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.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
THEFT TACTICS
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.
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.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
I write to heal
(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.
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.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Why don’t I talk about LOVE?
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.
“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.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Politics in a salon
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.
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.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Purrfect Moments
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.
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.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Good old friends
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.
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.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
PR 842
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!
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!
Monday, January 23, 2006
DAKIT launched
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...
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...
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
eThIcS UnLiMiTeD
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?
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?
Thursday, December 29, 2005
2006: a dog's year
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.
Monday, October 31, 2005
my “eligibility” as a foreigner partner
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.
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.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Helen
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.)
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
Published: October 5, 2004; Sun Star Cebu; Community Force Section; Editor: Pura L. Kintanar
Sunday, October 23, 2005
The Problem with Vianney
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.
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
Published: August 29, 2004; Sun Star Cebu, Light Section; Editor: Lorenzo P. Niñal
Blue Glass
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
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)