold! It somehow squeezed itself among the piles of boxes. I groaned in frustration. It was not the first time that a cockroach escaped my sadistic intentions of either drowning it or squishing it to death. Anyway, as I was in the midst of another topic-hunting session, the proverbial light bulb lit up and I had one of those “aha” moments…

Cockroach. Spread the culture of hatred for this insect. Why cockroaches shouldn’t be trusted; how it has pestered me since childhood; encounters with cockroaches in the bathroom scaring me off every time I take a bath, in the bedroom running gleefully on my bed sheets and pillows (eeew!), and even in my sleep!…

As my thoughts ramble on, my Smart phone beeped. Conscious, but still wrapped up in thoughts of my prospect topic, I ignored it. My Globe phone beeped. And beeped. Beeped again. I gave in and rolled my eyes over the curse of unlimited texting promos. “Noreen?” I talked to myself as I opened the inbox. And as sure as the sun rises, it is her. Noreen, my classmate, has been flooding my inbox with forwarded messages for the past 12 hours. Even in my dreams, I can hear my phone beeping. And when I wake up, the phone screen would register: 7 messages received. I read each message and deleted the ones that I already received four or five times. After the disruption, I went back to my contemplation. But then, both phones beeped at the same time. Damn phones! I glared at my phones, fighting the urge to hurl them away from me and out the window. To cool my mind that was already brewing anti-unlimited texting propaganda, I took a trip to the mini-kitchen of our mini-house to douse my parching throat and to refresh my thoughts. But alas, my mind was taken by the arrogance of technology, bidding goodbye the nostalgic goose bumps of writing about cockroaches. At times, it takes an initial attack of strong emotions to trigger the brain to veer away from the current discourse, no matter how far you’ve gone through.

Unlimited texting promo. To make people think twice before flooding other people’s inboxes with crap. Why the promo encourages impersonal communication – imagine sending the same message to every one in your inbox?; How I used to be one of those “flooders” but got “converted” because when others did the same, I realized it’s not funny – it’s irksome; Strategies to combat the promo: not too effective though – switching the damn phones off…

As I looked around the room to gather more thoughts, my eyes chanced upon the clock that read 7:30. CSI! My mind raced with my hand as I flicked the remote control. Irritation slowly dissipated with every second of gore and investigation. Not that I love bloody and disgusting stuff. I just feel that I’m being analytical when I watch it, trying to figure out the killer behind evidences. I forgot the phones because the action-packed episode featured explosives and fire. As I gorged on the violent clashes, my eyelids slowly dropped to a half-mast until darkness and dreamland cradled me in their arms.

The next day, I woke with a start to find the clock greeting me a happy 6:15 morning. Yikes! Classes start in 45 minutes! I yanked the blankets away, stood up, and came face to face with yesterday’s paper bearing a scandalous article over a UP professor – our professor. I then remembered a friend who had been texting me that week that he wanted his teacher fired because he was practically teaching nothing. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I have the heart for teachers, because aside from the nobility of the profession, my parents who were my first teachers, are also teachers in a private school.

As I hurried on with school preparations, the light bulb blinked once. Twice. Thrice. Many times, signaling the end of the long session that took a cockroach, two phones, and a slumber before the loose bolts in my brain finally and decidedly reached a verdict.

tribute to dad

2006-06-20T00:44:00.000-07:00

Valentine’s Day 1998. I was excitedly tinkering with pink and red cards with hearts strewn all over, not to mention the screaming “Happy Valentine’s Day” printed by hands whose eyes must have bulged from lack of sleep the night before while fishing out words and sentiments from nowhere – when one card caught my eye. Sealed in a wild fusion of pink, red, and flesh, it momentarily stripped off the sender’s austere mien to reveal the loving side of him which I have come to know throughout the years.

Loving? It was something that never crossed my mind as a kid who was raised up in a pretty tight situation, where the father figure at home is the same head figure I see in the school corridors and classrooms every day as the school principal. A disciplinarian and a real professional, I was not spared from his critical eye at school, most probably contrary to what most people thought at that time – reprimanding me for violating school rules and yes, issuing me reminder slips (and an offense report as well). I never complained because I knew it was part of the discipline he tried to inculcate in the students, including me – I mean, most especially me, his daughter and his student. Unwittingly, I became more cautious and I brought that with me at home, maintaining a strictly professional relationship with him. My classmates and friends would often ask me how the school principal is like at home and I’d tell them, “Well, he usually comes home late at night, eats dinner, plops down on the carpet in front of the television, and I come bugging him with my one thousand and one questions about science, math, and history.”

At times, I would think it is a curse to be the “daughter of the principal” because I was a magnet of little controversies that went on like “…salig ra na siya kay anak sa principal...” and it hurt like hell because my father never taught me how to take advantage of situations where I’m supposed to have a “little edge” over the others. I labored for every little thing I have gone through. No special treatments. No favors. I did everything fair and square. Some people just didn’t get it and kept playing the same old tunes – in vain, though because my father kept my spirits strong, telling me to ignore them.

Yes, it must be a curse. I believe it the more I think of it now. Because I got the attitude, the vibe, and the enthusiasm to pursue my dreams. The discipline that he tried to instill in me is taking its toll on my being. Now I’m one determined woman, willing to take a lot of risks and wander far away from my comfort zone.

My father may be the strictest man alive on earth for most people (which I think he is not) but he always gave me and my siblings enough room to grow. Which father would laugh at you when at grade 3, you show him your test paper with a failing mark one point away from passing? Which father would strike up an exchange deal with a condition that you can go to a conference in Baguio as long as you go out of your shell? Which father would bring you a pasalubong of books every time he comes home from a board meeting? (consequently starting my love affair with reading) Which father, when your grades are declining, would tell you it’s okay because not everything in this world are graded? Which father, though no expert in the kitchen, would wake up extra early in the morning to “experiment” on sinigang with sausage and hotdog toppings when your mom is away on an official business trip? (In all fairness, the sinigang tasted good!)

There’s nothing really extraordinary about all those. But it’s not like he has to eat fire or walk in a tightrope to prove his worth. Watching me grow and guiding me to the right path is enough reason for me to say, “Pa, thank you. I love you very much even though I don’t say it that much.”

I hastily opened the envelope to find a message from my father. It read: “Stay sweet and loving. I love you.”

Life is just so good.

the mass communication puzzle

2006-06-14T01:05:00.000-07:00

Classes officially start this week – after quite some drought of surprise quizzes, hours’ labor on projects and case studies, student-teacher-student backlashes, hypertension-inducing stress, and head-bashings with immature classmates.

This year will hopefully be the last in my journey as a mass communication student. Now in my senior year, I still am growing and learning about things that prepare me for a longer stint in the labor force. And up to know, I am fully convinced that I chose the right course. No amount of bribe can take away the feeling of satisfaction I get. Even if I often wake up stressed and too tired to even move a muscle, I still fall in love with this course all over and over and over again. Why? I guess, when something is your passion, you just do. Passion leaves little room for setbacks to make people give up. Instead, it moves people to explore and exhaust all the possibilities.

A question I always encounter whether inside or outside campus is: “Nindot ang Mass Comm?” , although on a more suspicious note, I think they're trying to goad me into saying that Mass Communication is a breeze-through, hassle-free course. But they never get that kind of response because truth to tell, Mass Communication is no easy course.

Glitzy and glamorous it seems, but ask any senior and they'll tell you that mass communication also spells deadly working hours, community – organizing, intense data- gathering, artistic quality, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. So don't get too comfortable seeing that you have lesser Math units in your syllabus and instead prepare for the challenges that four years in this course can give – there's a lot to learn, to enjoy, to live, and to love about Mass Communication!

Mass Communication encompasses a broad spectrum of subjects from journalism, broadcast communication, development communication, down to film and advertising, that requires so much energy, talent, and versatility. You get an opportunity to interact with top editors of local newspapers and the chance to get published. You get to improve your stock of Cebuano and English vocabulary, and your diction. If you're a bit techie on the side, you learn the technical aspect of broadcasting, from satellites to microphones and consoles. If you're in for community service, you may find yourself immersing in communities and putting up publications. And if you have the eye for television production and scriptwriting, you're definitely an asset for your film class. The fatigue of constant planning in productions may pull your hairs apart (and in all directions) but you'll be rewarded with the realization how meticulous planning can contribute to your work of art. You will experience the helpless moments of trying to find the “right” words to complete your article while trying so hard not to look at the clock ticking minutes away from the deadline. And speaking of time pressure, your world tears apart when, during a radio production, you realize that you have underestimated your segments and you're running overtime.

Being a Mass Comm student also means FUN! You go to places and meet different people, nice and nasty alike. There's always something new and exciting about this course – even we are caught off guard by its perks and surprises. But then, it also calls us to be independent, gutsy, and skillful all the time.

“Nindot ang Mass Comm?”

No doubt about it.

AT RaNdOm

2006-06-02T18:44:00.000-07:00

I’m breaking my over-a-month-long’s-blog-silence. And first posts after being mum for quite a time are usually full of issues and updates. Information over load downloading…

DEMOCRACY SUMMER FEST: Civic Engagement Module
Last May 17-21, 2006, I was one of the 50 luckiest young people in this millennial generation to participate in a Civic Engagement Module sponsored by the US Embassy. It was a great experience, getting to know and interact with student leaders oozing with so much idealism and hope. I was inspired myself to continue and even do better to make a difference in this poverty-stricken country. Let the power of the youth reign! It all starts with us.

POST-DSF HEALTH CONCERNS
I got sick and my taste buds haven’t completely recovered. I force down at least two tablets per meal and I’m surprised why I’m still walking vertically from the ground. Earlier this evening, the grossest insect on the planet by the name of cockroach was flying around the room and had it pooped on my McDonald’s Chicken Meal, I would still have loved it to the very last bone (eeeyeeew!) without an ounce of suspicion that I just committed the gravest Vianney’s rights violation. Ugh! Anyway, I am getting better although my appetite has changed a bit and something is always gurgling in my stomach. Side effects? Maybe.

PRINT INTERNSHIP
I was thrust into the colorful, hectic, and deadline-beating world of journalism through the theories and practical exposures of Mrs. Maria Theresa “Mayette” Q. Tabada, the event coverages from Ms. Pura L. Kintanar, and the beauty of meeting new and different people from Mr. Michael “Myke” U. Obenieta.

I am one lucky budding writer because these people gave me the chance to blot my name on the paper they work for as early as second year in college and they continuously and patiently give me the opportunity to develop myself in the field.

But this internship aimed to go beyond the special pages and features section and envisioned the young UPian Mass Communication student as someone versatile and well-equipped with skills for print, radio, and television. ‘Yan ang tatak UP!

Because my stint as a news writer for Tug-ani was brief (and high school campus journalism is way too different), I had generally forgotten that working in a newsroom involves a lot of constraints and experiences, as well. So now I recount my print internship days with both pain and pleasure -- pain because the experiences and memories were good and I hate the thought of bidding the newsroom and all the wonderful people and experiences in it goodbye, and pleasure because even if I had shed tears and sweat for this internship, I would never trade the lessons I learned from it for anything else in the world.

I would have to say that the highlight of this internship lay not on the number of articles I published during the entire period. The highlight lay not on the number of free meals I savored and definitely not on the perks of covering an event. Sure, published articles translate to points and points translate to grades, but there’s such a thing as the school of hard knocks, where one learns important bits of lessons like (s)he never will in the four corners of the classroom. As my father told me many years ago, not everything in this world can be graded. And indeed, I found those precious gems in the people directly or indirectly associated with the profession, down to the least likely news source to the writers up to the editors and the big news makers. These people have enriched me with wisdom that two months of exposure in the field can’t completely give. I felt like I have been in this job since forever! I felt what it is like to be a print journalist in two months, but the knowledge I gained from it can span as far as two decades…two centuries…

It’s true that there are two ways in which you learn: the first is through your own experience, and the second is through other people’s experiences. Hence, this internship was a healthy blend of both the former and the latter – with enough lessons that kept my spirits strong but planted both my feet firmly on the ground.

Justice under the klieg lights

2006-04-18T23:07:00.000-07:00

Note: In all attempts to update this blog at least once a week, I am offering as a “sacrificial lamb” this piece on death penalty I entered into the Xpress Urself Literary competition by the Mamamayang Tutol sa Bitay (MTB), wherein the winners get to see their works published! The results are already out. And thankfully, this piece was among the selected essays which will be compiled in the anthology.

Not everyone is fond of the klieg lights. The klieg lights, it seems, don’t favor a lot of people, too, especially when these people are considered deviants in a society like ours, where norms are sacred and violators of which are considered immoral, unethical, and evil. When our system declares an individual guilty of deliberately defying these norms and sentences him to death, the offender is unwittingly thrust into the public spotlight, instantly becoming an icon of crime. And humans, as we are, we instantly carve their profiles in our consciousness, dangerously stereotyping them as the people who don’t deserve to enjoy the same privileges as the rest of the law-abiding citizens do.

Backtracking to Philippine history, nothing much is different. In fact, our earliest ancestors sought justice through what historians call “trial by ordeal”, where the accused are subjected to different trials to prove their innocence or guilt. For example, one method requires the accused offenders to be given lighted candles. The accused whose light runs out first is the guilty one. Another method orders the accused to dive into a river or lake with lances. The first one who surfaces is the guilty one. Strange but true. And the unconventional methods didn’t seem to bother our ancestors for their belief is rooted in the ideology that God sides with the innocent.

Justitia, the goddess of justice, stands as a tall and proud emblem of the justice system. On her left hand, she holds the scales signifying balance and fairness while on her right, she holds a sword, symbolizing the assurance that justice will always be the victor. To represent the impartiality of judgment, she wears a blindfold. This view of the justice system is so idealistic but under a dichotomous society of the rich and the powerful versus the poor and the oppressed, this is too good to be true.

It’s more than an illusion to think that justice stands by the good side of everything, for the stark reality is blatantly screaming at us that it stands by the side of whoever has the greater power over it. And when it does, it tramples upon the rights of the poor and the minorities in the society and makes them easy targets of injustice – precisely why death penalty should not be meted out as a punishment for any crime, not matter how grave it is. For the price of an innocent life is greater than the false satisfaction of retribution. What happened to their claim that everyone has the right to life? Has this basic right become a privilege, too, exclusive for the rich but elusive to the poor?

There is little reason to rejoice over the fact that our justice system is a far cry from our ancestors’ unconventional methods. Even with an improved method of trial, justice remains as blind, as deaf and as flawed as ever.

There are so many arguments against death penalty but let us get right into the core of it. Rather than clamor for the imposition of this inhuman punishment, why not lobby for the correction of the flawed justice system – the system that is slow, discriminatory, and corrupt?

They always say that we should teach these people a lesson. But Anon puts it best when he counters, "Does it make sense for the state to hire murderers to kill defenseless victims on death row, in order to prove that hiring murderers to kill defenseless victims is morally wrong?" No, it doesn’t make any sense at all. Nor is the state safer when it punishes a person through killing for it hasn’t been proven that death penalty effectively curbs the crime rates.

For once, let us be what we are – humans, with a heart and with a soul that feeds compassion for others. Humans who will give the others a chance to live life free from the guilt of their sins. For once, let us be the children of God -- forgiving, loving, and unselfish.

THEFT TACTICS

2006-04-08T04:01:00.000-07:00

Who wants to steal?

Spark up your summer by taking these simple theft tactics into mind. Just act cool and natural when you’re at the implementation stage; nervousness may cause your prospect victim to be anxious. Do these with caution. (The situation applies when you’re planning to perform theft in a jeepney.)

1. When you’re riding a jeepney, always sit near a lady with a shiny bag. Shiny bags can spell luxury so risk it. She might be a prospect victim.

2. For sound effects, you can try sniffing and picking your nose a lot. The people in the jeepney will be moved with pity, if not disgust, “Awww, he’s just a poor sick man.”

3. A child, around age 3 – 4 sitting on your lap is a plus factor for your disguise. People will think you’re harmless old grandpa taking his grandson on a Sunday mall tour.

4. Bring an umbrella, big enough to cover both you and whoever your accomplice is (if any). Of course, people will think it’s just your defense against the summer heat when in fact, you’ve been planning to use it to carry out your stealthy plan. Allow the layers to hang loosely. You can use it for cover.

5. Wait until your seatmate opens her bag to get some change for the fare. You’re in luck when it’s already past six o’clock in the evening; the jeepney looks dark and since from the beginning, you have successfully (I assume) warded off the people’s suspicion, you can do the theft hassle-free. You just need the right momentum.

6. Pretending that you’re busy with something else, look into her wallet as she gets her change. Aha! She didn’t close her bag right away. Yahoo! The red heavens must be shining down on you. You can hear the angels – minus the halo, plus the little horns – singing Meja’s, “It’s all about the money… all about the dum-dum-de-de-dum-dum…” Your hands are all that itchy to grab the wallet and whisk it away.

7. Right at that moment, slowly move the umbrella towards her until one-fourth of the umbrella is sticking right above her still-open bag. When she’s not looking, skillfully slip your hand under the umbrella and into her bag (Bravo! What a genius!) until your hand finds the wallet. Slowly lift the wallet towards your umbrella.

8. But then, an unexpected thing happens: Despite your acting skills, she notices your bothersome umbrella near her bag and catches you red-handed holding her wallet! Shocked and speechless, she just utters “Oops!” and pushes the wallet back to the bag while moving her legs in such a way that you lose grip of the wallet. She hurriedly checks her bag to see if her cell phone is still safely tucked in her bag. She zips the bag close and puts it at the other side away from you. You have just blown your perfect poor-grandfather cover.

9. You’re unsure of what to do next. She’s still quiet, thank God. She didn’t try to announce to whole jeepney-hood that you’re such a klutz. She talks to her girl-companion beside her. Uh-oh. But thank God again that some people on your other side stepped out of the jeepney at a stopover. You immediately move away from her and nearer the jeepney door. “Surely now, I am safe from being caught. People will no longer think bad of me. Phew.” You say this to yourself quietly.

10. There’s another stopover. She and her companion start to move towards the door and out of the jeepney, while furiously cursing something in English. (Something that sounds like cap.. No wait, clap… Let me think, klep… That’s it, klepto! Klepto-something!) You sadly imagine the money burn into ashes while saying, “Pera na sana naging bato pa.”

Moral of the story: The attempt would have been successful had the prospect victim not been a past victim of the same crime. Therefore, if you’re going to try the same maneuver, make sure – be very, very sure they’re first-time victims.

I write to heal

2006-04-02T18:50:00.000-07:00

(Post-writing) prologue: I don’t know if I was writing this with all my brain insides intact. It’s past 2 in the morning and I came close to injecting my weird theories again. Phew! It was as if some alien crept into me…yikes! But one last look at this, I’m ninety percent sure I wanted it to be written this way. (Attribute the remaining ten percent to the sleepy molecules.)

10 years ago: “I write because I want to express my heart’s deepest emotions…”
2 years ago: “I love writing. It’s like creating a world of your own through your pen and paper, immersing yourself and your readers into another dimension and in a new perspective. I never underestimated the power and influence of words. The scope is probably endless. I am not known to be an outspoken person but when I truly and deeply believe in something, one thing is clear to me: I want to be heard.”

I could chant a thousand clichés on why I write: to shout to the whole world what I want to say, to put stinging memories into words, to curse, to share crazy ideas and weird self-formulated theories, and all those sorts of crap you can think of. Thing is, the reasons vary from time to time, from age to age, and from person to person.

As a kid, writing was my way of warding off my summer loneliness – that instead of just sleeping, eating, and living a pig’s life, I’d write about what happened during the day and how I had forgotten how lonely summer was at our home in Leyte. In my early teens, I wrote about my crushes, spine-tingling (“kilig”) moments, and infatuated frustrations. (See? I’m still human despite my witchy lifestyles and swinging moods.) When I took up Mass Communication in college, writing took on a different meaning for someone who is relatively quiet and secretive but was shoved into a notoriously protest-active college brimming with too many ideas and too many loud people – I wanted to be heard, and although writing is not as transparent as the sputtering, saliva-drying declarations of whatever-subject-this-time, I dedicate my writing only to people who care to hear some logical, if not sensible reasoning amidst all the mayhem.

Today, still a struggling college student, I still write to be heard. (And oh, rumor has it that blogging is the in-thing now because most people are tired of being drenched in saliva after hours of being exposed to some senseless talk. Awww… By senseless, I mean those discussions that aren’t really going anywhere because people have already made up their minds.) But through the years, I have come to consider writing as my personal therapy. All this time, I have been writing to heal myself of all the inequities this life could give – that by putting words to emotions, scenarios, and details, even to the minutest, I am making a sanity out of all the madness and sense out of all the rubbish. Yes, my friends. When I write, I strip off the beautiful skin of the ugly hand – in the same manner that I make black out of white. This world has a weird sense of humor. So many things we never could understand. So many surprises. So many pains. So many questions. Writing is thus my own attempt to see things beyond what is plainly visible, along with the goal of assuring myself that something better comes out of the worst and something worse could come out of the best. After all, there are always two sides of the coin. If life is at its best or the worst or anywhere between, there will always be what-if’s and but’s.

Ten years from now, I wonder what will be my driving force to write. Because aside from age, time, and the person, the reasons for writing can be largely dependent upon life’s circumstances, both past and present. And as of now, I’m more of the past.

Why don’t I talk about LOVE?

2006-03-26T03:46:00.000-08:00

One evening, in the midst of what was yet another overnight group project session, the small talk shifted gears from the scholarly, academic discussion to blogging. One classmate of mine commented that my blog posts were mostly about serious stuff (really now!). Then I found out the reason a little later:

“You don’t talk about your love life.”

Jeepers creepers!

Well, well, well, we need a little clarification here, don’t we? For the information of everybody, I don’t talk about love life, precisely because I don’t have one. What else is there to talk about but me, (yeah, call this a slight manifestation of narcissism) my experiences, and my thoughts. Things about love and details of my past flings and short-lived romances are things that are kept locked away in the deepest recesses of my memories – they’re personal and I intend to keep it that way for now until a meteor crashes into my head and causes aberrations in my brain functions – for one of the greatest puzzles in my life is (romantic) LOVE itself, what it is and what is the logic behind people falling madly and crazily in love. The bits of vocabulary I have about “love” are the faintest recollections of my childhood crush(es), high school flings, text mates, one-minute flirtations, and hopeless romantic moments. Period. If it goes more than that and I talk about it, congratulate me – I solved my own riddle.

Politics in a salon

2006-03-19T03:09:00.000-08:00

Filipinos love to talk of three things: aside from basketball (and boxing, too, after the media hype of Pacquiao’s series of victories), there’s POLITICS and SHOW BUSINESS, a.k.a showbiz. (Little wonder then why frogs have long been jumping from politics to showbiz, showbiz to politics, basketball to politics…etcetera, etcetera… hoping to kiss princess luck on the way.)

Last week, I had the privilege of engaging in an “intellectual” discourse on politics. Who would have though that of all the nooks and crannies this earth could ever hold, politics would find its niche in the most unsuspecting place: ladies and gentlemen, (drum rolls) the salon – where beauty is all abuzz and where most smiling workers would gladly kick me out because I always refuse to give in to their heed to rebond my hair. So there I was, accompanying my mom who needed a haircut. While waiting, I sat between two older men and browsed over the day’s paper for my dose of news. The man on my right, most probably in his 60’s and with graying hairs, suddenly started asking questions: “Where do you live? How old are you? Are you still a student?” My curt answers only urged him to ask more. The man on my left told me, “Nag-abroad baya na siya Day.”

Er, was he implying… (Jeez, why do I get the feeling that I’m always linked to older, no wait, change that – ageing men when I’m in the salon?!?) I braced myself as my instincts told me that wasn’t going to be a smooth conversation at all. I gripped the edges of the newspaper, ready to swat it on my seatmates’ faces.

The dialogue took a different turn, however, when:

Man on my right: “Asa ka nagskwela Day?”

Me: “UP Cebu.”

Man on my left: “UP?”

Me: “Oo”

Man on my left: (suddenly inspired by his brain waves) “Ngano man mong mga taga-UP magsige man mo og rally? Gipa-eskwela na gani mo sa gobyerno, magsige pa mo og ing-ana.”

I stopped reading and sputtered forth a concoction of English and Cebuano response, hoping so hard that they’d stop pestering me in my solitude. I don’t participate in rallies unless I feel strongly about the issue but I felt that I have to defend other students at that point.

“Dili man sa wa mi utang kabubut-on pero we have to hold the government accountable. We have to be vigilant.”

The debate went on. We touched on the subject of the Presidential Proclamation 1017. I was so thankful that my mom had her haircut done at that point. (The OFW kept laughing at us.) It gave me an excuse to leave the place. But oh no, they weren’t as enthusiastic to just let the topic go. At that point, my mom cut in but it seemed as if she favored the side of the men. Blame it on generational gap?

Final words on the issue: It’s not that we are looking for trouble. Being funded by the government, by the people, we have a responsibility to look into and critique the actions of the government. It does not stem from mistrust nor cynicism. Rather, it comes from the spirit of true democracy in that by trying to be vigilant, we are protecting the very core of our freedom.

No matter what they say, I still am an Iskolar ng Bayan.

Purrfect Moments

2006-03-13T01:56:00.000-08:00

A tribute to my multiplying breed of cats and to all the cats in the world!

Yesterday, I reached the front doorstep to find one of our friendly neighborhood cats sitting prettily on our doormat, refusing to budge until I blurted out, “Excuse me!”

Then I remembered that animals have feelings, too. I know a few people who hate cats for a number of reasons: they're a bunch of dirty, stupid, and asthma-inducing omens of bad luck. But they should know that cats are also very loving. They are not as domesticated as the dogs, though, which explains their feral and sometimes their rough nature. They're definitely insensitive to their masters in most instances as they espouse an it's-me-against-you outlook in life. And in my case, they poo on anywhere they wish to.

My very first orange adopted cat, which I found outside our house in Leyte, turned our humble dwelling into a site for the perpetuation of their species. To date, I have around 7 cats at home and counting. I always place a value to my firsts. I adored my cat and named it Clovis after Sleepwalker’s lead cat star Clovis. I even have a picture where I was hugging it so tight I feared I choked it a bit. Clovis was my companion during my times of grief. I cried in front of it and it just stared at me with consoling eyes. When it died, I gave it a proper burial place near our garden and I visit its grave from time to time when I feel like reminiscing our moments together.

Of course, cats as they are, they’ve had their share of mischief: stealing my dog’s food, snatching our dinner from the table, and just wiggling their butts when they feel like playing with yarns and insects outside the house.

Back to the cat on the doormat, it was still there when I went out to buy dinner. Feeling cat-friendly now with the feline and nostalgic of Clovis (which, by the way, is always mispronounced by my nanny; she spits out the word “Plubis”), I told it, “Stay there okay. I’ll get back soon.” And to my surprise, it did.

Good old friends

2006-03-09T20:22:00.000-08:00

TRAVELOGUE SERIES
Destination: UP Diliman
Date: February 22 – 23, 2006
Entry # 2

Much can be said of my brief sojourn in Manila. The campus tour in Diliman. The induction ceremony. The people. The traffic. The pollution. But what made my trip a blast was the re-connection to my high school friend cum ally cum twin/alter ego Allen. Three years of enculturation in different worlds have changed us in terms of perspectives, ideals, and values. Despite that, it’s as if nothing has changed. We still have our literally wide foreheads. We still laugh about little things and we still talk about guys, guys, and oh yes, guys. LOL.

In general, I feel good when I’m with old friends because they remind me who I was and who I am still. They pull me back to my real self; not that I have been pretending all along, but that oftentimes, the cares of the world blur my vision and stray me to the real and not imagined passion burning within me. Old friends put that passion back in you because they can see through all your pretensions. They let you see whether you have grown up the way your heart wants you to grow up.

Hence, I wish to thank the following people for helping me grow up through the tough times. Though physically, you may not be here with me to walk with me through the treacherous path of life, just the sheer thought of having true friends like you in this world makes the journey worth enduring:

Athea Myles: Come hell or high waters… come failed internet connection or zero phone card balance, you will always be my spiritual inspiration. You help me strengthen my faith in that One being, who has never left me through all the ordeals.

Christine Jane: My best friend forever… Your cheerful and lively spirit lifts up my soul and helps me see that beyond the darkness, there is still light, beyond the distance, your faithful friendship remains.

Allen: A shining ally… Literally and figuratively, you have proven to be a shining example to me and have never left me even when my strength was stripped and my weaknesses unveiled.

To these women, your humble friend remains proud because she has you for friends – a truly remarkable thing, more precious than grades and all the jewels in this world.

PR 842

2006-02-26T06:18:00.000-08:00

TRAVELOGUE SERIES
Destination: UP Diliman
Date: February 22 – 23, 2006
Entry # 1

(At the time of actual writing, the writer was obligingly thrust more or less 31,000 feet above ground; the entry might contain any writing not suitable for very sane readers, reader discretion is advised.)

As I sit on seat 22F, tucked between a gentleman (as I may perceive so) and the window, sipping coffee, munching on Philippine Air Lines’ Snack Pack of assorted biscuits, I am momentarily swept off of my feet as I gaze upon the imminent signs of dawn, cracking silently above the still-sleeping earth.

Light and dark hues of the blue sky were interspersed with hazy clouds, lazy vermilions, and splashes of orange shades. Beneath me are fields of white-puffed clouds, much like a stretched piece of cotton candy which looked sumptuously tempting as the plane’s body cut through it.

And as if to end my delicious fantasy, the city lights came into view and a long line of blinking beetles and fireflies (in human terms, they’re called cars) honked and bonked each other to the slow-fast rhythm of the traffic… (sigh) welcome to manila!

DAKIT launched

2006-01-23T00:50:00.000-08:00

One of our back-breaking, mind-bending, not to mention wallet-stripping projects for this semester is to INITIATE a publication of any school/non-government organization/community and SUSTAIN the publication for our Development Communication 142 class. We have gone as far as publishing the maiden issue through the collective efforts of the following: our monthly allowances; a lineup of “generous” donors which includes our uncles, aunts, friends, relatives, and yes, parents (to our parents, a tip of the hat to all of you for maintaining composure throughout this ordeal); and the miscalculations of the alleged sleepy risograph personnel that slashed off quite a big chunk from our total expenses. (HINT: If you want a discount on risograph printing, I advise you to rush into the store minutes from closing time.)

This week, we are involuntarily excusing ourselves from classes to conduct a 2-day Basic Campus Journalism Training for the students of Punta Princesa Night High School (PPNHS), wherein we would teach them the essentials of news writing, feature writing, editorial writing, and editing/lay outing. Involuntary – because our schedules are all out of sync even if we have to skip meals and totally miss out the beer-bonding sessions.

I am praying real hard for the success of the whole activity. We are quite lucky that the students are as enthusiastic as we are, and that the principal of the school, Mrs. Maritess Patiño, is more than supportive of our endeavor.

After the training, we’ll work on our next issue. Yey! But before that, we’ll have to devise new money-making schemes to finance it. I think the risograph scheme won’t work this time as the other personnel have heightened their senses for any suspicious sign of our shadows. I bet they now have to give themselves extra caffeine boost to stay alert. But alas, amidst all the endlessly piling quizzes and projects, I need a caffeine boost myself.

To all those who need the same, cheers! Enjoy the moments of slavery and torture...

eThIcS UnLiMiTeD

2006-01-18T21:02:00.000-08:00

Note: This entry has been stalled for almost a month due to piles of workload in Development Communication 142 and Communication 140 subjects. Peace!

When the Yuletide season’s up and kicking high in the sky, everyone’s supposed to be gay and bright with the generous giving and sharing of blessings. But even when you’re (mis)placed about a few notches “higher than ground level” (and makes you nearer the sky, and therefore heaven?), surrounded by the most Christmas-eous ambiance of flaming torches, dashing gladiators in chariots, and cuddly baby Jesus in His swaddling clothes, you still can’t miss out the humanly flaws in this “divine” grace.

Consider this: The second our teacher dismissed us from an afternoon class, I dashed out quickly to take the next jeepney that would take me to Bethlehem’s alter ego, only to find out I would be trapped in a hellhole the next few hours.

I had taken up a media ethics class the previous semester. Whether I like it or not, a stinging voice in my head reminds me each time how to behave as a journalist whenever I’m thrown on-field for an article assignment. That day, I was in the company of older, more experienced, and expectedly more ethical media persons. To my dismay, I found out that they have either forgotten or have chosen to ignore the ethical standards of being in the media.

Rule on freebies: When you’re covering an event, it is a basic ethical rule not to accept freebies given only to you or to media persons covering the event. If it is given to everybody, it is safe. But to ask for it? And blatantly at that? “Oi, (motioning to the media escort), asa naman amoang freebies?” to quote one media person. Then without another word, grabbed the nearest giveaway the hand could reach and started thrusting the giveaways to other media persons. I was a neophyte and they didn’t know me that well yet so I was quite thankful that they didn’t pay attention to me at that moment. But then, another media person saw me and was feeling a bit generous that day so the media person said, “Give her one, too.” The escort gladly handed me the giveaway – not really expensive but utilitarian. It was as if the escort stuffed the giveaway into my mouth. I could not utter a word. He handed it to me with a wide smile (I could not fathom if it was genuine wholeheartedness, hypocrisy, or just plain submissiveness) and simply uttered, “Thank you.” I was about to refuse it but the escort got ahead of me and I didn’t want to appear ungrateful. I accepted it submissively.

To date, I still have that giveaway, making me feel sad that some people in the media bend the ethical rules and lower the ethical standards at times. I blame myself too, for not refusing it. But my greatest disappointment was that they have portrayed a wrong example. I was supposed to look up to them, recognizing their experience in the field. They were supposed to be mentors to younger and amateur media persons.

But well, what do I get for ranting and raving about something that won’t make those people hand the giveaway back? It’s ONLY ethics anyway. Where the greatest compromise lies with a not-so-great value of TRUST towards a not-so-important chunk of the PUBLIC.

If not for me, then doesn’t the society deserve better?

2006: a dog's year

2005-12-29T10:26:00.000-08:00

Since it's the year of the dog anyway, I formally introduce Captain, the alleged Japanese spitz I like to babble about. See how cute he is? I mean, he was? He just looks like a cuddly thing beside Pikachu and Clefairy.

my “eligibility” as a foreigner partner

2005-10-31T16:27:00.000-08:00

Still groggy from sleeping at 5 and waking up at 6 to catch my 8am boat trip to Cebu, I lazily lugged around the supermarket in Ayala around twelve noon to run errands for my brother. With my stomach grumbling of hunger and my bodily systems nearly shutting down of fatigue, I was a walking zombie in a UP shirt. I was dying to get done with my chores so after circling the supermarket a gazillion times, (I couldn’t find the object of my brother’s obsession --- kropek) I gave up and looked for the counter with the shortest line. While waiting for my turn, I realized that the three persons ahead of me were all senior citizens and foreigners. I looked to my left and I saw another aged foreigner. I looked behind me and saw the same thing. “What the…?” I started muttering at the back of my mind. Is it their feast day or something? Because they were swarming around the place. But the picture isn’t even complete --- not without a Filipina either linking arms with them or HHWW (holding hands while walking). At that moment, I could only think of two words: sugar daddy.

Don’t blame me for harboring harsh thoughts. I had an unfortunate experience with being judged as an eligible partner for a foreigner. Once, I went to a salon to get my kinky hair trimmed. Trying to establish good customer relations, the haircutter, a woman, started talking about rebonding my hair. Acting good-naturedly, I rode her small talk and asked for the rates. She answered, “Four thousand pesos.” Probably sensing that I swallowed a huge lump of saliva after she mentioned the price, she quickly added, “But for hair as short as yours, it can go for two thousand five hundred.” Rushing to end the topic (before her crazy ideas start to seep through the deepest recesses of my brain), I said, “Okay. I’ll save up for it.” Silence. Suddenly, as if a lightning of inspiration struck her cerebellum if not desperation, she offered her unsolicited advice: “Marry a foreigner! You know, foreigners like Filipinas with a beauty like yours.” I tried to smile as sweetly as possible although deep inside I was dying to strangle her alive. But I said nothing and miraculously, it worked. She resumed her job without another word, while I suspiciously kept close watch of what she was doing in case she would snip off my ears in vengeance for ignoring her.

There’s no wrong with what she said, I realized later. Some foreigners are hunks, like Tom Cruise or Keanu Reeves but the image that flashed in my mind when she said that was an old but filthy rich foreigner. In other words, matandang mayamang foreigner na madaling mamatay (I invented the foreigner part). Those are what they call the “prerequisites” in looking for a partner. I remember my cousin who decided to stop going to school for awhile after shifting courses twice or thrice already. She enthusiastically babbled about her envy towards her neighbor: “Blah blah blah is soooo lucky. She married a foreigner. I’ll just marry one, too.” In that case, foreigners should really drop by our country more often. With more and more women looking up to them as saviors from damnation and as hope from their poverty-stricken condition, the demand for them here is high. If in their countries, they are already considered surpluses because of their old age, here, they are the prime commodities in a disillusioned “love” market.

Helen

2005-10-24T03:51:00.000-07:00

The sign on the road reads Verie Hills Subdivision. Indeed, the affluence of neatly lined houses affirms that it is the “millionaire’s lane”. But farther into the lane, one discovers a small, simple home; its wealth dwells not on the structure but on the goodness that the owner’s heart overflows with.
A monthly honorarium of P 1,000 can barely suffice for a college student but this same amount has been supporting 42-year-old Helen Niaga. A Child Development Worker (CDW) of the Department of Social Welfare and Development’s Early Childhood Development (ECD) program, Helen arms herself every morning with a bulky bag that contains a banig (mat), books, and toys for her students, and treks a hilly slope to get to her community, Sitio Campisot, Liloan. A living proof that the lack of college education does not deter anybody from serving fellow Filipinos, Helen is the epitome of faith and real public service.
Meanwhile, students aged three to five anxiously wait for their mentor every morning. With eyes fixed from afar, Lovely, four, began reciting her ABC’s softly enough for her seatmate to hear. When her classmates shouted, “Naa na si Tita Helen! (Tita Helen is here!)” she stopped and craned her neck to see her teacher clearly. Sure enough, Helen was making her way towards her with all smiles. All at the same time, the kids run to her and grab her hand.
To signal the residents of her arrival, she strikes a hollow arm-length steel pipe as if it were a bell. Soon, other children, carrying their bags and school materials appear. Today, their “classroom” is an unfinished house. The next day, it could be under the shade of a tree or in a public building. With no permanent room to hold their classes, the weather is an influential determinant. But the children are oblivious to this. As she leads them to their classroom, she whispers, “Niadtong usang adlaw, naay nihilak nga bata kay di na gusto mouli. (The other day, one of the kids cried because he did not want to go home.)”
As a CDW, it is her responsibility to prepare her students mentally, physically, and socially for the next level, conforming to the basic premise of the ECD program that an early development is crucial to the success of the children’s future. Like other teachers, she follows a plan that will cater to the development of her students’ potentials.
One wonders why after three years of her continued service to the children of Sitio Campisot, she does not seem worn out. Aside from her community service, she sells vegetables, teaches catechism in different schools, and does volunteer work for the parish. She admits, though, that she does get tired. But her happiness and fulfilment compensates for everything she works hard for.
“Diha koy estudyante nga naa na sa grade one. Pag-abot niya ngadto, kamao na siya mu-count. Unya gipangutana siya kung diin siya nakat-on og ihap. Ingon siya ‘kang Tita Helen!’ (I had a student who is now in grade one. She already knew how to count. She was asked where she learned how to count. She said she learned it from me.)”
Nothing makes her happier than to see her students learn from her class. One day, she tests the children’s skills in distinguishing shapes. She picks up a square toy and asks her student to tell her the shape.
“Unsa ni Love? (What is this, Love?)”
“Circle,” Love shyly answers.
“Unsa man ni Mary Rose? (What is this, Mary Rose?)” she asks another.
“Square,” Mary Rose answers.
She picks up other shapes and places them in the palm of her hand.
“Asa man ang square, Love? (Where is the square, Love?)”
When the child picks out the square toy, she smiles at her proudly.
At the end of a long, tiresome day, she can only say, “Dili jud mabayran sa sapi ang kalipay.” (Money really can’t buy happiness.)

By Maria Carla Bren Vianney L. Yap
Published: October 5, 2004; Sun Star Cebu; Community Force Section; Editor: Pura L. Kintanar

The Problem with Vianney

2005-10-23T12:44:00.000-07:00

The Spanish era paved the way for the baptism of Filipinos with the names of saints. If your name is Maria (Mary), Jose (Joseph), Pablo (Paul), or Juan (John), it’s a testimony that colonial influence still exists.
Naming their children can be an arduous task for parents.
While some parents are contented by giving their names or their spouse’s names or even the names of their favourite local and Hollywood celebrities, athletes, and presidents, quite a number a strong with conviction that their children’s names should have significant meanings in their lives.
Victoria, for example, was the name given to a friend after her mother victoriously delivered her despite the hardships and dangers of labor. Her name simply means victory over death.
Speaking of names, I have a long one.
It is both a combination of my parents’ names, Carlos and Breña, and the name of a saint, the Curé of Ars, Jean Baptiste Marie Vianney, whose feast day falls on August, the month of my birth.
In all the years of my existence in this world, I could not yet fathom if having the name of that saint is an advantage or not. My identity either stands out in the people’s memory for the uniqueness of my name or it becomes easily buried in oblivion for the “weirdness” of it.
At times, I have even been the laughingstock in conferences every time the emcee mispronounces my name and reads it as Va-ya-ni. Naughty classmates of mine would then jokingly call me Bayani, likening me to comedian Bayani Agbayani.
People have varied reactions when I introduce myself to them, too. Some people smile sheepishly and say, “Nice name…Um,…, where did you get it?” Others openly strike and say, “Your name’s so weird.”
If others know about Saint John Vianney, they are quick to point out that it’s a guy’s name. Still, there are a few, who appreciate it. “Hey! I like your name. It’s unique.”
Three years ago, in a national summer camp, I had to spell it out so they can understand.
“Hi. I am Vianney and I’m from…”
“What!?!” my subcampmates asked in unison.
“I am Vianney… V-I-A-N-N-E-Y”
In the end, I had to cut it shorter to Vian for their convenience.
Despite all those setbacks, I only have one consolation. Priests and catechists never have any difficulty at all in remembering my name.
I could not understand why most people I meet don’t know who I was named after.
Saint John Marie Vianney is the patron saint of diocesan priests so I could see no reason why he is unpopular. But then, I thought, as the bearer of his name, the challenge is up to me to let the people know about him.
I may not be the original Vianney. I may never beat Saint John Vianney’s simplicity, humility, and kindness, but in my own little ways, I can let the people understand how he was like in his days. It won’t be easy. But this is my calling: to live up to his name and his good examples.

By Maria Carla Bren Vianney L. Yap
Published: August 29, 2004; Sun Star Cebu, Light Section; Editor: Lorenzo P. Niñal

Blue Glass

2005-10-23T03:32:00.000-07:00

Reality TV must have doused my mind too much. When I look at the common everyday things, an invisible video camera lodged somewhere in my brain reels on and silently checks if the shots I took were perfectly framed for editing. Then the assuming writer-editor takes on the job, mentally clicking away captions and titles for each new frame as the story unfolds, directed by the master storyteller that is only a piece of my imagination. The process is literally endless and probably inherent, with countless new episodes for a slight mood swing, a major hunger pang or a cursory trip from this world and back. I do not wonder then why I carried this feverish passion when the chance to travel to Bohol jumped at me. With the invisible camera still at the back of my head, I set out on a journey that allowed me to zoom in on the details of what’s really at the other side of my world.

Easy to say, yes. From a hypocritical point of view, the whole immersion thing was an absurdity in that it relied on the overused strategy of “eating what they eat, doing what they do” to feel how they are feeling. But for compliance’s sake, I decided it was favourable for me to just go and do what I was told. No questions. Period. But along the way, as I was struggling with the acrid odour of the ship, lugging my bags despite the weakening condition of my lungs, and enduring the bumpy ride up the sleepy purok, in near madness I almost cried out loud, “Wait a minute! This is not right!” when a far more important question should have been, “What is right?” What is right? I should have asked myself that when we came to live with Manong Boy, Manang Tata, and their eight children in Trinidad.

The sleepy purok in Trinidad didn’t really shock me out of my guts. From hearsays, I even imagined it was worse – no water (uh-oh, no bath?) and no electricity (what about my phone?). It turned out that there was plenty of water but no electricity. I heaved a sigh of relief as I remembered rushing to the department store at the last minute for flashlight and batteries. But that was, I realized later, only the beginning of my troubles.

How could these people lead this kind of life? I cringed at the thought of not having a proper rest room where nobody can peep through. I cried during cooking sessions with the dirty kitchen constantly blowing smoke and ashes on our faces. During the night, the mosquitoes nearly sucked my blood to death. And beware of going barefoot, you might step on something squishy that is either the cat’s or the dog’s poo. (or probably the chicken’s or the pig’s)

On the brighter side, life is fun when you make it. I mean, rather than moping around and grumbling about how things never went your way, why not make the most of it? Personally, I loved our poso baths with touches of mischief and carefree spirits. I thoroughly enjoyed our acoustic concert with the farmers (They were the audience and we were, ehem, the performers.) and I so often fantasized about “candlelit” dinners in their home. And the kids! James, my favourite, was the ever-shy four-year-old kid who peeps out at us from the bedroom when we weren’t looking.

What is right, I now dare ask. Life is fun wherever you are. It’s how you put up with it. But for people, like Manong Boy and Manang Tata, how can they be happy when deep inside they are continuously being haunted with the threat of being evicted out of the land they tilled? And with eight mouths to feed, what could be more depressing than the thought of not being able to provide for their daily sustenance? But all of these anxieties, our hosts never showed. They gave us the best rooms, took out their best plates and utensils for us to use, and helped us prepare the meals. At night, before we went to sleep, they made sure we were all right and cozy with our blankets and mattresses. Sometimes, I think it’s the ingrained Filipino values that make the Pinoys survive in this harsh world. And when it comes to the typical warm Filipino hospitality, our hosts were the perfect examples.

It’s quite sad that when you look a little deeper into things, reality sometimes leaves you with no room for hope. All that idealism is thrown away into the trash in an instant. But if the people, like Manong Boy and Manang Tata, never cease to hope, never cease to dream for a better life, why should we? I am constantly reminded of a particular scene in our hosts’ home. We were desperately looking for extra glasses to use. (Imagine how many we were in that house.) Manang Tata took out a blue glass from her prized collection. It looked queer back then, glinting against the pitch-black night that enveloped the house. But now, I see it as the hope we should cling on to –faint in daylight but when darkness falls, when the worst of the worst casts its ugly doom, it comes, shining its light upon the people who never stopped believing and never stopped dreaming. And I so salute our hosts for that. Until now, they never stop dreaming. They never stop believing and hoping that all the fight is worth it.

So now I’m back in the midst of the city bustle. I may never hold the solution to the great fight the farmers are in right now. Solutions? They come and they go. What must never fade is faith. For faith makes one strong. And when faith makes one strong enough to withstand the fluctuating current of destiny, any action will be stronger.

To sum it all up, just three words: Dream. Believe. Survive. I told you I was struck with the reality show fever. And I’m not even talking about reality shows.

on blogging

2005-10-23T03:22:00.000-07:00

The bandwagon has moved my way and now, I am riding on it. I never really thought I'd be writing my mind out...I mean, like this. This is one very personal thing that has kept me quite sane for years now and thoughts of exposing it for ridicule gives me a feeling of uncertainty. But sometimes you just have to speak it all out... The people may never understand you but hey, that's the very reason why you should speak in the first place -- to establish a common ground and to foster the unity of minds, of the hearts and of the souls...

Bits of chocolate. Yum. Just the thought of it makes my mouth water. But aside from its undeniably delectable taste, chocolates have kept me sane through the years, just like the pen.

Precisely the reason why this blog is named bits of chocolate. I'd like to think that by sounding off some of my thoughts instead of keeping them locked away in oblivion, I keep my sanity in check.

Things are hard and life is rough but I'm grateful I'm still moving on. Many thanks to the pens and the chocolates in this world!