This article was originally published in the March 2005 edition of The LaSallian, the official publication of De La Salle University as my monthly column as editor.
I never did like coffee. There’s something about its bitter taste that leaves me feeling bad about something. But I know someone who loved coffee not only for its bittersweet taste. It was a love for it that I only recently understood.
Before I end my term as editor, I would like to impart a personal lesson. Something less complex than rules and policies to rant about, or solutions we seek and thirst for, yet can never quite fully quench. This will only be a story to hopefully learn from. But at best, it will be my long overdue thank you.
She was different. A man’s spirit and courage in a woman’s body. A beautiful face carefully hidden with a stern exterior. To those who knew better defined it as strength. To those who didn’t saw it as a product of too many storms and doldrums. Coffee was a staple diet to her. Her husband had awoken to its reassuring aroma. Her first-born had broken all too many of those brownish cups brimming with coffee. Her second child had wiped many of its brown stains on the carpet. And her third had grown to share the same love for it. She awoke with it and retired to bed with the brownish cup by her bedside. But more essentially, she waited with coffee.
She was not like most mothers. When most would readily finish their children’s homework and happily glue their hands together for their tykes’ art class projects, she wouldn’t finish her children’s tasks. But she had her own ways. It was only much much later in their lives when they learned that it was not a gesture of indifference but rather a lesson of independence. There she sat with them for sixteen years waiting for something one could not have directly pointed out, coffee after coffee, after coffee.
At the young age of thirty-nine, she was widowed. While others mourned loudly in grief, she was silent and glass-eyed, almost still. It was only later that everyone would learn of the fear that strangled her—the fear for her little ones, the youngest only eight. She could not have explained it to them better, “Nothing lasts forever,” but in deeper meaning, “I am alone.” And then there was coffee.
Many guessed she was waiting for someone, to have a hand to hold on to again but alone she raised her children. When examinations came, she would sit with them like she always did and willingly memorized the life Julius Caesar or the periodic table. It was easier to learn if the kid asked the questions and the mentor answered, she always said. In preparing for school competitions, she would act as actor or judge, villain or priest. They were learning and she waited for them til the wee hours, with shaky hands, coffee after coffee, after coffee.
When her eldest was ready for college and she was forty-six, her daughter left the province. One after the other, each child left home with heavy hesitation. Always, she would say, “What’s a few months? You’ll be back home before you know it.” And she threw herself harder at work, making both ends meet. At night she would call and wait for all three to be safe in their dormitories. And when they were all safe and sound she would say, “I just also finished my coffee.”
Now I am twenty-one and still, patience is not one of my best virtues. I’ve always wanted for things to come instantly lest I lose interest. I guess it took this long for me to realize what my mother has been teaching me for twenty-one years. When I was four, angry and frustrated for not easily mastering how to write my full name, she was waiting patiently for me to learn it. When I was seven, jealous and angry at the affection my brother was getting, she sat waiting for me to learn to love him. When I was twelve, feeling betrayed for the loss of a father who promised me many things, she was in more pain but waited for me to mature and accept life not only for its bliss but also for the wounds it brings. When I was seventeen, proud and naïve, I disobeyed her but found her still full of love and once again waiting for me to heal. When I graduated, ashamed and disappointed of my grades, she beamed with pride and waited for me to be content. All these years, she was patient. She weeped, struggled, and bled. But still she waited. And so now, I begin to understand her and her endless cups of coffee. Perhaps coffee was her way of coping and healing, of saying, “I’m just here. I’m not going anywhere.” To her, “No matter how long it takes, I’ll be waiting for you to come back home.”
I’m not sure what she’s waiting for now. For my brother and sister to mature? For us to go home? To someday settle down? For grandchildren? I don’t know exactly. But what I do know is how my mother so simply taught me that lesson in life—to find joy and patience in waiting. Life may not give you everything easily and instantly but if you must wait, wait patiently and wait gladly…perhaps coffee after coffee, after coffee.
Thank you, Ma. I’m so proud of you. I may not love coffee, but it could always be tea. I love you so much.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Tuesday, February 1, 2005
One Team [Archive]
This article was originally published in The Philippine Daily Inquirer (Young Blood section) in February 1, 2005.
I have attended a number of seminars and workshops. Each of which aimed to instill in me the values of unity and leadership. But sometimes, in the process, igniting a sense of competition, of rivalry, and conflict. Because in the end, only one should emerge as the victor, the one leader in the pack. And then, the main goals of unity and solidarity are slowly broken into sub-groups, into smaller teams, and eventually just one “I” or “me”.
Great people have said that there is no more for two people at the top. Others even go to an extreme extent of saying, “It is not enough that I succeed, others must fail.” One workshop taught me otherwise.
Like everything, it started with a story, a challenge for 47 eager students. We were divided into three teams with each team given 12 golden bricks. Our mission: to let everyone cross the “river of crocodiles” using the 12 golden bricks, unharmed and at the shortest time possible. By the time my team used up all our 12 bricks, we were still halfway down the river, hungry “crocodiles” at our feet, and time ticking away fast. It got us thinking, “Who are we kidding? Unless we started growing gills and fins, there was no way everyone was going to cross this river.” Everyone shared the same dilemma. We were left scratching our heads with uncertainty. One facilitator, Mr. Jojo Alino, boldly asked, “How many golden bricks do you have?”
“Twelve,” came the chorus.
“Count again.”
It took a quick manual count, a number of prudent questions, and a few arguments before someone braved, “Thirty-six?”
Yes, three 12’s made 36. It was unfair that the instructions were not clear, and the fact that we were grouped into three teams had us assuming that we were competing against each other. But then again, it did say that “the team that crosses the river first, wins.” In this case, we were ONE team.
From 47 students, 16 universities, and 10 undergraduate courses, we became ONE team.
It’s surprising how differences can be compromised between so-called enemies and archrivals when the right occasion calls for it. I never imagined myself working (and read: harmoniously, albeit the periodic bickering) with whom we have fondly called “mga taga-Katipunan,”and the “mga aktibista.” Yes, (to my fellow Lasallians) I now appropriately call them by their first names.
One amusing conversation comes to mind. I had daringly and proudly told an Atenean fellow delegate about my newly-discovered “talent” of easily picking out an Atenean from a crowd. Not to be outsmarted, my Atenean friend said, “To be honest, I can easily tell if someone is from La Salle too.” Overheard by a delegate from UP-Diliman, the butt-in came as, “Really? I can’t tell a Lasallian or Atenean apart.” Now, that came as a big blow. But I can’t help but laugh at the frank comment. There we were, boasting about one’s “edge” over the other (whether who’s got the best basketball team, the biggest school grounds, or the hardest subjects), when in reality it’s the “same difference.” This coined term (“same difference”), no matter how paradoxically absurd can’t possibly describe the situation better.
No matter how better or more advantaged we feel over another (especially a long-loathed archrival), one person will always see both parties as equal, as one. This ludicrousness of course, has a deeper implication. Let’s take for instance, our pitiful country. If one may have noticed, we are more than a financially unstable nation. In fact, we are one unstable, divided nation. We fail to realize that people will not see Imelda Marcos (Guinness World of Records’ only woman with 3,400 pairs of shoes); National artist Levi Celerio (Ginness’ only man who could play beautiful music with a leaf); Ferdinand Marcos (the man who allegedly took away the largest loot in history); or Joseph Estrada (allegedly amassed $82 million in kickbacks and payoffs in his 31-month stint as President) as who and what they are. In a stranger’s eyes, they see ONE poor country, ONE desolate nation, ONE wretched people. And in a desperate time when all that’s left for people to cling on to is prayer, there is no room for mere competition.
This story is simple. It’s simpler than most parables, a whole lot simpler than your 800-peso Rich Dad Series but it is something most (if not all) of us forget or perhaps deem unnecessary. Why indeed should one share his glory to 46 others? Why can’t one be solitary in basking under the blinding limelight of fame, success, or wealth? Simple. Because it takes more than 12 golden bricks to build ONE lasting empire.
To the Unilever Business Week 2004 Committee and to my ONE TEAM family, thank you for teaching me life’s better lessons.
I have attended a number of seminars and workshops. Each of which aimed to instill in me the values of unity and leadership. But sometimes, in the process, igniting a sense of competition, of rivalry, and conflict. Because in the end, only one should emerge as the victor, the one leader in the pack. And then, the main goals of unity and solidarity are slowly broken into sub-groups, into smaller teams, and eventually just one “I” or “me”.
Great people have said that there is no more for two people at the top. Others even go to an extreme extent of saying, “It is not enough that I succeed, others must fail.” One workshop taught me otherwise.
Like everything, it started with a story, a challenge for 47 eager students. We were divided into three teams with each team given 12 golden bricks. Our mission: to let everyone cross the “river of crocodiles” using the 12 golden bricks, unharmed and at the shortest time possible. By the time my team used up all our 12 bricks, we were still halfway down the river, hungry “crocodiles” at our feet, and time ticking away fast. It got us thinking, “Who are we kidding? Unless we started growing gills and fins, there was no way everyone was going to cross this river.” Everyone shared the same dilemma. We were left scratching our heads with uncertainty. One facilitator, Mr. Jojo Alino, boldly asked, “How many golden bricks do you have?”
“Twelve,” came the chorus.
“Count again.”
It took a quick manual count, a number of prudent questions, and a few arguments before someone braved, “Thirty-six?”
Yes, three 12’s made 36. It was unfair that the instructions were not clear, and the fact that we were grouped into three teams had us assuming that we were competing against each other. But then again, it did say that “the team that crosses the river first, wins.” In this case, we were ONE team.
From 47 students, 16 universities, and 10 undergraduate courses, we became ONE team.
It’s surprising how differences can be compromised between so-called enemies and archrivals when the right occasion calls for it. I never imagined myself working (and read: harmoniously, albeit the periodic bickering) with whom we have fondly called “mga taga-Katipunan,”and the “mga aktibista.” Yes, (to my fellow Lasallians) I now appropriately call them by their first names.
One amusing conversation comes to mind. I had daringly and proudly told an Atenean fellow delegate about my newly-discovered “talent” of easily picking out an Atenean from a crowd. Not to be outsmarted, my Atenean friend said, “To be honest, I can easily tell if someone is from La Salle too.” Overheard by a delegate from UP-Diliman, the butt-in came as, “Really? I can’t tell a Lasallian or Atenean apart.” Now, that came as a big blow. But I can’t help but laugh at the frank comment. There we were, boasting about one’s “edge” over the other (whether who’s got the best basketball team, the biggest school grounds, or the hardest subjects), when in reality it’s the “same difference.” This coined term (“same difference”), no matter how paradoxically absurd can’t possibly describe the situation better.
No matter how better or more advantaged we feel over another (especially a long-loathed archrival), one person will always see both parties as equal, as one. This ludicrousness of course, has a deeper implication. Let’s take for instance, our pitiful country. If one may have noticed, we are more than a financially unstable nation. In fact, we are one unstable, divided nation. We fail to realize that people will not see Imelda Marcos (Guinness World of Records’ only woman with 3,400 pairs of shoes); National artist Levi Celerio (Ginness’ only man who could play beautiful music with a leaf); Ferdinand Marcos (the man who allegedly took away the largest loot in history); or Joseph Estrada (allegedly amassed $82 million in kickbacks and payoffs in his 31-month stint as President) as who and what they are. In a stranger’s eyes, they see ONE poor country, ONE desolate nation, ONE wretched people. And in a desperate time when all that’s left for people to cling on to is prayer, there is no room for mere competition.
This story is simple. It’s simpler than most parables, a whole lot simpler than your 800-peso Rich Dad Series but it is something most (if not all) of us forget or perhaps deem unnecessary. Why indeed should one share his glory to 46 others? Why can’t one be solitary in basking under the blinding limelight of fame, success, or wealth? Simple. Because it takes more than 12 golden bricks to build ONE lasting empire.
To the Unilever Business Week 2004 Committee and to my ONE TEAM family, thank you for teaching me life’s better lessons.
Thursday, September 9, 2004
Las Fiestas en Siete [Archive]
This article was originally published in the September 2004 edition of The LaSallian, the official publication of De La Salle University as my monthly column as editor.
I am promdi. For those who are not familiar with this term, it has been popularized to mean “from the province”. In my case, I am a promdi of Cebu City. This used to be a topic that I shied away especially on my first months in Manila. Not that I was ashamed to admit that I was a true-blooded probinsiyana but because I was avoiding the curious stares and raised eyebrows of people who sincerely asked if we had cable TV in the province or if I came to Manila with a bayong in my armpits. Boy, did I wish to name all 80+ channels covered by our cable TVs. At one point, I even made an extra effort to stress that I traveled to and from Cebu in an airplane (not in a boat that they supposed took more than a week to get to Manila) and that it was very rarely that you will find a bayong circling around the baggage cartels.
I grew up in a quaint little town, north of Cebu where everyone knew the wife of whom and the cost of the neighbor’s new car. It was a charming little place where minding your own business was not in fashion and considered selfish even. It was a place where fiestas were as popular as Christmas and where it came so early that you would actually see people feeling fiesta in the air. At seven, I welcomed the sharp squeals of pigs at dawn for it only meant two things—lechon and fiesta. At seven, I realized the indispensable nature of our fiesta. Christmas could be “postponed” by storms and hurricanes but not our fiesta. You always saw it coming. You felt it “going”. And how I loved it then.
Three years in Manila did not only mean three years of homesickness but three years of missing our fiesta as well. It always fell on September and for some reason, our trimestral break never allowed me to enjoy my visit home long enough to pig out during our fiesta. This year though, is an exception. For what seemed so long, I finally came home in time for our fiesta.
I don’t know where to begin or how to describe this yearly celebration that never failed to rouse the whole town like newly-borns. The first event that was celebrated days before the feast day was the torch parade where on one night, the people lit torches and marched and danced around the town in honor of our patron saint. It was like one big mardi gras. Lost in the sea of shrieking people, lit torches, and beating drums, I felt like I was seven again.
While I used to stand on tiptoe or sit on my father’s shoulders just to see the loud commotion during the torch parade, I now stood tall beside my mother and siblings and the hundreds of neighbors parading with torches around town. When I was younger, the highlight of the evening used to be the brave men who coated themselves in black grease, danced with the drums, and “breathed” fire while the young ones clapped their hands in glee. I waited. But no, I didn’t see my greased “heroes” now. What I saw were two, fully-clothed men who held small, thin torches in one hand and a cellphone on the other. It was then that I noticed the other changes.
What used to be candles or torches for light was replaced by the blinking lights of cellphones. Why don’t we call it the “cellphone parade”?What used to be hands thumbing the rosary beads and audible voices chanting vigils and prayers were now thumbs clicking away the keypads texting and hushed voices in gossip each assuming that other people around were praying. What used to be big images of our patron saint raised above our heads for tribute, was now gigantic Bob Marley pin ups. Until now, I still wonder of the logic behind this. The ati-atihan dancing was even “upgraded” to include the ocho-ocho and siete-siete dance moves. I looked around for the giant paper mache (or higante as we call it) and the decorated caro. The caro was decorated alright, but with sickly little flowers that barely gave off sweet fragrance in the air. How disappointed our patron saint must have been! The scary-looking higantes were replaced by cheap replicas of your modern day celebrities. There was a live gay version of Marina waving to the crowd with his tail; a giant Dugong which left the little kids running for their lives; a colorful Mulawin that started the elderly wives talking about the happenings of their favorite telenovelas. You can just imagine my horror when near the end of our parade stood the higante of our patron saint, the back of its head replaced by a higante version of our town’s political candidate. Talk about religious propaganda, huh?
Was it just me or has the times really changed? How quickly it has to begin excluding or forgetting the real essence of fiestas. If I wanted to know who’s in and who’s out in the telenovelas or start learning the newest dance moves, I could just have sat in front of the tube. Are the patron saints lame excuses for extravagant feasts and shameless parades of entertainment nonsense? Or could this have already been the sad reality merely re-invented by a hopeful seven year-old?
Las fiestas en siete. Fiestas at seven. I miss home. I miss fiestas. If only I were seven again.
I am promdi. For those who are not familiar with this term, it has been popularized to mean “from the province”. In my case, I am a promdi of Cebu City. This used to be a topic that I shied away especially on my first months in Manila. Not that I was ashamed to admit that I was a true-blooded probinsiyana but because I was avoiding the curious stares and raised eyebrows of people who sincerely asked if we had cable TV in the province or if I came to Manila with a bayong in my armpits. Boy, did I wish to name all 80+ channels covered by our cable TVs. At one point, I even made an extra effort to stress that I traveled to and from Cebu in an airplane (not in a boat that they supposed took more than a week to get to Manila) and that it was very rarely that you will find a bayong circling around the baggage cartels.
I grew up in a quaint little town, north of Cebu where everyone knew the wife of whom and the cost of the neighbor’s new car. It was a charming little place where minding your own business was not in fashion and considered selfish even. It was a place where fiestas were as popular as Christmas and where it came so early that you would actually see people feeling fiesta in the air. At seven, I welcomed the sharp squeals of pigs at dawn for it only meant two things—lechon and fiesta. At seven, I realized the indispensable nature of our fiesta. Christmas could be “postponed” by storms and hurricanes but not our fiesta. You always saw it coming. You felt it “going”. And how I loved it then.
Three years in Manila did not only mean three years of homesickness but three years of missing our fiesta as well. It always fell on September and for some reason, our trimestral break never allowed me to enjoy my visit home long enough to pig out during our fiesta. This year though, is an exception. For what seemed so long, I finally came home in time for our fiesta.
I don’t know where to begin or how to describe this yearly celebration that never failed to rouse the whole town like newly-borns. The first event that was celebrated days before the feast day was the torch parade where on one night, the people lit torches and marched and danced around the town in honor of our patron saint. It was like one big mardi gras. Lost in the sea of shrieking people, lit torches, and beating drums, I felt like I was seven again.
While I used to stand on tiptoe or sit on my father’s shoulders just to see the loud commotion during the torch parade, I now stood tall beside my mother and siblings and the hundreds of neighbors parading with torches around town. When I was younger, the highlight of the evening used to be the brave men who coated themselves in black grease, danced with the drums, and “breathed” fire while the young ones clapped their hands in glee. I waited. But no, I didn’t see my greased “heroes” now. What I saw were two, fully-clothed men who held small, thin torches in one hand and a cellphone on the other. It was then that I noticed the other changes.
What used to be candles or torches for light was replaced by the blinking lights of cellphones. Why don’t we call it the “cellphone parade”?What used to be hands thumbing the rosary beads and audible voices chanting vigils and prayers were now thumbs clicking away the keypads texting and hushed voices in gossip each assuming that other people around were praying. What used to be big images of our patron saint raised above our heads for tribute, was now gigantic Bob Marley pin ups. Until now, I still wonder of the logic behind this. The ati-atihan dancing was even “upgraded” to include the ocho-ocho and siete-siete dance moves. I looked around for the giant paper mache (or higante as we call it) and the decorated caro. The caro was decorated alright, but with sickly little flowers that barely gave off sweet fragrance in the air. How disappointed our patron saint must have been! The scary-looking higantes were replaced by cheap replicas of your modern day celebrities. There was a live gay version of Marina waving to the crowd with his tail; a giant Dugong which left the little kids running for their lives; a colorful Mulawin that started the elderly wives talking about the happenings of their favorite telenovelas. You can just imagine my horror when near the end of our parade stood the higante of our patron saint, the back of its head replaced by a higante version of our town’s political candidate. Talk about religious propaganda, huh?
Was it just me or has the times really changed? How quickly it has to begin excluding or forgetting the real essence of fiestas. If I wanted to know who’s in and who’s out in the telenovelas or start learning the newest dance moves, I could just have sat in front of the tube. Are the patron saints lame excuses for extravagant feasts and shameless parades of entertainment nonsense? Or could this have already been the sad reality merely re-invented by a hopeful seven year-old?
Las fiestas en siete. Fiestas at seven. I miss home. I miss fiestas. If only I were seven again.
Tuesday, September 9, 2003
Politics and the Theater called Malacañang [Archive]
This article was originally published in the September 2003 edition of The LaSallian, the official publication of De La Salle University as my monthly column as editor.
Theater is an art sealed with passion, perfected with practice. So is politics. There’s really not much difference. Stage performers entertain their audience, while our dear politicians attempt to enchant the vote out of us with appalling dance numbers, lip syncs, and of course, the leery handshakes. The only difference really, is the entrance fee.
After the madness elicited by the ouster of actor-turned-president Joseph Ejercito Estrada, one would think that the government wouldn’t be graced with showbiz personalities (at least for a few terms or so). We would have thought that the people would be a little more wary in selecting and putting their trust in singing and camera-loving celebrities. Well, we thought wrong. The political limelight is still very much alive. In fact it is “burning” with a rumored more than 50 television stars, all vying or expressing their intention to run for public office in the congressional, city, and municipal levels in the 2004 May elections. The seeming avalanche of showbiz stars waiting for their poses taken not in the photo studios but in Malacañang is keeping the Filipinos highly aware of the upcoming elections. They surely wouldn’t want to abandon their idols now. No surprise there.
The Evolution. Politics is not far behind science and technology. If apes evolved to become homo sapiens. Philippine Politics has evolved to include just about anyone who could read and write. And had there been no age restriction, Judy Ann Santos would most probably be mayor of some forlorn city.
This evolution of roles started back in the 1930’s and heightened in the 1950’s when candidates started hiring movie actors and actresses to draw and hold crowds ridding of orators and practically eloquence. Who needed eloquence when you have a handful of beauties and bodies rubbing you just the way you like it? You go home with a few hundred pesos, sardines, autographs, and ask, “What platform?”
After presidential candidate Ramon Magsaysay introduced the common tao approach in election campaign, attempting to remedy his lack of articulation, people soon realized the importance of more than mere vocal campaign. Soon enough, politicians became more physically exposed to the general public. Now, it’s not much of a shock to see politicians and government officials cutting ribbons or representing as wedding sponsors, or even some sharing their sex life, sex escapades, and STDs to the public. Now, that’s what we call, bridging the gap!
The reign of showbiz. Entertainment was and still is the leading factor in winning an election. The politicians needed the entertainers to keep their audience interested lest they’d go running to the opposing candidate getting their meager share of “amusement”. The politicians couldn’t get enough votes without them, so they were the ones in demand. So, instead of being employed by the candidates, they got wiser and what came out was a new breed of politicians. Fresh from Mother Lily and Kuya Germs! You can’t get this anywhere but the Philippines!
If you still need more proof of what a showbiz studio Malacañang has become, here is an unofficial list of aspiring candidates for the upcoming elections: Fernando Poe, Jr. for President, Singer Imelda Papin for Congresswoman of Camarines Sur, Action Star Gary Estrada for Congressman of Quezon Province, Comedian Roderick Paulate for governor of Albay, Action star Rudy Fernandez for Quezon City Mayor, Actor-Singer Tirso Cruz III for Mayor of Las Piñas City, Actress Elizabeth Oropesa for Mayor of Guinobatan, Albay, etc. (the rest of the list could take up half this column).
Although a great number of them are well-educated and may have the leadership to run our country, the greater majority has proven to be ill-prepared and ineffective. We have started a new trend in politics. Out with the traditional politicians or trapo and on with the showbiz stars. If there had been a worse option, the Philippines might as well give up democracy. Maybe that’ll give Bush another reason to come parading along Roxas Ave. and maybe we’ll spend another few hundred millions or so. No big deal. At least he’ll wear a barong.
Perhaps the Filipino people could not anymore distinguish between reality and make-believe. You see Erap in protagonist role saving the world as Asiong Salonga in Leon ng Maynila and you think he’s just as good with politics. And now that his dear friend FPJ is said to be a presidential candidate, it will be no surprise that people would think Agimat could also save our country. This alone can trigger our distrust on our politicians and the stage show they might have caused our government to become.
If anything, our government has become one big carnival. In place of freak shows and your regular Houdinis, we have a better selection ranging from big-pocketed crooks, Jueting thieves, smuggling rich men, “schizophrenics” (if you called call someone with multiple identities and fortunately aware of it as such), and madmen or madwomen, all amassing our nonexistent wealth. Call them whatever you want. Any category could not better their decadence.
No final curtain. The line of distinction between politics and theater or showbiz in the Philippines is a thin one. Too thin in fact that sooner than we might expect, there will no longer be such a distinction.
Theater, arts, and showbiz are fields the Filipinos are renowned to excel in. However, politics is a whole different arena. It’s easy to pretend, to memorize and adlib scripts, to plaster superficial grins, and wear out your hand signing autographs. What we need are leaders who can keep their feet on the ground, people who care more than their diminishing sex life or the thinning crowd of fans.
We face not pretense and fantasies but reality and this reality not only bites. It stings. Kills. And this time, there will be no one yelling, “Cut!” and no final curtains are drawn.
Theater is an art sealed with passion, perfected with practice. So is politics. There’s really not much difference. Stage performers entertain their audience, while our dear politicians attempt to enchant the vote out of us with appalling dance numbers, lip syncs, and of course, the leery handshakes. The only difference really, is the entrance fee.
After the madness elicited by the ouster of actor-turned-president Joseph Ejercito Estrada, one would think that the government wouldn’t be graced with showbiz personalities (at least for a few terms or so). We would have thought that the people would be a little more wary in selecting and putting their trust in singing and camera-loving celebrities. Well, we thought wrong. The political limelight is still very much alive. In fact it is “burning” with a rumored more than 50 television stars, all vying or expressing their intention to run for public office in the congressional, city, and municipal levels in the 2004 May elections. The seeming avalanche of showbiz stars waiting for their poses taken not in the photo studios but in Malacañang is keeping the Filipinos highly aware of the upcoming elections. They surely wouldn’t want to abandon their idols now. No surprise there.
The Evolution. Politics is not far behind science and technology. If apes evolved to become homo sapiens. Philippine Politics has evolved to include just about anyone who could read and write. And had there been no age restriction, Judy Ann Santos would most probably be mayor of some forlorn city.
This evolution of roles started back in the 1930’s and heightened in the 1950’s when candidates started hiring movie actors and actresses to draw and hold crowds ridding of orators and practically eloquence. Who needed eloquence when you have a handful of beauties and bodies rubbing you just the way you like it? You go home with a few hundred pesos, sardines, autographs, and ask, “What platform?”
After presidential candidate Ramon Magsaysay introduced the common tao approach in election campaign, attempting to remedy his lack of articulation, people soon realized the importance of more than mere vocal campaign. Soon enough, politicians became more physically exposed to the general public. Now, it’s not much of a shock to see politicians and government officials cutting ribbons or representing as wedding sponsors, or even some sharing their sex life, sex escapades, and STDs to the public. Now, that’s what we call, bridging the gap!
The reign of showbiz. Entertainment was and still is the leading factor in winning an election. The politicians needed the entertainers to keep their audience interested lest they’d go running to the opposing candidate getting their meager share of “amusement”. The politicians couldn’t get enough votes without them, so they were the ones in demand. So, instead of being employed by the candidates, they got wiser and what came out was a new breed of politicians. Fresh from Mother Lily and Kuya Germs! You can’t get this anywhere but the Philippines!
If you still need more proof of what a showbiz studio Malacañang has become, here is an unofficial list of aspiring candidates for the upcoming elections: Fernando Poe, Jr. for President, Singer Imelda Papin for Congresswoman of Camarines Sur, Action Star Gary Estrada for Congressman of Quezon Province, Comedian Roderick Paulate for governor of Albay, Action star Rudy Fernandez for Quezon City Mayor, Actor-Singer Tirso Cruz III for Mayor of Las Piñas City, Actress Elizabeth Oropesa for Mayor of Guinobatan, Albay, etc. (the rest of the list could take up half this column).
Although a great number of them are well-educated and may have the leadership to run our country, the greater majority has proven to be ill-prepared and ineffective. We have started a new trend in politics. Out with the traditional politicians or trapo and on with the showbiz stars. If there had been a worse option, the Philippines might as well give up democracy. Maybe that’ll give Bush another reason to come parading along Roxas Ave. and maybe we’ll spend another few hundred millions or so. No big deal. At least he’ll wear a barong.
Perhaps the Filipino people could not anymore distinguish between reality and make-believe. You see Erap in protagonist role saving the world as Asiong Salonga in Leon ng Maynila and you think he’s just as good with politics. And now that his dear friend FPJ is said to be a presidential candidate, it will be no surprise that people would think Agimat could also save our country. This alone can trigger our distrust on our politicians and the stage show they might have caused our government to become.
If anything, our government has become one big carnival. In place of freak shows and your regular Houdinis, we have a better selection ranging from big-pocketed crooks, Jueting thieves, smuggling rich men, “schizophrenics” (if you called call someone with multiple identities and fortunately aware of it as such), and madmen or madwomen, all amassing our nonexistent wealth. Call them whatever you want. Any category could not better their decadence.
No final curtain. The line of distinction between politics and theater or showbiz in the Philippines is a thin one. Too thin in fact that sooner than we might expect, there will no longer be such a distinction.
Theater, arts, and showbiz are fields the Filipinos are renowned to excel in. However, politics is a whole different arena. It’s easy to pretend, to memorize and adlib scripts, to plaster superficial grins, and wear out your hand signing autographs. What we need are leaders who can keep their feet on the ground, people who care more than their diminishing sex life or the thinning crowd of fans.
We face not pretense and fantasies but reality and this reality not only bites. It stings. Kills. And this time, there will be no one yelling, “Cut!” and no final curtains are drawn.
Friday, January 31, 2003
When Mona Lisa Smiled [Archive]
This article was originally published in the Feb 2003 edition of The LaSallian, the official publication of De La Salle University as my monthly column as editor.
When does a teacher end and a pupil begin? Some say the boundary is merely the four walls of our classrooms, where teachers enter as tutors, and exit just as well; where students come and go unchanged, with new textbooks and filled notebooks, and yet, ever adamant. Others say the perimeter is drawn on that one fateful day (at the end of every term) when seemingly, teachers play god, as jury, or judge and students await conviction. After which, both part ways with each only a fragment of a memory in the other’s mind. Still others say that one doesn’t simply end and the other begin. Both must always co-exist.
When Julia Roberts portrayed a penniless prostitute winning the heart of the wealthiest and most eligible bachelor in Beverly Hills, it was not only sales that boosted up but hopes as well. Every other girl was saying, “I could be pretty woman”. And if it were not for the fact that we don’t have a Beverly Hills or a Rodeo drive, and much more, wealthy, ignorant and driverless men in coats calling out for help in the roadside, we would have pretty women lining up and waiting along Taft. When she played Julianne in My Bestfriend’s Wedding, the girls were suddenly eyeing and weighing up their male bestfriends. But when she played Miss Katherine Watson, the middle-aged, unmarried, unorthodox professor in Mona Lisa Smile, I wanted to be a teacher.
This is not the first time that I have been inspired by a movie. But this is the first time that I have considered the academe as a probable profession. Whether it was the setting of the movie, the exceedingly impressive college women, or the fact that Julia Roberts is one brilliant actress, the movie, in more ways than one, stirred me.
Watching the film, I am reminded of a teacher I had back in first year high school. She had the same uniqueness, the same passion, devotion, and commitment to her students not only for the present but for their future. Our first encounter was unforgettable since it had been a shock or a quite a blow on my part. Seeing her with a mass of papers in her hands, I had offered help. She gave me the strangest look, laughed and told me that I looked too skeletal to even carry five pounds of paper load. “Fine! I hope you roll down the driveway.” I didn’t say that of course. What I did though was tell everyone I knew about the incident. By the second week of school, she was as notorious as can be. Devious. So, who’s laughing now? I had felt smug about it.
She was a religion teacher, young, beautiful and full of spirit. I tried to deny the fact that I was enjoying her class, even anticipating the lively discussions. She always found ways to amuse the class even at the cost of her humiliation. She constantly asked me to recite, to read aloud and by the end of the quarter, I had the highest grade in class. Did she know I started the rumors and was this a part of her plan of vengeance? I never found the answer.
From late afternoon talks to birthday parties, I finally realized I found a friend. Our 12-year gap seemed unnoticeable, concealed by her eagerness to help me achieve my dreams and my willingness to let her. She believed in me and yet I never did.
Now, I ask, where is that magic? Where is the connection between students and teachers? Is it lost because we are older now, that we are finally adults and that sometimes we feel that we know more than they do? Or maybe it is because we call them “professors” and the name adds a certain weight, a seeming barrier that we are unable to penetrate. The older we get at the University, the more “professional” our relationships with teachers become. I am not saying that we should all go out, party, and start calling each other ‘pre or tsong. I am only hopeful that somehow we can remake the magic, that when we enter our classrooms, we do not only see a face, sometimes even nameless, but instead a mentor, a likely friend, someone ready to help us reach even the unreachable. I could only hope that when our teachers see us, we are not only a blurry of class records and a tally of student absences but ready minds and hopeful souls.
So, when does a teacher, as mentor truly end, and we, as students come into being? When we say “end”, we mean the exit from our lives, the conclusion of the syllabus, the granted independence. When do they hand out our grades and exit gracefully leaving us in euphoric bliss or in hopeless tears? And when do we start closing that door and forgetting their existence? It’s simple. They don’t. We don’t. Both must always co-exist. If not for one’s self, for each other, for the dreams, for our dreams and the fervent hope for a future.
(To Miss Lourdes Tarrosa, the best teacher I ever had, my mentor and my friend, I still thank God for a precious blessing. I am grateful and forever will be.)
When does a teacher end and a pupil begin? Some say the boundary is merely the four walls of our classrooms, where teachers enter as tutors, and exit just as well; where students come and go unchanged, with new textbooks and filled notebooks, and yet, ever adamant. Others say the perimeter is drawn on that one fateful day (at the end of every term) when seemingly, teachers play god, as jury, or judge and students await conviction. After which, both part ways with each only a fragment of a memory in the other’s mind. Still others say that one doesn’t simply end and the other begin. Both must always co-exist.
When Julia Roberts portrayed a penniless prostitute winning the heart of the wealthiest and most eligible bachelor in Beverly Hills, it was not only sales that boosted up but hopes as well. Every other girl was saying, “I could be pretty woman”. And if it were not for the fact that we don’t have a Beverly Hills or a Rodeo drive, and much more, wealthy, ignorant and driverless men in coats calling out for help in the roadside, we would have pretty women lining up and waiting along Taft. When she played Julianne in My Bestfriend’s Wedding, the girls were suddenly eyeing and weighing up their male bestfriends. But when she played Miss Katherine Watson, the middle-aged, unmarried, unorthodox professor in Mona Lisa Smile, I wanted to be a teacher.
This is not the first time that I have been inspired by a movie. But this is the first time that I have considered the academe as a probable profession. Whether it was the setting of the movie, the exceedingly impressive college women, or the fact that Julia Roberts is one brilliant actress, the movie, in more ways than one, stirred me.
Watching the film, I am reminded of a teacher I had back in first year high school. She had the same uniqueness, the same passion, devotion, and commitment to her students not only for the present but for their future. Our first encounter was unforgettable since it had been a shock or a quite a blow on my part. Seeing her with a mass of papers in her hands, I had offered help. She gave me the strangest look, laughed and told me that I looked too skeletal to even carry five pounds of paper load. “Fine! I hope you roll down the driveway.” I didn’t say that of course. What I did though was tell everyone I knew about the incident. By the second week of school, she was as notorious as can be. Devious. So, who’s laughing now? I had felt smug about it.
She was a religion teacher, young, beautiful and full of spirit. I tried to deny the fact that I was enjoying her class, even anticipating the lively discussions. She always found ways to amuse the class even at the cost of her humiliation. She constantly asked me to recite, to read aloud and by the end of the quarter, I had the highest grade in class. Did she know I started the rumors and was this a part of her plan of vengeance? I never found the answer.
From late afternoon talks to birthday parties, I finally realized I found a friend. Our 12-year gap seemed unnoticeable, concealed by her eagerness to help me achieve my dreams and my willingness to let her. She believed in me and yet I never did.
Now, I ask, where is that magic? Where is the connection between students and teachers? Is it lost because we are older now, that we are finally adults and that sometimes we feel that we know more than they do? Or maybe it is because we call them “professors” and the name adds a certain weight, a seeming barrier that we are unable to penetrate. The older we get at the University, the more “professional” our relationships with teachers become. I am not saying that we should all go out, party, and start calling each other ‘pre or tsong. I am only hopeful that somehow we can remake the magic, that when we enter our classrooms, we do not only see a face, sometimes even nameless, but instead a mentor, a likely friend, someone ready to help us reach even the unreachable. I could only hope that when our teachers see us, we are not only a blurry of class records and a tally of student absences but ready minds and hopeful souls.
So, when does a teacher, as mentor truly end, and we, as students come into being? When we say “end”, we mean the exit from our lives, the conclusion of the syllabus, the granted independence. When do they hand out our grades and exit gracefully leaving us in euphoric bliss or in hopeless tears? And when do we start closing that door and forgetting their existence? It’s simple. They don’t. We don’t. Both must always co-exist. If not for one’s self, for each other, for the dreams, for our dreams and the fervent hope for a future.
(To Miss Lourdes Tarrosa, the best teacher I ever had, my mentor and my friend, I still thank God for a precious blessing. I am grateful and forever will be.)
Tuesday, December 31, 2002
With Honors [Archive]
This article was originally published in the January 2003 edition of The LaSallian, the official publication of De La Salle University as my monthly column as editor.
I’m not used to sharing my personal sentiments to the open. This time, I shall make an exception.
Few were those destined for greatness. Too few, in fact, that the rest of us become shadows or lame silhouettes of futile attempts to make it to what everyone came to call the “top”: top of the class, topnotcher, top of the firm, top of the corporate ladder, you complete the rest. Whichever “top” it was always seemed better than anywhere below. It had become an epitome, a silent, yet known paradigm to complete the essence of one’s existence. You had to be somewhere or be someone above the ordinary. Even being anywhere that fell the slightest inch above anything or anyone became acceptable. As long as you had those whom you can look down from “above”. Sinful, yes, yet relieving.
***
I was raised ambitious. Then again, who wasn’t? I woke up to the overwhelming challenge of becoming someone, of becoming a “name”, a figure no less than extraordinary. It all began with stars, not those that blanket the dark, vast sky, not even those that shine in the spotlight, but those little stars drawn on the palm of your hand. Kindergarten. My sister came home with a palmful of them. I, on the other hand, constantly tried to master the art of drawing stars with my left hand, always in vain. (I was never ambidextrous.)
The stars became A’s, then of excellent’s and superb’s, until the challenge grew to be with honors.
Now, let’s backtrack some more. Remember when you were five and your teacher asked you what you wanted to be when you grow up? The answers were always: I want to be a doctor so I can cure the sick; or I want to be a teacher and help my students; or I want to be a nun and serve God. Now that you’ve grown “up”, what do you say when asked the same question? I want a five-digit salary, insurance, and pension. And you call that honor?
So, here’s the complete picture: We work our butts thin in grade school, torment and deprive ourselves of some of the youthful luxuries in high school, and turn down free concerts and spend U-break in the library come our college years. The reward? An eight by eleven thin roll of paper spelling out WITH HONORS. (At least in the some lotteries, you get to win a trip for two to Hong Kong!)
***
Life’s fate for us now seems to be determined by our course cards, our TORs, and the four-paged resume we still try to convince ourselves as genuine and “all true”. Why do you go to class when you would rather pretend to be sick? Why do you feel guilty of missing class even if you have unlimited cuts? Why can’t you settle for a 1.0 in RELS or INTROSO? We all have our petty excuses, oblivious to the fact that we are slowly consumed by a false notion of the measure of excellence. Excellence is equated with high grades, with 4.0’s, gold medals, and Proudly Lasallian pin ups. Who cared how you achieved these? You were already at the top and no one was stopping you. But somehow, in our hungry pursuit for success, we forget the inevitable. When you’re at the top, there’s no place to go but down.
At one point, you begin asking yourself, what does with honors mean exactly? Does it assure me of a good job, a decent pay, and a happy life? Does it serve as my one-way ticket to heaven too? Or would have my life been the same had I lived it as I would have wanted to? If God were to add an eleventh commandment, I strongly doubt it He’ll make something like, “Thou shall not fail Accounting”. Don’t get me wrong here. I spend my share of study hours on my desk too and even if it meant getting cozy with my calculator, I willfully refused untimely temptations. But not everything is about grades, course cards, Makati jobs, and salary premiums. Your honors do not measure the kind of person you are or the kind of life you deserve. It may get you the free car you’ve been coveting since freshman but the guarantee stops there. Who you are and what you will become will still lie on your very being. You are molded by your morals, principles, and values, not on the gold medals that hang by your living room.
***
I once came upon a film which starred Brendan Fraser and Joe Pesci, the title of which (as you may have already noticed), was With Honors. Talk about originality, huh? I hadn’t really given the movie much thought since I was then too young to appreciate good movies other than cartoons. I came to remember the movie when my co-editor and I debated over our column title. Our other editor in chief wanted to christen our column “Debit and Credit”. You can just imagine the war that it almost initiated! We didn’t want a name that highlighted our soon to be profession, we wanted something that somehow inspired and stirred us. As in the movie, Joe Pesci had said of Monti (Fraser), “…he will graduate life with honors”. And so, I say that honors is not only achieved in the classroom or during graduation, not even on the badges from the PMA. Honors is what you get for simply being a good friend, for being selfless and praying for others, for wasting your time lining up just to be registered for voting, for keeping your faith, and for the little things you didn’t think mattered but meant a lot to other people. These honors in life (though impossible to pawn) are worth more than the heaviest goddamn medal Recto can ever sell!
I’m not used to sharing my personal sentiments to the open. This time, I shall make an exception.
Few were those destined for greatness. Too few, in fact, that the rest of us become shadows or lame silhouettes of futile attempts to make it to what everyone came to call the “top”: top of the class, topnotcher, top of the firm, top of the corporate ladder, you complete the rest. Whichever “top” it was always seemed better than anywhere below. It had become an epitome, a silent, yet known paradigm to complete the essence of one’s existence. You had to be somewhere or be someone above the ordinary. Even being anywhere that fell the slightest inch above anything or anyone became acceptable. As long as you had those whom you can look down from “above”. Sinful, yes, yet relieving.
***
I was raised ambitious. Then again, who wasn’t? I woke up to the overwhelming challenge of becoming someone, of becoming a “name”, a figure no less than extraordinary. It all began with stars, not those that blanket the dark, vast sky, not even those that shine in the spotlight, but those little stars drawn on the palm of your hand. Kindergarten. My sister came home with a palmful of them. I, on the other hand, constantly tried to master the art of drawing stars with my left hand, always in vain. (I was never ambidextrous.)
The stars became A’s, then of excellent’s and superb’s, until the challenge grew to be with honors.
Now, let’s backtrack some more. Remember when you were five and your teacher asked you what you wanted to be when you grow up? The answers were always: I want to be a doctor so I can cure the sick; or I want to be a teacher and help my students; or I want to be a nun and serve God. Now that you’ve grown “up”, what do you say when asked the same question? I want a five-digit salary, insurance, and pension. And you call that honor?
So, here’s the complete picture: We work our butts thin in grade school, torment and deprive ourselves of some of the youthful luxuries in high school, and turn down free concerts and spend U-break in the library come our college years. The reward? An eight by eleven thin roll of paper spelling out WITH HONORS. (At least in the some lotteries, you get to win a trip for two to Hong Kong!)
***
Life’s fate for us now seems to be determined by our course cards, our TORs, and the four-paged resume we still try to convince ourselves as genuine and “all true”. Why do you go to class when you would rather pretend to be sick? Why do you feel guilty of missing class even if you have unlimited cuts? Why can’t you settle for a 1.0 in RELS or INTROSO? We all have our petty excuses, oblivious to the fact that we are slowly consumed by a false notion of the measure of excellence. Excellence is equated with high grades, with 4.0’s, gold medals, and Proudly Lasallian pin ups. Who cared how you achieved these? You were already at the top and no one was stopping you. But somehow, in our hungry pursuit for success, we forget the inevitable. When you’re at the top, there’s no place to go but down.
At one point, you begin asking yourself, what does with honors mean exactly? Does it assure me of a good job, a decent pay, and a happy life? Does it serve as my one-way ticket to heaven too? Or would have my life been the same had I lived it as I would have wanted to? If God were to add an eleventh commandment, I strongly doubt it He’ll make something like, “Thou shall not fail Accounting”. Don’t get me wrong here. I spend my share of study hours on my desk too and even if it meant getting cozy with my calculator, I willfully refused untimely temptations. But not everything is about grades, course cards, Makati jobs, and salary premiums. Your honors do not measure the kind of person you are or the kind of life you deserve. It may get you the free car you’ve been coveting since freshman but the guarantee stops there. Who you are and what you will become will still lie on your very being. You are molded by your morals, principles, and values, not on the gold medals that hang by your living room.
***
I once came upon a film which starred Brendan Fraser and Joe Pesci, the title of which (as you may have already noticed), was With Honors. Talk about originality, huh? I hadn’t really given the movie much thought since I was then too young to appreciate good movies other than cartoons. I came to remember the movie when my co-editor and I debated over our column title. Our other editor in chief wanted to christen our column “Debit and Credit”. You can just imagine the war that it almost initiated! We didn’t want a name that highlighted our soon to be profession, we wanted something that somehow inspired and stirred us. As in the movie, Joe Pesci had said of Monti (Fraser), “…he will graduate life with honors”. And so, I say that honors is not only achieved in the classroom or during graduation, not even on the badges from the PMA. Honors is what you get for simply being a good friend, for being selfless and praying for others, for wasting your time lining up just to be registered for voting, for keeping your faith, and for the little things you didn’t think mattered but meant a lot to other people. These honors in life (though impossible to pawn) are worth more than the heaviest goddamn medal Recto can ever sell!
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