My best friend from college is getting married next week. We met again after about four years, and over pizza we talked about marriage.
Girl, I am truly happy for you that you're getting married. I wish with all my heart that your man will bring you only happiness. I wish you a good life together. I wish that your new family will bring you fulfillment.
I wish there were fool-proof, 100% guaranteed-to-work seminars on how to stay happily married. Your mother and sister could give you good advice, and I'm sure I'll have lots of opinions, but in the end, what matters is how much you care for each other. I've been married nine years, and still I cannot tell exactly how you can keep loving the same man if you wake up with him morning after morning, after you've gotten used to all his good points and all his faulty mechanisms. What I know is that I want the marriage to work because of all the love that was there in the beginning, because of all the effort we put into living our life together, and because of the children.
But it doesn't stop there. You have to always remember that you promised to love him till death do you part, and hello, walang divorce sa Pilipinas. There will always be rough times in any marriage, there will always be little fights, minor and major irritations, and it is part of the deal that your foundation (the reason you married him in the first place) should be strong enough to withstand all that.
And one last thing: leave something for yourself. You could give him all the love in the world, but you should also love yourself. Your whole world should not revolve around him. There should be enough respect for yourself, enough value, enough space, to keep you from being just a shadow. If you feel that it's your job to keep him happy, it's also your job to keep yourself happy. There should always be something for you. Gemma the person is just as important as Gemma the wife and the mother. It gives you your dignity, so that when the kids leave the home or (let's hope not) the marriage falls apart, you have enough to go on.
Congratulations, and good luck.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
jagey's list
Before class one night, I shared my sentiments over husbands who check too much. This progressed to the little irritating things that men do. Later, my classmate Jagey offered to share a man's POV. These are the things I learned:
1. A man's ego is a big deal. It's hard-wired in him. If you are an intellectually superior wife, you should be bright enough to understand that it's not something you flaunt when the husband's with you, unless you want to pick a fight.
2. Talk to him. A man can't take hints. When you want him to change a lightbulb, you have to tell him exactly when you want it changed. You can't go on pretending to bump into things in the darkened kitchen for a month. He just doesn't get it until you actually say, "Right now." And use simple words. If you talk for an hour, the actual request gets lost in the translation.
3. Men are pigs (Jagey's actual words). They're just different. You'll just get tired of asking him to hang his towel on the hook after taking a shower, or to be careful when pulling a shirt from the closet because the whole pile gets messed up. He will always be looking for socks. I'm taking this lightly. I'm not even talking about farting on the dinner table.
4. Don't rub it in. If you earn more than he does, you can't just buy P5,000- peso shoes every two weeks and say "Well, I can afford it" when he finds out. Better to hide the shoes under the office table. :-)
5. Relearn the loving look. Jagey says to get past the minor irritations, you should try to remember how you looked at him when you realized you loved him already. You should recall the HHWW sessions (if you don't remember what that is, you should seriously re-think why you fell in love with him in the first place).
Okay, so I had a few days to reflect on this. And last night, he had a couple of beers with his friends before dinner. It was one of the things that piss me off. I was looking at him across the table. I knew I was frowning, but I tried to remember how the dog looks adoringly at him. I tried to remember the night we got drunk around a campfire on Good Friday, and how I thought he looked good enough to eat.
He looked up.
"What's with the look?" he said.
"What look?" I said. I thought I looked lovestruck, staring at him over the bowl of adobo.
"You look like your cat contemplating the murder of a mouse."
Oh, Jagey, I have a long way to go.
1. A man's ego is a big deal. It's hard-wired in him. If you are an intellectually superior wife, you should be bright enough to understand that it's not something you flaunt when the husband's with you, unless you want to pick a fight.
2. Talk to him. A man can't take hints. When you want him to change a lightbulb, you have to tell him exactly when you want it changed. You can't go on pretending to bump into things in the darkened kitchen for a month. He just doesn't get it until you actually say, "Right now." And use simple words. If you talk for an hour, the actual request gets lost in the translation.
3. Men are pigs (Jagey's actual words). They're just different. You'll just get tired of asking him to hang his towel on the hook after taking a shower, or to be careful when pulling a shirt from the closet because the whole pile gets messed up. He will always be looking for socks. I'm taking this lightly. I'm not even talking about farting on the dinner table.
4. Don't rub it in. If you earn more than he does, you can't just buy P5,000- peso shoes every two weeks and say "Well, I can afford it" when he finds out. Better to hide the shoes under the office table. :-)
5. Relearn the loving look. Jagey says to get past the minor irritations, you should try to remember how you looked at him when you realized you loved him already. You should recall the HHWW sessions (if you don't remember what that is, you should seriously re-think why you fell in love with him in the first place).
Okay, so I had a few days to reflect on this. And last night, he had a couple of beers with his friends before dinner. It was one of the things that piss me off. I was looking at him across the table. I knew I was frowning, but I tried to remember how the dog looks adoringly at him. I tried to remember the night we got drunk around a campfire on Good Friday, and how I thought he looked good enough to eat.
He looked up.
"What's with the look?" he said.
"What look?" I said. I thought I looked lovestruck, staring at him over the bowl of adobo.
"You look like your cat contemplating the murder of a mouse."
Oh, Jagey, I have a long way to go.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
when death do us part
Last weekend my daughter asked for money to buy cookies with. As I handed her some coins, she asked, "Mama, when you die, who will give me money?" I said she didn't have to worry, I don't think I'm going to die soon, but when I do, Papa will give the money. She nodded and went her way.
Later, she came to me again. She asked when I'm going to die. Then later, if I will die when she's grown up.
I told her that we don't know when we're going to die, but mostly people grow really old and get sick before we die. As she can see, I'm not yet old, and I'm not sick. I could tell she was anxious, but she was relentless. She asked who's going to take care of her baby sister if I die.
My daughter knows death as something that happens to old relatives, like my grandmother and my dad, but she was too young then, and she has never seen a dead person. She knows it happens to pets, but she has not wept tears over a puppy or a bird. I think she was trying to come to terms with death as a personal thing, as something that forever takes away someone she loves. And she was finding it difficult.
I could not explain that even adults such as me have trouble coming to terms with death. Oh, would that I could tell her I'd be around forever. To an eight-year-old, it would be an assurance that her world would be safe, but the lie would hurt her when it happens.
I hope I'll be around a long time, for her sake. But I also hope that I have helped her understand the inevitability of death, so that when it happens and it breaks her heart, she could smile again later and live on.
Later, she came to me again. She asked when I'm going to die. Then later, if I will die when she's grown up.
I told her that we don't know when we're going to die, but mostly people grow really old and get sick before we die. As she can see, I'm not yet old, and I'm not sick. I could tell she was anxious, but she was relentless. She asked who's going to take care of her baby sister if I die.
My daughter knows death as something that happens to old relatives, like my grandmother and my dad, but she was too young then, and she has never seen a dead person. She knows it happens to pets, but she has not wept tears over a puppy or a bird. I think she was trying to come to terms with death as a personal thing, as something that forever takes away someone she loves. And she was finding it difficult.
I could not explain that even adults such as me have trouble coming to terms with death. Oh, would that I could tell her I'd be around forever. To an eight-year-old, it would be an assurance that her world would be safe, but the lie would hurt her when it happens.
I hope I'll be around a long time, for her sake. But I also hope that I have helped her understand the inevitability of death, so that when it happens and it breaks her heart, she could smile again later and live on.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Salma Hayek's curls
I went to the parlor yesterday to get my hair permed. I wanted to look like Salma Hayek. I have natural curls in my hair, but they don't bounce and form ringlets. I had a perm some two years ago and I thought it looked fine, so I breezed into the parlor and announced my intention.
The gay stylist said no. Imagine my outrage.
After I had insisted a couple of times that yes, it's what I wanted, and yes, I already know how I'd look like with curls, the stylist sat me down. He explained that I had very fine hair and perming would damage it. He said I had nice wavy hair, and what I could do instead was to have it styled and load it with conditioner. When I had calmed down I asked if he didn't believe in 'The customer is always right.'
No, he said. His job is to make hair look beautiful. If he had given me a perm and my hair started to look ugly after a couple of days, I would have been disappointed and he would have failed in his job. He said he was not after the money I'd pay, but that I should be satisfied enough with the service to make me want to come back.
I liked that. How nice it would be if we all worked the same way: knowing what our job is and doing it the way it should be done. Sometimes we forget that it's not always about the money. And yes, sometimes what matters is not that the customer is right (and gets his way), but that you give what is good for the customer.
He gave me a trim and a hot oil treatment. I got his name and shook his hand. I am not a fan of beauty parlors, but you know, I think I'll go see him again in a couple of weeks. Perhaps I'll let him try the 'hair spa' on me. I may not end up looking like Salma Hayek (I have serious doubts now), but I bet I'll end up liking myself more.
Monday, October 26, 2009
the time traveler's wife
I finished Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife last weekend. It was amazing. I am thoroughly absorbed by the story of Henry and Clare, of his jaunts in time, of how their love carried through. Henry is called a 'chrono-displaced person,' and it is thoroughly entertaining to read about his misadventures, although I could see how it could be frightening. Henry had a very keen survival instinct, aided by his uncanny skill in picking locks, running fast, pickpocketing, and imaginative lying.
And it is, at the core, a love story. Most of the feelings ring true for lovers, and it perfectly captures the sense of insecurity in every relationship. With love, we are never sure. We don't know how it starts, where it ends, why it hurts, when the other goes (or is taken away), what comes after. What we only know is that when we love with all our heart, everything else will come to pass. Even time.
rotten apples, spoiled kids
I was making small talk with our new Japanese consultant this morning, and she asked me how my weekend was. I said me and the husband took one of the kids to the dentist. She said, "Together? What, did each of you hold her hands while the dentist was working on her teeth?" I said no, we were in the waiting room.
"You shouldn't do that. I can't believe how spoiled the kids are in the Philippines. They have drivers, they have maids, they have adults who do all sorts of things for them," she said. "In Japan, most children have working parents, and they learn very early on that they should do things on their own."
I said (a little defensively) that here, both parents also usually work, and weekends are chances to make up for lost time for the kids. "So you spoil them," she said.
I remember another Japanese lady who seemed shocked that most Filipino kindergarten students have separation anxiety. I reassured her that the anxiety is shared (and magnified) by the mothers who bring them to school for the first time. I went so far as to tell her that the separation anxiety is often carried to the first grade, so that's about a couple of years of heart-wrenching scenes in the classroom doors every schoolday morning. In a tone that carried a slight (but noticeable) layer of ridicule, she informed me that Japanese children are not upset about school. She said she remembered riding the school bus on her first day of school when she was 5 or 6 years old.
Are Filipino children spoiled? I will speak of my own children.
My older daughter is eight and doesn't know how to cook. I don't remember ever being allowed to cook in my grandmother's house either. I learned to boil an egg and cook rice when I was 14 and had to live in a boarding house.
She knows how to comb her hair (of course), but I fix it for her every morning. I like the little routine. We talk about Barbie and green hair clips and her friend's new bike while we get her ready for school.
I think she learned to bathe by herself only last year. Her nanny had always given her a bath because (i) she wasted too much water; (ii) she used up too much shampoo; and (iii) she always came out with bubbles still in her hair. One point for the Japanese.
She has packed lunch most mornings. No big deal, even my 59-year old Japanese boss carries a bento box with him, which he eats at 4pm. The packed lunch is prepared by the nanny, though, and the love with which she prepares them surpasses mine. She will cook rellenong bangus in the previous afternoon so my kid can have it for lunch the next day. Rellenong bangus is usually served during fiestas and weddings, next to the embutido, because it's so troublesome to make.
I could go on. Weekends at home are usually exhausting, because I try to do so many things with, and for, the kids. I come to work on Monday with sore arms from carrying the one-year-old. When I'm home she usually climbs all over me. I take it to mean that she misses me, so I oblige. No one carries her around five days a week. We play a lot, and the house is often messy from toys and paper cuttings and clothes. On Saturday evening we sleep all together in the living room, watching late-night TV and chatting. By Sunday evening everything will be tidy and we go to bed early.
So do I spoil them? I prefer to think that I'm making the most of their childhood. I love doing things for them. Very soon they'll grow up and will choose to spend their afternoons locked in their rooms, surfing the net or playing their kind of music, and on weekends they'll have sleepovers with friends, giggling over the likes of Jonas Brothers. I sometimes wish I could hold on to their being kids.
I prefer to think that it's my kind of love. I am not an overprotective mother, and I will not be able to teach them everything, or do everything for them. But you know, I wish I could remember my mother combing my hair, or my mother knowing I hated yellow dresses, when I was eight. I'd like to think that my daughters will remember that I was not always around when they were kids, but whatever time I had, I loved to spend it with them.
For other points of view, I'll go talk to some more Japanese.
"You shouldn't do that. I can't believe how spoiled the kids are in the Philippines. They have drivers, they have maids, they have adults who do all sorts of things for them," she said. "In Japan, most children have working parents, and they learn very early on that they should do things on their own."
I said (a little defensively) that here, both parents also usually work, and weekends are chances to make up for lost time for the kids. "So you spoil them," she said.
I remember another Japanese lady who seemed shocked that most Filipino kindergarten students have separation anxiety. I reassured her that the anxiety is shared (and magnified) by the mothers who bring them to school for the first time. I went so far as to tell her that the separation anxiety is often carried to the first grade, so that's about a couple of years of heart-wrenching scenes in the classroom doors every schoolday morning. In a tone that carried a slight (but noticeable) layer of ridicule, she informed me that Japanese children are not upset about school. She said she remembered riding the school bus on her first day of school when she was 5 or 6 years old.
Are Filipino children spoiled? I will speak of my own children.
My older daughter is eight and doesn't know how to cook. I don't remember ever being allowed to cook in my grandmother's house either. I learned to boil an egg and cook rice when I was 14 and had to live in a boarding house.
She knows how to comb her hair (of course), but I fix it for her every morning. I like the little routine. We talk about Barbie and green hair clips and her friend's new bike while we get her ready for school.
I think she learned to bathe by herself only last year. Her nanny had always given her a bath because (i) she wasted too much water; (ii) she used up too much shampoo; and (iii) she always came out with bubbles still in her hair. One point for the Japanese.
She has packed lunch most mornings. No big deal, even my 59-year old Japanese boss carries a bento box with him, which he eats at 4pm. The packed lunch is prepared by the nanny, though, and the love with which she prepares them surpasses mine. She will cook rellenong bangus in the previous afternoon so my kid can have it for lunch the next day. Rellenong bangus is usually served during fiestas and weddings, next to the embutido, because it's so troublesome to make.
I could go on. Weekends at home are usually exhausting, because I try to do so many things with, and for, the kids. I come to work on Monday with sore arms from carrying the one-year-old. When I'm home she usually climbs all over me. I take it to mean that she misses me, so I oblige. No one carries her around five days a week. We play a lot, and the house is often messy from toys and paper cuttings and clothes. On Saturday evening we sleep all together in the living room, watching late-night TV and chatting. By Sunday evening everything will be tidy and we go to bed early.
So do I spoil them? I prefer to think that I'm making the most of their childhood. I love doing things for them. Very soon they'll grow up and will choose to spend their afternoons locked in their rooms, surfing the net or playing their kind of music, and on weekends they'll have sleepovers with friends, giggling over the likes of Jonas Brothers. I sometimes wish I could hold on to their being kids.
I prefer to think that it's my kind of love. I am not an overprotective mother, and I will not be able to teach them everything, or do everything for them. But you know, I wish I could remember my mother combing my hair, or my mother knowing I hated yellow dresses, when I was eight. I'd like to think that my daughters will remember that I was not always around when they were kids, but whatever time I had, I loved to spend it with them.
For other points of view, I'll go talk to some more Japanese.
Friday, September 25, 2009
i remember the boy
I was chatting with an old friend earlier today, and she mentioned that John was back in the old town.
"Really?" I said. "What is he doing now?"
John is married, with two kids. He sells snacks in the canteen of the local public school.
John was one of my boardmates in the months after my college graduation. He was also my first love.
He was the local heartthrob and I was a nerd. It didn't help that I was studying in Manila and he was in the province, but when you're 14 you think that love like that can last forever. I'd go home whenever my allowance would allow me, then sigh over him. He was the sole topic in about six of my teenage diaries.
But John was never my boyfriend (a fact that my husband would not probably believe). I guess that was why he stayed my crush for about eight years, because he was the one person I could not have, and I despaired over that fact for a long time, but I never really understood why.
Now I work in a bank, buy shoes every two weeks, and studies MBA. I have a husband who does not blink when I wanted to buy a laptop after lunch, although he doesn't know about the shoes. :-)
Hearing about John, I now think, what would I have been had I become his wife? An employee in the local cooperative who sells Avon cosmetics during lunch break?
No, I don't gloat over his present state. It's just that in the heart of every woman (and man) who had once loved and been heartbroken, a small part will always wonder about a past love, where the person is, what he is doing. And perhaps, when they meet again, there will be a little spark, a little racing of the pulse, in remembering what you once had.
For some, there will be nothing. And still for some, it's "How the heck did I fall in love with him?!"
"Really?" I said. "What is he doing now?"
John is married, with two kids. He sells snacks in the canteen of the local public school.
John was one of my boardmates in the months after my college graduation. He was also my first love.
He was the local heartthrob and I was a nerd. It didn't help that I was studying in Manila and he was in the province, but when you're 14 you think that love like that can last forever. I'd go home whenever my allowance would allow me, then sigh over him. He was the sole topic in about six of my teenage diaries.
But John was never my boyfriend (a fact that my husband would not probably believe). I guess that was why he stayed my crush for about eight years, because he was the one person I could not have, and I despaired over that fact for a long time, but I never really understood why.
Now I work in a bank, buy shoes every two weeks, and studies MBA. I have a husband who does not blink when I wanted to buy a laptop after lunch, although he doesn't know about the shoes. :-)
Hearing about John, I now think, what would I have been had I become his wife? An employee in the local cooperative who sells Avon cosmetics during lunch break?
No, I don't gloat over his present state. It's just that in the heart of every woman (and man) who had once loved and been heartbroken, a small part will always wonder about a past love, where the person is, what he is doing. And perhaps, when they meet again, there will be a little spark, a little racing of the pulse, in remembering what you once had.
For some, there will be nothing. And still for some, it's "How the heck did I fall in love with him?!"
Thursday, August 6, 2009
heroic leadership
Can you believe what I'm reading these days? Heroic Leadership by Chris Lowney. Last week it was Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goleman.I'm reading them for my class on Leadership. And I look with longing at my bookshelf, with John Grisham and Stephen King books winking at me.
I have to groan, but I also have to admit that I have learned a lot from these books. My learning logs, required after every session, have been moments of self-discovery. Some are not pleasant. Some force me to confront the kind of person that I thought I was not. Some make me re-think the ways I have been raising my children.
So yes, I don't enjoy them as much as I do the novels, but they do expand my reading list, and sometimes Corelli's Mandolin gets stale. And if I want to be entertained, there's always the International Herald Tribune in the morning.
a cup of coffee
I got to the office very early today, so to wake myself up I got a cup of Cafe Americano at San Francisco Coffee. Now I'm drinking it with some peanut butter cookies, and I burned my tongue already.Most days it's Cafe Americano with milk and sugar, but sometimes-- when I didn't get enough sleep the previous night, or it's shaping up to be a looong day-- I get a Hazelnut Latte. It's good enough to make me look forward to bad days. :-)
These morning coffees are expensive. My small cup costs more than my Meal-of-the-Day lunch at the cafeteria. Which means that my coffee budget for a week will buy me 53 sachets of 3-in-1 hazelnut coffee mix. (Hmm. This is actually the first time I computed it. Makes me think twice about next week's coffee.)
So I contemplated for a while why this coffee tastes better than my morning coffee at home. I can make it as strong as I want, or load it with cream, and I can choose what bread to go with it. Also, my 8-year-old daughter makes a mean cup of coffee, but with the effort and love she puts in it, it's already lukewarm by the time it's served.
So after 30 minutes of drinking this expensive cup, I figured out why.
I take this coffee at a leisurely pace, when I'm already in the office and not rushing to get dressed for work. I get to savor every sip, and I don't have to gulp it down because I'm next in line for the bathroom. And since it costs a pretty penny, I drink it to the last drop.
This is printed on every table napkin of San Francisco Coffee: Life is Good. Learning for the day? Like my coffee, life should not be taken at haste. We cannot always be running after things, like a bigger house, a promotion, a nicer car. There should be a moment to savor little joys, small wins, even waiting for the rain to stop, if it means a few more minutes to kiss the baby before going out of the house. Like my coffee, life is expensive. We have to cherish every last drop of it, even if it burns us at times.
Friday, May 15, 2009
society
An ant colony has a single queen, plenty of workers, and some alates or male ants. The queen, of course, does nothing but lie down and have kids. The workers maintain the underground chambers, collect the food, groom the queen, and feed the larvae. The drones fertilize the queen, and as far as I can tell, do nothing else afterwards but die.
The ant colony lives underground in a series of interconnected chambers and tunnels. Each chamber is dedicated to a certain function, such as food storage or nurseries. Ants from different colonies are aggressive towards each other.
Each ant has his own role. Perhaps there are ants who are assigned to guard the colony from attacks by other ants. Perhaps there are troublemaker ants who bite others without provocation. Perhaps there are lazy worker ants who sleep when they think no one is looking.
So it is with human society, whether they live in tribes or in cities. Humans co-exist to fulfill their needs within the group. Each member has his own role, and each one contributes for the continued existence of the group.
When I am asked to describe Philippine society, what comes to mind is the Lifestyle section of the broadsheets. Perhaps it does not give an accurate picture of everything that our society is, but it gives one a slice of what makes us what we are.
A society is largely dependent on its particular culture. One good thing about Philippine society is that due to the many cultural influences from the time of Spanish colonization to American and Japanese occupation, we have become like a sponge. We soak up and absorb influences from other nations and cultures, and make it part of our own. Back to the Lifestyle section: you see raving reviews of Japanese restaurants, where to buy the latest French fashion trends, and a dissection of Swiss watches or German cars. We embrace Korean telenovelas and the American Idol with equal passion. But we are not confused about who we really are. Look at us when Manny Pacquiao has a fight. We even have ceasefires in war-torn Mindanao so both sides could watch on tv.
You could watch documentaries until you're blue in the face and you will get a list of all that ails Philippine society. Crooked politicians, drug traffickers, child labor, people who kill cats just for kicks, prostitution… it goes on. What is sad is that Filipinos have this amazing capacity to grin and bear it. Ok, so we had a dictator. Took us two decades to throw that one out. So the President cheated in the elections? She apologized and the people let it go. The ZTE Broadband deal is just so much big words in the back issues of newspapers.
I ride "kolorum" vans to work. You ask, why don't they apply for a franchise? Because it's so tough to process the application. Why is it so tough? Because you have to go through so many people and get so many signatures, and by the time you finally ask for approval, it has been over a year, you have already spent a hundred thousand pesos, and then the officials get re-shuffled. What happens to the papers? Well, you have to start all over again, because now there are different signatories. And in the meantime, the kolorum vans play patintero with the traffic enforcers every day. They pay these officers a certain fee every month so that they will not be apprehended. The protection money goes all the way up to the bosses, so as long as the papers are not approved, these officers have a steady source of income. You hear all these, and you are indignant. But the drivers who make a living will say, "Talagang ganyan ang buhay." The officers who receive the money (and the occasional lechon or bottle of Johnny Walker) will say, "Talagang ganyan." The passengers shrug and say, "Talagang ganyan."
That's what's wrong. It's not "bahala na." It's the cheerful, almost careless acceptance that it is the way of life, and we take it because it is too much trouble to buck the tide.
The ant colony lives underground in a series of interconnected chambers and tunnels. Each chamber is dedicated to a certain function, such as food storage or nurseries. Ants from different colonies are aggressive towards each other.
Each ant has his own role. Perhaps there are ants who are assigned to guard the colony from attacks by other ants. Perhaps there are troublemaker ants who bite others without provocation. Perhaps there are lazy worker ants who sleep when they think no one is looking.
So it is with human society, whether they live in tribes or in cities. Humans co-exist to fulfill their needs within the group. Each member has his own role, and each one contributes for the continued existence of the group.
When I am asked to describe Philippine society, what comes to mind is the Lifestyle section of the broadsheets. Perhaps it does not give an accurate picture of everything that our society is, but it gives one a slice of what makes us what we are.
A society is largely dependent on its particular culture. One good thing about Philippine society is that due to the many cultural influences from the time of Spanish colonization to American and Japanese occupation, we have become like a sponge. We soak up and absorb influences from other nations and cultures, and make it part of our own. Back to the Lifestyle section: you see raving reviews of Japanese restaurants, where to buy the latest French fashion trends, and a dissection of Swiss watches or German cars. We embrace Korean telenovelas and the American Idol with equal passion. But we are not confused about who we really are. Look at us when Manny Pacquiao has a fight. We even have ceasefires in war-torn Mindanao so both sides could watch on tv.
You could watch documentaries until you're blue in the face and you will get a list of all that ails Philippine society. Crooked politicians, drug traffickers, child labor, people who kill cats just for kicks, prostitution… it goes on. What is sad is that Filipinos have this amazing capacity to grin and bear it. Ok, so we had a dictator. Took us two decades to throw that one out. So the President cheated in the elections? She apologized and the people let it go. The ZTE Broadband deal is just so much big words in the back issues of newspapers.
I ride "kolorum" vans to work. You ask, why don't they apply for a franchise? Because it's so tough to process the application. Why is it so tough? Because you have to go through so many people and get so many signatures, and by the time you finally ask for approval, it has been over a year, you have already spent a hundred thousand pesos, and then the officials get re-shuffled. What happens to the papers? Well, you have to start all over again, because now there are different signatories. And in the meantime, the kolorum vans play patintero with the traffic enforcers every day. They pay these officers a certain fee every month so that they will not be apprehended. The protection money goes all the way up to the bosses, so as long as the papers are not approved, these officers have a steady source of income. You hear all these, and you are indignant. But the drivers who make a living will say, "Talagang ganyan ang buhay." The officers who receive the money (and the occasional lechon or bottle of Johnny Walker) will say, "Talagang ganyan." The passengers shrug and say, "Talagang ganyan."
That's what's wrong. It's not "bahala na." It's the cheerful, almost careless acceptance that it is the way of life, and we take it because it is too much trouble to buck the tide.
the nature of man
I have three premises about the nature of man.
First, man is a creation of choice. Everything that happens to man is governed by choices. You were late for work this morning? It's not because traffic was bad; it was because you chose to leave the house late. You have a happy married life? You chose the person you married. You have a ton of paperwork; you can choose to get upset about it or you can just attack your desk and get it done. You have a choice, down to the attitude you wish to to take every day. Given that, to me it means that man is ultimately responsible for his life's purpose and direction.
Second, man is the fulfillment of life. If man was created in God's image, then man carries with him all the potential. Every person naturally wants to become all that he can be; the desire to live more is inherent in each one of us. Man will always seek to learn more, do more, and be more, because it is the truest expression of all that he can be, all that he is given. Everything that he will need is already inside. In life, the possibilities are endless. These possibilities exist so that man may affirm life.
Third, man is essentially good. Everyone is capable of kindness, love, and compassion. I think this capacity for goodness is hard-wired into each person. Yes, there are evil people, but even the most hardened criminal carries with him a little goodness. You help an old lady cross the street; you give directions to a lost person inside the Mall of Asia; you smile at babies in buses. Why? You don't get headlines for sharing an umbrella in the rain. Most of the time, the simplest acts of goodness are driven by the simplest pleasures. You feel good about yourself.
Given these three, I now come to the reason for man's being. I believe that man, given his free will and the power of choice, should become all that he can be, to achieve good things not only for himself but for all humanity.
Profound? Not really. Over a glass of wine or over the course of my 31 years on earth, I choose to believe that the purpose of my life is the realization of all that I can be. It is only when I become more, when my life is rich and full, can I do more for myself and others. It is not a goal you work for, like finishing MBA, but a thing you do every waking hour. You make a difference when you give your best in everything that you do.
[This is a reflection essay for my Ethics class. I wrote; I liked; I posted.]
First, man is a creation of choice. Everything that happens to man is governed by choices. You were late for work this morning? It's not because traffic was bad; it was because you chose to leave the house late. You have a happy married life? You chose the person you married. You have a ton of paperwork; you can choose to get upset about it or you can just attack your desk and get it done. You have a choice, down to the attitude you wish to to take every day. Given that, to me it means that man is ultimately responsible for his life's purpose and direction.
Second, man is the fulfillment of life. If man was created in God's image, then man carries with him all the potential. Every person naturally wants to become all that he can be; the desire to live more is inherent in each one of us. Man will always seek to learn more, do more, and be more, because it is the truest expression of all that he can be, all that he is given. Everything that he will need is already inside. In life, the possibilities are endless. These possibilities exist so that man may affirm life.
Third, man is essentially good. Everyone is capable of kindness, love, and compassion. I think this capacity for goodness is hard-wired into each person. Yes, there are evil people, but even the most hardened criminal carries with him a little goodness. You help an old lady cross the street; you give directions to a lost person inside the Mall of Asia; you smile at babies in buses. Why? You don't get headlines for sharing an umbrella in the rain. Most of the time, the simplest acts of goodness are driven by the simplest pleasures. You feel good about yourself.
Given these three, I now come to the reason for man's being. I believe that man, given his free will and the power of choice, should become all that he can be, to achieve good things not only for himself but for all humanity.
Profound? Not really. Over a glass of wine or over the course of my 31 years on earth, I choose to believe that the purpose of my life is the realization of all that I can be. It is only when I become more, when my life is rich and full, can I do more for myself and others. It is not a goal you work for, like finishing MBA, but a thing you do every waking hour. You make a difference when you give your best in everything that you do.
[This is a reflection essay for my Ethics class. I wrote; I liked; I posted.]
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
my cafeteria lunches
I wanted an orange belt today. Not just your traffic-light orange; I wanted an exact shade of metallic burnt orange. So on my lunch break I set off for St. Francis Square to find one.
I came back with two mini-shorts, two blouses and a mermaid ref magnet, but I did not find any orange belts. Then, with 10 minutes to spare on my lunch hour, I went to the cafeteria to find food.
For some reason I've had this craving for salad these past two weeks. The salad counter in the cafeteria is nice: you have a selection of ingredients, you toss it all in a bowl, you add some dressing (olive oil, vinaigrette, thousand island, and a couple more I cannot pronounce), then the food attendant weighs it in a scale and prints the price of the salad. I have learned that a P60-peso bowl is enough to keep me full until 5pm.
My usual salad is this: some lettuce leaves, crisp and fresh; two spoonfuls of cheese cubes; some cucumber cubes; 3 or 4 pieces of whole olives (I've taken a liking to these little devils); shredded carrots; some pineapple chunks (fresh, not canned); steamed broccoli; some macaroni; lots of crushed bacon; and just a little thousand island dressing. There are weirder things in the counter: spinach and red beets and onions. Perhaps in a year I'll try them.
I also like Vietnamese food in the cafeteria. On Thursdays I eat cha gio, which is fried spring rolls, fresh noodles, crushed peanuts, and fresh beansprouts in a special sweet-sour broth. Sometimes I get pad thai noodles, when it's Thai food day. And everyday there's Japanese food: California maki is always nice; I pair it with a coffee bun that tastes just like Roti Mum's, only cheaper.
There's also the Meal-of-the-Day, which is usually Filipino fare. They serve ginataang tilapia, chicken afritada, boiled okra with bagoong, dinuguan... and it comes with rice, soup, a side serving of vegs, and dessert.
Then desserts galore! Leche flan, fresh fruits, buco pandan, and cake slices. I love blueberry cheesecake.
There's also a lot of drinks to choose from, but in my 2 years here I have taken softdrinks only a couple of times. They have fresh fruit shakes, see.
After lunch? Coffee. We have Figaro, Starbucks, and San Francisco Coffee concessionaires. Or brewed coffee for 10 pesos, and there's fresh milk if you like.
I have eaten P350-peso lunches at Italianni's and P170-peso-per-slice pizza at Sbarro, and I love good food. I ate at Megamall the whole time I was pregnant; I made the rounds of Italian restaurants there. But really, I don't have to leave the office at all to eat well. Often my lunch here does not exceed a hundred pesos (well, if I get blueberry cheesecake that's a different story).
Salad for lunch. My daughter would look at me like I'm eating soil. And I actually like it.
I came back with two mini-shorts, two blouses and a mermaid ref magnet, but I did not find any orange belts. Then, with 10 minutes to spare on my lunch hour, I went to the cafeteria to find food.
For some reason I've had this craving for salad these past two weeks. The salad counter in the cafeteria is nice: you have a selection of ingredients, you toss it all in a bowl, you add some dressing (olive oil, vinaigrette, thousand island, and a couple more I cannot pronounce), then the food attendant weighs it in a scale and prints the price of the salad. I have learned that a P60-peso bowl is enough to keep me full until 5pm.
My usual salad is this: some lettuce leaves, crisp and fresh; two spoonfuls of cheese cubes; some cucumber cubes; 3 or 4 pieces of whole olives (I've taken a liking to these little devils); shredded carrots; some pineapple chunks (fresh, not canned); steamed broccoli; some macaroni; lots of crushed bacon; and just a little thousand island dressing. There are weirder things in the counter: spinach and red beets and onions. Perhaps in a year I'll try them.
I also like Vietnamese food in the cafeteria. On Thursdays I eat cha gio, which is fried spring rolls, fresh noodles, crushed peanuts, and fresh beansprouts in a special sweet-sour broth. Sometimes I get pad thai noodles, when it's Thai food day. And everyday there's Japanese food: California maki is always nice; I pair it with a coffee bun that tastes just like Roti Mum's, only cheaper.
There's also the Meal-of-the-Day, which is usually Filipino fare. They serve ginataang tilapia, chicken afritada, boiled okra with bagoong, dinuguan... and it comes with rice, soup, a side serving of vegs, and dessert.
Then desserts galore! Leche flan, fresh fruits, buco pandan, and cake slices. I love blueberry cheesecake.
There's also a lot of drinks to choose from, but in my 2 years here I have taken softdrinks only a couple of times. They have fresh fruit shakes, see.
After lunch? Coffee. We have Figaro, Starbucks, and San Francisco Coffee concessionaires. Or brewed coffee for 10 pesos, and there's fresh milk if you like.
I have eaten P350-peso lunches at Italianni's and P170-peso-per-slice pizza at Sbarro, and I love good food. I ate at Megamall the whole time I was pregnant; I made the rounds of Italian restaurants there. But really, I don't have to leave the office at all to eat well. Often my lunch here does not exceed a hundred pesos (well, if I get blueberry cheesecake that's a different story).
Salad for lunch. My daughter would look at me like I'm eating soil. And I actually like it.
que sera, sera...
There was a provincial 13-year old girl who was small, skinny, and very shy. Her grandmother told her that she was quite intelligent but she was not beautiful, both of which she believed. She loved reading stories from her textbooks. She had few friends and she did not do well in sports. In fact, she hated Physical Education. She wanted to sing, but her grandmother frowned upon singing (perhaps because she herself could not sing), and had her learn to dance swing and cha-cha instead. She drew little comic strips and made paper dolls, and she wanted to be a fashion designer.
This girl believed she was in love with a local heartthrob. She would carry this infatuation for most of her high school and college years, and she did not have a single boyfriend because she thought she was not beautiful enough. She cried easily and she hated confrontations.
There was this woman in her thirties who knew she was not really beautiful, but she was very attractive. She also knew she was smart; she will write books, and after a masters' degree in business administration, she will study Law. She had just a couple of close friends, but she was popular and well-liked. She did videoke sessions on weekends and will try belly-dancing... or perhaps pole-dancing. She dabbled in photography, did drawings in pointilism, and wrote blogs in her free time, while keeping old-fashioned diaries in the bottom of her closet.
This woman was married to a kind, good-looking man who understood that women have wings, and sometimes needed to fly on their own. She looked at love with a critical eye and believed that life needed to be lived fully. She preferred to fight quiet battles, but she was a formidable opponent of discourteous service crews and rude credit card agents, and she itched to sue crooked subdivision developers who sold substandard townhouses.
The 13-year-old girl would have been pretty amazed if you had told her that she will grow up to be the tough woman. In fact, she probably would not have believed it. But the little girl was tough, and even then, perhaps a part of her knew that one did not have to wait for the good things to come. One had to go for it and claim those good things for her own.
Because if one believed hard enough, nothing is impossible. Ask the woman.
This girl believed she was in love with a local heartthrob. She would carry this infatuation for most of her high school and college years, and she did not have a single boyfriend because she thought she was not beautiful enough. She cried easily and she hated confrontations.
There was this woman in her thirties who knew she was not really beautiful, but she was very attractive. She also knew she was smart; she will write books, and after a masters' degree in business administration, she will study Law. She had just a couple of close friends, but she was popular and well-liked. She did videoke sessions on weekends and will try belly-dancing... or perhaps pole-dancing. She dabbled in photography, did drawings in pointilism, and wrote blogs in her free time, while keeping old-fashioned diaries in the bottom of her closet.
This woman was married to a kind, good-looking man who understood that women have wings, and sometimes needed to fly on their own. She looked at love with a critical eye and believed that life needed to be lived fully. She preferred to fight quiet battles, but she was a formidable opponent of discourteous service crews and rude credit card agents, and she itched to sue crooked subdivision developers who sold substandard townhouses.
The 13-year-old girl would have been pretty amazed if you had told her that she will grow up to be the tough woman. In fact, she probably would not have believed it. But the little girl was tough, and even then, perhaps a part of her knew that one did not have to wait for the good things to come. One had to go for it and claim those good things for her own.
Because if one believed hard enough, nothing is impossible. Ask the woman.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
my reading list
I bought a hardbound Nightmares and Dreamscapes yesterday, one of Stephen King's collection of short stories. It is an understatement to say that I thoroughly enjoy all of his books, and my daughter looks mystified when her father tells her that her mother loves horror novels. I tell her, "Someday, you'll read all of them. Then you can tell me which one is a good read and which one is not."
I can only wish that Stephen King writes a book every month, so I will never run out of things to read. But then it's probably a good thing; otherwise I would never have been acquainted with John Grisham, Amy Tan, Anne Rice, and all authors great and small in between.
My reading list now includes the following:
(1) Wallace D. Wattles' The Science of Getting Rich
(2) L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future, Book XX
(3) Louis de Berniere's Corelli's Mandolin (for perhaps the 20th time; I love the writing style)
(4) Stephen Covey's 7 Habits of Highly Effective People (browsing half-heartedly)
(5) The International Herald Tribune (daily, from my boss' subscription) along with the Philippine Star (headlines only)
(6) Managerial Accounting textbook (groan... groan... for my MBA subject)
And yes, I do pick up two different books at different times of day and enjoy them both. The new Stephen King will be for my lunch breaks, so I will keep it in the office.
The next books on my list?
John Grisham's The Appeal and The Associate. I keep resisting the temptation to buy them at the same time, because I will probably finish both in a single weekend, and declare myself hungry for more.
the man in the bus
Though sometimes inconvenient when commuting to the office, I like riding buses. I like observing people (not to mention that I'm on the sharp lookout for pickpockets and bad men), so I don't really mind being caught in traffic.
I rode a bus to work yesterday morning because I missed the shuttle again (woke up early but took my time dressing up). I sat beside a man who probably thought he was a hunk. He was wearing muscle tee and jeans, and he had his cap fastened to the backpack strap. Must be some fashion statement, as I usually see caps on heads. He must be in his mid-thirties, and he sports an extremely short haircut.
At some point I noticed that he was holding a piece of paper. What was curious was that he did not seem to be reading it, he just seemed to scan it over and over. And he must have been farsighted, because he was holding it almost at arm's length, enough for me to see 'Philippine National Police' on the top line, and 'Payee's Name' on the left side, then all these numbers with peso signs. After a while he put it back in his wallet, then he took it out again. After doing this three times, he then proceeded to inspect his wallet's content, taking out various cards and putting them back again, then... ah! He extracted one card with care. It was an official ID card, similar to a driver's license, and it had 'Philippine National Police' on top. He did his routine again, smoothing the ID (perhaps to remove specks of dirt), turning it this way and that (perhaps to see if it reflects light), and holding it closer to me than to his face (perhaps to determined if he was cross-eyed).
From the corner of my eye I could see him taking quick glances at me. I pretended to doze off, but by that time I was thoroughly amused. I waited to see what he would bring out for exhibit next.
He did not disappoint. Next he took out his mobile phone, a shiny thin Samsung. It must have been a source of infinite wonder for him, because he started to check all the features of the phone. The top part slides up, and it had a camera, and he even decided to see if the FM radio works! Oh, golly, it did!
But since I, the audience, did not have any remarkable reaction to this display of credentials, the man pocketed the phone and... took out the police ID again.
Thank heavens the bus was already in Megamall. Five more minutes and I would have burst laughing.
I then asked the driver if he would stop at Building A or at MRT Ortigas Station. He said no, sorry, but I would have to get off at the Mega bus stop or at Robinsons Galleria. Whereupon this ID-laden, shiny-cellphone-carrying male specimen decided it's time to strike a conversation to show his mastery of bus routes.
"Naku, sa Ortigas ka na nyan... dun ka na lang bumaba," he said with a rueful shake of his head.
"Malayo na yun sa Mega, dun ka na lang. San ka ba papunta nyan?" he added in a tone that suggested I was helpless and lost and needed guidance on navigating the Ortigas Center.
At that point I really did begin to wonder if he was desperately seeking attention. Well, I also wondered if I looked like someone who would bat my eyelashes at the sight of a police trainee's ID.
I rode a bus to work yesterday morning because I missed the shuttle again (woke up early but took my time dressing up). I sat beside a man who probably thought he was a hunk. He was wearing muscle tee and jeans, and he had his cap fastened to the backpack strap. Must be some fashion statement, as I usually see caps on heads. He must be in his mid-thirties, and he sports an extremely short haircut.
At some point I noticed that he was holding a piece of paper. What was curious was that he did not seem to be reading it, he just seemed to scan it over and over. And he must have been farsighted, because he was holding it almost at arm's length, enough for me to see 'Philippine National Police' on the top line, and 'Payee's Name' on the left side, then all these numbers with peso signs. After a while he put it back in his wallet, then he took it out again. After doing this three times, he then proceeded to inspect his wallet's content, taking out various cards and putting them back again, then... ah! He extracted one card with care. It was an official ID card, similar to a driver's license, and it had 'Philippine National Police' on top. He did his routine again, smoothing the ID (perhaps to remove specks of dirt), turning it this way and that (perhaps to see if it reflects light), and holding it closer to me than to his face (perhaps to determined if he was cross-eyed).
From the corner of my eye I could see him taking quick glances at me. I pretended to doze off, but by that time I was thoroughly amused. I waited to see what he would bring out for exhibit next.
He did not disappoint. Next he took out his mobile phone, a shiny thin Samsung. It must have been a source of infinite wonder for him, because he started to check all the features of the phone. The top part slides up, and it had a camera, and he even decided to see if the FM radio works! Oh, golly, it did!
But since I, the audience, did not have any remarkable reaction to this display of credentials, the man pocketed the phone and... took out the police ID again.
Thank heavens the bus was already in Megamall. Five more minutes and I would have burst laughing.
I then asked the driver if he would stop at Building A or at MRT Ortigas Station. He said no, sorry, but I would have to get off at the Mega bus stop or at Robinsons Galleria. Whereupon this ID-laden, shiny-cellphone-carrying male specimen decided it's time to strike a conversation to show his mastery of bus routes.
"Naku, sa Ortigas ka na nyan... dun ka na lang bumaba," he said with a rueful shake of his head.
"Malayo na yun sa Mega, dun ka na lang. San ka ba papunta nyan?" he added in a tone that suggested I was helpless and lost and needed guidance on navigating the Ortigas Center.
At that point I really did begin to wonder if he was desperately seeking attention. Well, I also wondered if I looked like someone who would bat my eyelashes at the sight of a police trainee's ID.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
the persistence of memory
I remember Daddy.I remember him as he was before he got old and bitter. He was a teacher, and once in a while he would take us on trips to Lucena City when he was submitting reports to his division office. He would tell us to sit quietly and behave while he went to this office and that, and he would point out the various bosses that he would have to give gifts to in order for his promotion to be processed. If we were really good, he would take us to eat chicken barbecue and coleslaw in one of the upscale restaurants there.
I remember him bringing home a large vanity mirror in a carved narra frame. It was sleek and beautiful, and I thought it was for my sister and me. After we have proclaimed our admiration, he said that it was a gift for the aforementioned boss who processes promotions.
He would tell the same jokes over and over, till you would cringe at the end of the telling because you knew no one would laugh but himself.
I got a score of 99+ in the NCEE as a high school senior (back then, it was a big deal if you were going to college). He made a lot of copies of the exam result, and he showed it to all the relatives. He thought I was going to be either a doctor or a lawyer. So did I.
He knew I could write. That Readers Digest submission was about three years too late. If I had gotten around to doing that sooner, I would have been forced to buy 3 dozen copies for him to distribute.
I remember his rusty sidecar. He bought that for us kids when I was around eight years old. He kept it and used it till the day he got his last stroke. So many kids got to take a ride in it, including mine.
I remember his face when he would see that we had arrived for a visit. The visits were always unannounced, because it was difficult to keep promises to visit. I remember his face when we came with the new van. He cried because he thought he would never see us again.
He wasn't always mean and disagreeable. There are so many things about him being a father that I did not know because I did not grow up with him, but I remember that there had been times when he tried so hard to give us what he thought we wanted.
You know why I don't want to go home? Because a part of me will always insist that he is there, in his sidecar, waiting for us. And his face will be as I remember: excited, and half-hoping we would stay a bit longer.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
the bus ride
I wrote this on February 27, on the bus ride to go to my father.
I took an ordinary bus from Alabang to Lucena City because (1) there was no aircon bus in sight; (2) I had been waiting for a bus for over half an hour; (3) it was already 8am and the trip would take over 4 hours; and (4) I have always enjoyed riding ordinary buses on long trips to the province. Let me tell you why.
As you get farther away from Manila, the air gets fresher, there are more trees, and the people get more relaxed. Of course the bus stops get longer, but no one really seems to hurry. Along the highway lay little towns with interesting houses, where you judge civilization with whether there is a Jollibee or not. I look at the passing scenery as the bus takes me farther away from my 8-month-old daughter who's barely learning to walk, towards my 64-year-old father who will now relearn how to walk.
At periodic stops the food vendors board the bus: boiled corn at 3 for P10 pesos (I note with amusement that the same corn sells at 3 for P20 pesos where I live), bibingka and buko pie, boiled and fried peanuts, buko juice and C2, boiled quail eggs and greasy chips. When I travel with my daughter I spend a lot on these vendors. Now I note my fellow passengers with kids and I think that parents on road trips all wear the same expression of frustration-mingled-with-amusement.
The bus is filled with a fascinating mix of people. A teenage girl beside me has a paper bag filled with teenage-girl makeup, and she is holding a bubble-gum pink cellphone. I see her sneaking looks at my Palm Treo, and she probably thinks it's a gray, ugly, bulky gadget compared to hers. There's a mother with two kids on her lap, all three of them eating corn and shing-a-ling, sharing a single bottle of water. They look like they're having the time of their lives, while beside them a young man frowns. The bus seats are only for two people, and the mother has squeezed in one of the kids between her and the young man. Now the kid is falling asleep almost on the lap of the young man. The young man looks pissed off, but says nothing. It's a long trip; if I were the mother I would have paid for the kids' seats, but then I probably should be thankful that I can afford to pay for my child's seat when we travel.
The bus radio is playing 25 Minutes by Michael Learns to Rock, and to my surprise, when the chorus came, almost half of the bus started to sing along, even the bus inspector. It's enough to make you smile. (And yes, I know the song too.) I look out my hot window. On the asphalt is what looks like a rat, squashed flat by all the passing wheels in the highway. There's nothing left but a blot of black with a scrap of gray fur and a tail.
I'm hungry and I wish I had bought the bibingka. Vendors would probably swarm the bus again later... yes, the fourth batch of vendors boarded on my second hour in the bus. I bought the bibingka, and although the vendor boasted that it has buko, I'm well half into the bibingka and I haven't tasted a shred of buko. It's good, though, in the way that roadstand food tastes good. You can't buy food like that at home or in the malls. Part of the good feeling comes from the experience. You ask anyone who grew up as kids in the province if eating balut from the vendor at night is the same as eating balut aboard one of the provincial buses.
In airconditioned buses the passengers keep to themselves. They are mostly well-dressed, wearing sunglasses and carrying neat little bags. They buy bottled water and they have brought takeout food and donuts in boxes, which they eat with measured bites. They carry muted conversations and they don't look at their fellow passengers. There is probably a foreign action film playing in the bus video. In this bus, the floor is already littered with candy wrappers, half-eaten corncobs, rolling plastic beverage bottles. The FM radio is blaring (Boy, I miss your kisses... all the time, but this is... twenty-five minutes too laate...). Luggage is piled in the aisle. I can see a sack of rice, a couple of fighting cocks in a box with holes, boxes tied with twine, backpacks. A kid smiles at me across the seats, his face half-smeared with vomit (looks like he overdid the corn). The man seated on my other side mumbles an apology about being slightly drunk on the bus: he says it's his wife's birthday so he has to go home. He keeps his hands clasped around his hotdog bag (it's shaped like a hotdog and seems to be universally favored by construction workers) and calls me 'Ma'am.'
I will get off the bus a bit sticky with sweat, with my hair in stiff tangles and my face gritty with road dust. But the other passengers smile at me as they walk past, hopping over the luggages and the trash. The conductor makes little jokes about slow old women while he carries their bags and help them off the bus. The mother drags her two kids and four bags, and the smaller kid picks off a corn kernel from the seat and pops it into his mouth. Amazing.
For some, four hours of this would be sheer misery. For me, it was fun. It somehow reconnects you with humanity. For four hours, each one of us was immersed in this experience, buying food when the vendors came, fanning ourselves when we're stuck in traffic, watching each other, making little talk when it got boring. Each of us has our own respective destinations, and when we get off, we scatter. We will go home to the wives, visit relatives, conduct businesses, enjoy cockfights, sell wares, meet friends, take care of sick fathers. But the bus ride allows us to share each other, to experience other people, to do things that we otherwise overlook or ignore in our ordinary lives. We let the four hours carry us away to where we are going, and it is a fine ride. For me, it always feels like coming home.
I took an ordinary bus from Alabang to Lucena City because (1) there was no aircon bus in sight; (2) I had been waiting for a bus for over half an hour; (3) it was already 8am and the trip would take over 4 hours; and (4) I have always enjoyed riding ordinary buses on long trips to the province. Let me tell you why.
As you get farther away from Manila, the air gets fresher, there are more trees, and the people get more relaxed. Of course the bus stops get longer, but no one really seems to hurry. Along the highway lay little towns with interesting houses, where you judge civilization with whether there is a Jollibee or not. I look at the passing scenery as the bus takes me farther away from my 8-month-old daughter who's barely learning to walk, towards my 64-year-old father who will now relearn how to walk.
At periodic stops the food vendors board the bus: boiled corn at 3 for P10 pesos (I note with amusement that the same corn sells at 3 for P20 pesos where I live), bibingka and buko pie, boiled and fried peanuts, buko juice and C2, boiled quail eggs and greasy chips. When I travel with my daughter I spend a lot on these vendors. Now I note my fellow passengers with kids and I think that parents on road trips all wear the same expression of frustration-mingled-with-amusement.
The bus is filled with a fascinating mix of people. A teenage girl beside me has a paper bag filled with teenage-girl makeup, and she is holding a bubble-gum pink cellphone. I see her sneaking looks at my Palm Treo, and she probably thinks it's a gray, ugly, bulky gadget compared to hers. There's a mother with two kids on her lap, all three of them eating corn and shing-a-ling, sharing a single bottle of water. They look like they're having the time of their lives, while beside them a young man frowns. The bus seats are only for two people, and the mother has squeezed in one of the kids between her and the young man. Now the kid is falling asleep almost on the lap of the young man. The young man looks pissed off, but says nothing. It's a long trip; if I were the mother I would have paid for the kids' seats, but then I probably should be thankful that I can afford to pay for my child's seat when we travel.
The bus radio is playing 25 Minutes by Michael Learns to Rock, and to my surprise, when the chorus came, almost half of the bus started to sing along, even the bus inspector. It's enough to make you smile. (And yes, I know the song too.) I look out my hot window. On the asphalt is what looks like a rat, squashed flat by all the passing wheels in the highway. There's nothing left but a blot of black with a scrap of gray fur and a tail.
I'm hungry and I wish I had bought the bibingka. Vendors would probably swarm the bus again later... yes, the fourth batch of vendors boarded on my second hour in the bus. I bought the bibingka, and although the vendor boasted that it has buko, I'm well half into the bibingka and I haven't tasted a shred of buko. It's good, though, in the way that roadstand food tastes good. You can't buy food like that at home or in the malls. Part of the good feeling comes from the experience. You ask anyone who grew up as kids in the province if eating balut from the vendor at night is the same as eating balut aboard one of the provincial buses.
In airconditioned buses the passengers keep to themselves. They are mostly well-dressed, wearing sunglasses and carrying neat little bags. They buy bottled water and they have brought takeout food and donuts in boxes, which they eat with measured bites. They carry muted conversations and they don't look at their fellow passengers. There is probably a foreign action film playing in the bus video. In this bus, the floor is already littered with candy wrappers, half-eaten corncobs, rolling plastic beverage bottles. The FM radio is blaring (Boy, I miss your kisses... all the time, but this is... twenty-five minutes too laate...). Luggage is piled in the aisle. I can see a sack of rice, a couple of fighting cocks in a box with holes, boxes tied with twine, backpacks. A kid smiles at me across the seats, his face half-smeared with vomit (looks like he overdid the corn). The man seated on my other side mumbles an apology about being slightly drunk on the bus: he says it's his wife's birthday so he has to go home. He keeps his hands clasped around his hotdog bag (it's shaped like a hotdog and seems to be universally favored by construction workers) and calls me 'Ma'am.'
I will get off the bus a bit sticky with sweat, with my hair in stiff tangles and my face gritty with road dust. But the other passengers smile at me as they walk past, hopping over the luggages and the trash. The conductor makes little jokes about slow old women while he carries their bags and help them off the bus. The mother drags her two kids and four bags, and the smaller kid picks off a corn kernel from the seat and pops it into his mouth. Amazing.
For some, four hours of this would be sheer misery. For me, it was fun. It somehow reconnects you with humanity. For four hours, each one of us was immersed in this experience, buying food when the vendors came, fanning ourselves when we're stuck in traffic, watching each other, making little talk when it got boring. Each of us has our own respective destinations, and when we get off, we scatter. We will go home to the wives, visit relatives, conduct businesses, enjoy cockfights, sell wares, meet friends, take care of sick fathers. But the bus ride allows us to share each other, to experience other people, to do things that we otherwise overlook or ignore in our ordinary lives. We let the four hours carry us away to where we are going, and it is a fine ride. For me, it always feels like coming home.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
one day...
Ever had a full day? Here's mine:
Worked for eight hours in the office, battling about 150 emails, answering calls, drafting reports. In the middle of it all I had to pick up the books I ordered, requested new ID pictures, and filed a loan. I ate lunch with Susan at Yoshinoya in SM Megamall, then we went to the home section, where Susan somehow convinced me to buy 30 neon green dinner plates for when we entertain at home. (I had not stopped to think that 30 people will not actually fit in my house.)
At 4pm I opened my notes for my Management class. I missed the first session last week because I was taking care of my dad's wake, and we had a case analysis to submit. By the time I progressed to the list of my assignments for Managerial Accounting I was seriously rethinking the wisdom of my decision to get an MBA at Ateneo.
Had class from 5:30 to 9:00 pm. I declined my husband's offer to fetch me because I thought there'd still be a shuttle--- but there was none. So I took an aircon bus to Alabang. But the bus stopped at the queue in Ayala. After half an hour people were muttering their annoyance, and since it was already quite late I started asking the driver how much longer we are staying in the queue.
The driver would only say that it's the way it's done; they have to queue and pick up passengers, and if we're in a hurry, so is he. He even said that if we were such in a hurry we should have taken a taxi home. The nerve! So I decided to get off and transfer to a new bus. The driver was outside. I asked him if they would charge a different fare for my ticket since we were only in Ayala, but he said they don't allow refunds, and I could complain to authorities if I wanted to. Besides, he said, his conductor was somewhere else at the moment, so we could not discuss the ticket. We started arguing, and I realized that it was 10:30 pm, I was wearing a nice dress and high heels, I was hungry and I needed to pee, and I was fighting with a loud-mouthed, ill-mannered, long-haired driver over a P46.00 fare.
So I transferred to an ordinary bus that bounced and roared and rattled, but I could have kissed the old sweat-smelling, road-grimed driver when we reached Alabang in 15 minutes. I got there ahead of my husband and had to wait 15 minutes more. I cursed the aircon bus driver all the way home.
When we got home I thought of eating only some oatmeal, because it was already 11:30 pm and I had to wake up early, but the food on the table was ginataang alimango at kalabasa, and in the fridge was buko pandan. I forgot the bus driver and the oatmeal. I was still eating one hour later.
Since I was afraid to sleep on a full stomach I rearranged my clothes cabinet, and by 1:30 am I decided my digestion process is well on the way, so I went to bed.
Then the baby woke up at 3 am for her bottle. And again at 5 am. I have to get up at 5:30 am because I have to bring my 7-year-old to school.
Sometimes you have to sigh. :-)
Worked for eight hours in the office, battling about 150 emails, answering calls, drafting reports. In the middle of it all I had to pick up the books I ordered, requested new ID pictures, and filed a loan. I ate lunch with Susan at Yoshinoya in SM Megamall, then we went to the home section, where Susan somehow convinced me to buy 30 neon green dinner plates for when we entertain at home. (I had not stopped to think that 30 people will not actually fit in my house.)
At 4pm I opened my notes for my Management class. I missed the first session last week because I was taking care of my dad's wake, and we had a case analysis to submit. By the time I progressed to the list of my assignments for Managerial Accounting I was seriously rethinking the wisdom of my decision to get an MBA at Ateneo.
Had class from 5:30 to 9:00 pm. I declined my husband's offer to fetch me because I thought there'd still be a shuttle--- but there was none. So I took an aircon bus to Alabang. But the bus stopped at the queue in Ayala. After half an hour people were muttering their annoyance, and since it was already quite late I started asking the driver how much longer we are staying in the queue.
The driver would only say that it's the way it's done; they have to queue and pick up passengers, and if we're in a hurry, so is he. He even said that if we were such in a hurry we should have taken a taxi home. The nerve! So I decided to get off and transfer to a new bus. The driver was outside. I asked him if they would charge a different fare for my ticket since we were only in Ayala, but he said they don't allow refunds, and I could complain to authorities if I wanted to. Besides, he said, his conductor was somewhere else at the moment, so we could not discuss the ticket. We started arguing, and I realized that it was 10:30 pm, I was wearing a nice dress and high heels, I was hungry and I needed to pee, and I was fighting with a loud-mouthed, ill-mannered, long-haired driver over a P46.00 fare.
So I transferred to an ordinary bus that bounced and roared and rattled, but I could have kissed the old sweat-smelling, road-grimed driver when we reached Alabang in 15 minutes. I got there ahead of my husband and had to wait 15 minutes more. I cursed the aircon bus driver all the way home.
When we got home I thought of eating only some oatmeal, because it was already 11:30 pm and I had to wake up early, but the food on the table was ginataang alimango at kalabasa, and in the fridge was buko pandan. I forgot the bus driver and the oatmeal. I was still eating one hour later.
Since I was afraid to sleep on a full stomach I rearranged my clothes cabinet, and by 1:30 am I decided my digestion process is well on the way, so I went to bed.
Then the baby woke up at 3 am for her bottle. And again at 5 am. I have to get up at 5:30 am because I have to bring my 7-year-old to school.
Sometimes you have to sigh. :-)
Monday, March 9, 2009
death (2)
There is one image I keep pushing away. It is my dad's face when the doctors were trying to revive him in his hospital bed, and a part of me knew that he was gone.
The end wasn't melodramatic. No doctor came in to tell us he was failing and it was time to say goodbye. In fact, he was already scheduled for physical therapy that afternoon, and after his second session he was going to be discharged.
It wasn't like he gasped or struggled for breath. One moment he was lightly snoring in his sleep, the next moment he was turning gray. When I called the nurses the realization that he might be gone was like a thump in the chest. They tried to revive him twice, but the heart monitor was flat.
The same thump in the chest would come at odd times: when we cleaned out his room and I saw his sandals, and there was the thought that he would never wear them again; when I checked the row of canned goods and powdered milk in boxes that he had stocked, and I found out that half of them had already expired in 2008; when I saw my address from the letter I sent him, stapled to the wall; when I took back the picture of my youngest daughter from his things, the grandchild he never got to see in person.
The thump in the chest is a reminder that he is gone. I dreamed of Daddy last night. It was his birthday, and we all went home. He was pleasantly surprised and he was so glad to see all three of his granddaughters. I woke up with his lopsided smile in my mind, and then, again, there came the image of his face in the hospital. His eyes had been half open, and they remained that way, even when they left him covered with a blanket and allowed us to say goodbye.
death (1)
I read somewhere that the sad thing about the death of a loved one is that it absolves the dead from all the guilt. The living is left grieving for all the things left undone.
Daddy died on February 27, after he had a double stroke. He was 64. From then, until now, there doesn't seem to be any correct way to say goodbye.
I cannot seem to function well. I am distracted, and everything I touch seem to remind me of all the things I failed to do for Daddy. I listen to my iPod and I think of all the music CDs I was supposed to bring him. I arrange my Readers Digests and I think it is good that I finally got to show him the November 2008 issue where I wrote a story about Nanay. He was so proud. I wish there had been more moments like that, while he was still alive.
I wish I had cooked more meals, visited more often, tried harder to understand the man he had become. But it is always like that, isn't it? We always think there is enough time, so we keep putting off the things we could do, the little things that in the end would mean so much. Memento mori. So true.
So we all punish ourselves with guilt, and call it grief. I will probably mourn for him in my own way, in my own time, but for now all there is is this heaviness.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
moving in
The year 2008 has been a very good one for me. I had published my writing (yahoo!), had a new baby, and bought a new house.
I have a label fully dedicated to writing and motherhood, so this one is about the house. Much as it excites me to have our very own house, where I will hopefully grow old, and where I can do anything I please (like paint the walls red, should the mood strike me), I am currently in a state of freak-out.
You see, when we moved to Cavite, I had all the moving boxes properly packed and labeled as early as three months before the moving date. This time, my husband decided to move last night-- and I haven't even finished sorting my own clothes cabinet. He had four friends and a truck, and they emptied the big house in two trips. The men put everything in sight in large black trash bags and put everything in the truck. I got home from work and the bed, dining set, and fridge were gone. My toiletries, mirror, office clothes, and shoes were also gone, hauled off while I was still on the road. Of course, my daughter's underwear and socks were also gone, and it's a school day today. Lastly, my baby's stroller was also gone, and that stroller is where she spends half of her waking hours. It wouldn't have been so bad, but we're staying in the old house for two more days!
The new house is also much smaller than where we're staying now, so we had to drastically downsize. Even now, when we have disposed of much of the furniture, old clothes and toys, and plenty of plastic microwavable containers, we still have too many things. I will probably spend the next two months sorting and sorting and sorting. It doesn't help that everything is in trash bags. I feel like leaving them there.
And then there's the problem with decor, storage, and furniture. I cannot walk through the home improvement section of the department store without checking the color-coordinated curtains and pillowcases, dinnerware, and cookware. Somehow, having a new house puts one in an everything-new mode. I can almost hear the yaya saying we need a new chopping board... well, we do. My Visa card is winking at me.
Oh, and we have the birds. I forgot to check if there are cats in the new neighborhood! I also forgot about Bernard the dog. I wish they had brought him to the new house in the truck. But he needs a bath before he moves.
I also have to check the hardware store for mosquito-repellent devices. The mosquitoes in the new house are BIG, and boy, are they thirsty.
I also have to find out where they put my blue bangles. I'm wearing a blue outfit tomorrow. Oh, and of course, my daughter's underwear.
I hope, when I get home tonight, that they have found the dinner plates. I ate from a dessert plate last night, and there wasn't a fork in sight.
It looks like I need a new label. I'm beginning to feel that I will soon post before-and-after accounts.
But first, to the hardware. And on the way, I might as well check if there are any pink electric fans for my daughter.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
writing letters
I used to love writing letters. I loved sitting down with pretty stationery paper, a good pen, and a good mood. I would write letters that ran for two or more pages, closely spaced, on unlined paper. I liked seeing my thoughts in print, and because I had a pretty penmanship, I wrote with care. There would be no erasures. I always wrote my letters in English, because my grandmother taught me that way. I would often end up with numb fingers, but I loved bringing my letters to the post office.
I wrote faithfully to pen-pals, to my aunts and uncles in the States, to my girl friends in the old town. I did not often get letters in return, but I did not care. I was happy writing.
Aside from letters, of course, I wrote in diaries. Pages and pages of heartbreaks, teenage angst, happy moments.
And then technology interfered. People learned to use email. It was faster and more convenient. And there's chatting online. Much more faster and much more convenient. And of course, texting. Suddenly there were too many ways to keep in touch.
Instead of diaries, I blogged. I wrote stories that I filed in the computer and kept back-ups in CDs.
In the midst of all this, letter-writing suddenly became a lost art. It took days before a letter would reach a friend. Thick envelopes would get lost (thieves at the post office would think you enclosed money, when all you sent were funny pictures of your beloved cat). And yes, it was easier to tap the keyboard than hold a pen for two pages' worth of chitchat.
I was opening late Christmas cards for my boss this afternoon. There were about 20 cards, from all over the world. And I realized that I was completely absorbed in it, even though the cards were not mine. I would check the envelope, slit it open carefully, and stack the cards for his inbox. Then I would cut the stamps for my scrapbook.
There is a joy in receiving letters by mail. There is a quiet anticipation in seeing the envelope, the postmark, then opening it. And then there is the thrill of reading. Be it a few lines or eight pages, when you think that the person actually sat down and wrote all that for you, the simple joy of it cannot be matched by the message alert in your email inbox.
Maybe I will teach my daughter to write letters. She is seven years old and knows how to compose and send text messages. It may be old-fashioned, but in communicating with people, the simplest thing of all is sometimes the sweetest. You choose a pretty paper, you sit down, you compose the tale in your head. Then you take the time to write. It is a real pleasure.
beautiful women
I received a Powerpoint show in my email today, with the title 'The Girls We Loved Before.' It featured the sex symbols and internationally known beautiful screen women of the fifties and sixties: Elizabeth Taylor, Brigitte Bardot, Jane Russell, Sophia Loren, Shirley Temple. Not only that, it showed how they look now, when they're already in their seventies and eighties.
They are still beautiful. Well, cosmetic surgery and plenty of money may have played a hand, and they still lead public lives, so they still have to look good.
What I think is that they are no different from the ordinary woman. Everyone grows old, including beauty queens and film stars. Firm breasts will sag, glossy hair will turn white, alabaster skin will get liver spots. The women who remain beautiful are those who learned to age gracefully, those who carry their age with dignity, and those who do beautiful things everyday.
And it's not in the clothes you will wear or the jewelry you drape around yourself. I guess it will show in the people you loved, the lives you touched, the acts of kindness you gave. It will not matter so much that you have more wrinkles than the grand old lady next door, but that those wrinkles were caused by smiling more often.
I am a bit afraid of getting old and helpless. I would not want to be an invalid, senile old hag who pees on the bed and thinks that the cat is an enemy. But you know, to know that someone will remember that I have been a kind person, that would be a good way to face old age. To know that as you go through life you have tried to make a difference even in the smallest way possible, that would be an act of grace. And I would happily grow old, remembering that once I had been young and beautiful, and I could do so much.
Monday, January 5, 2009
christmas past and presents
I love the Christmas season because I love getting gifts. I am also one of those people who cannot resist wrapped presents. You cannot tell me to wait till Christmas morning to open it. I have to at least peek, the moment I receive it. Then I bring it home, where my daughter will rip it open.
She also cannot wait for Christmas Day.
In the office, one starts receiving gifts on the second week of December. They land on your desk with regularity, until December 24. If you file a leave on the week of Christmas, you'll find them piled up when you return to the office the next year.
Perhaps because of the financial crisis, I received fewer gifts in the office in Christmas 2008 than the year before it, but still I got about 30 of them. So imagine my glee. Let's list some of them:
1. A bottle of perfume from Qatar
2. A pair of chopsticks and chocolates from Japan
3. Swiss chocolates
4. Fruitcake from Australia
5. A pretty violet pashmina
6. 3 bikini panties in neon colors, with a glittering heart in front
7. A white embroidered blouse
8. Stationery set
9. Fancy earrings
10. Cleaning cloth
11. Native table runner
12. Luggage tag with my name embroidered on it
13. A pretty notebook from Ayala Museum
14. A scrapbook
15. A Starbucks thermal mug
16. A set of tiny Post-Its
17. Lots and lots of cookies and brownies
18. Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns
There's plenty more, but there's a couple that I truly loved: a small wooden clip for holding notes with a painted cat in it, and a wooden carving of an angel cat singing carols.
Some of the gifts I received-- and gave-- were expensive. But there's an old truth in gift-giving: it's the thought that counts. I thanked all those who cared enough to give me a present, but like with the cat clip, I loved the person who took the time, or remembered, to find what I will truly appreciate.
That is the reason some of us get really stressed out come Christmas, especially when we're getting gifts for the ones we love. It's not the price of the thing. The joy on their face when they open it-- that is priceless. It's what's on my daughter's face when she got her three Bakugan. Heaven help me; I did not know what a bakugan is and had to harass toy store attendants.
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