español, por favor?

I come from a country colonized by Spain for more than three centuries. Christianity is the pre-dominant faith, introduced by the conquiztadores when they came looking for spices and precious metals. We have surnames like Reyes, Garcia, Marquez and Santos, and we eat lechon, paella and chorizos. The Spanish left so many marks on our culture but, heck, they forgot to leave their language.

Unlike the Latin American countries conquered by the Spanish armada, Spanish never became the lingua franca of the Filipino nation. Sure, our local dialects are peppered with lots of Spanish words, and the national greeting “Kumusta?” is a bastardized version of the Spanish “Como esta?”, but that’s all there is to it. Instead, we learned English, propagated by the Thomasites, the American teachers who came to the Philippines in the early 20^th century to educate Juan dela Cruz.

So now we are one of the biggest English-speaking countries (but not necessarily among the best) in the world, and it’s not uncommon and unusual to hear brown-skinned sorts   trying terribly hard to fake an American accent. Call centers have sprouted all over and have become one of the biggest employment providers in the country, all because of the Filipino’s English language proficiency and very trainable tongues ("With what accent do you want me speak, ma’am – British or American?"). And yes, hordes of South Korean kids have made Manila an extension of Seoul because they want to learn English.

No, I have nothing against English being the Philippines’ second language. Our ability to speak this most international of languages has given Filipino workers a competitive edge in the global market, and it has made travelling to other countries a lot easier. (I once sat beside a French woman who repeatedly muttered, “Je ne parle pas anglais!” on a Lufthansa flight to Ghana and boy, did we understand each other!)

I am grateful to the American educators who imparted their language to us, but how I wish that the Spaniards who gave us siesta and fiestas bothered to teach us their language while they were exploiting our natural resources. But no, those haughty Spanish friars who spoke of God but lusted for gold deemed Filipino Indios too insolent to be taught their Castillan tongue.

So now, as I reread Don Quixote and listen to Alejandro Sanz (¡eres muy divino, señor Sanz!), I am once more cursing the Spanish colonizers for their failure to teach my forebears their beautiful language. Because if they did, I’d be reading Miguel de Cervantes’ masterpiece – not to mention Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ novels and Pablo Neruda’s poems - in its original form, instead of a second-rate English translation. ¡Que pena! 

RANDOM VERSES

1

Give me time to master myself

a lifetime is not enough to know who I am

it takes seasons to break a vicious cycle

imagine how many I have to get out from

before it all comes to a permanent hault.

 

2

Leave now, while you can.

Don’t wait a minute more.

The yellow ball will soon surrender its lure.

And you, you will be lost.

Go away, do not waver.

The ivory gods will be here soon.

They will turn new pages, write longer verses.

(Change will be the word.)

And you, you will be confused.

 

3

Let your back touch the mattress

and surrender your thoughts.

It’s late, the noisy world outside is

more peaceful than your head.

Its ramblings can still be heard

the confusion, the battles being fought.

Don’t argue, no one is listening.

It’s futile to ponder, better stop thinking.

Just close your eyes, get some sleep.

Tomorrow will be here soon and it will be another day.

 

4

The yellow moon can glow all night

but it cannot match the intensity of my stare.

The stars, how can they compare?

Their twinkle is only a flicker

to the blaze that burns inside.

They can only watch, envious,

as passion consumes my heart,

like a house on fire. 

CRYING FOR CORY

I was never a fan and I never expected to cry, but I did. As Kris Aquino thanked each of her sisters for the parts they have played, as she told Noynoy that he is now her son Joshua’s security blanket, as she expressed her gratitude to the Filipino people for supporting their mother and for sharing their grief, I watched, transfixed, through eyes blurred by tears. And as I did, I began to wonder why I was crying for the woman in yellow.

I was a young girl growing up in Ilocos when Ninoy Aquino was killed and his widow was thrust into public consciousness. As a clueless kid surrounded by people who venerated Marcos, I heard the name Cory mentioned with both consternation and contempt. In Marcos country, she was the enemy who did not really matter – a mere housewife of a dead ex-senator unworthy to stand against a man who postured like a god.

It was in March 1986 when I first saw Cory. It was the graduation of the Philippine Military Academy Sinagtala Class and she was attending as the president of the Republic of the Philippines and commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces. I was a wide-eyed kid attending as a relative of one of the graduating cadets. It was a time of great celebration and boundless optimism, but as I watched the revelry from the stands of Fort Del Pilar, I failed to truly grasp the event’s significance.

Midway through Cory’s presidency, I entered the university and began what turned out to be a defining phase in my life. I read Marx, listened to Buklod songs and got to know Liberation Theology. The girl who did not quite understand had assumed a political identity and its color was a vivid red.

With my activist friends, I protested against tuition fee deregulation and excessive debt servicing. I mocked the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program as just another charade of a hacienda-owning president. And when Cory decided to support the presidential bid of a former general who served Marcos while Ninoy was held political prisoner, I shook my head and wondered how she could have finally lost her wits.

My political hue turned from crimson to pale red when I left the idealistic confines of the university and began my struggle to survive the rat race. Cory had left Malacañang but not the limelight. She was still a political figure who wielded great influence, and in January 2001, her yellow and my red met and mixed at the EDSA Shrine to decry the excesses of a macho president. It was the second and last time for me to see her, and when the womanizer who wore a silly armband had been castrated, her yellow and my red went on separate paths once again.

Now, a few hours after Cory was finally laid to rest beside her beloved Ninoy, I am writing what I hope could pass as a tribute, and as I do so, I begin to understand why I have been shedding tears for the woman whose political shade did not mix well with mine.

In life, what draw people together are what they share in common. I was never drawn to Cory while she lived, but after watching the outpouring of grief for the simple housewife who toppled a dictatorship, I realize that even if our political beliefs are polar opposites, we all share an innate appreciation for and understanding of what is noble and good. What really binds us together is not our social or political affiliation but our humanity.

I cried for Cory not because she was a former president and an icon of democracy, but because she was a wife who stood by her husband through thick and thin, a mother who loved her children unconditionally, a woman who fought her battles with dignity, and a person of faith who wholeheartedly trusted her God even when she had reasons to doubt. Cory was, to paraphrase Conrado de Quiros’ French, one damn good human being - that’s certainly worth crying for.

 

GLORIA IN EXCELSIS...

No, I did not open my television to watch Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo deliver her last (?) state of the nation address. But my neighbor’s radio was open and the volume was up for everyone to hear, disturbing my concentration as I attempted to come up with a coherent report. So I brought out my trusty Bose headphones, listened to Antonio Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and saved myself from further irritation. I needed to write, and Mrs. Macapagal-Arroyo’s SONA was the last thing I wanted to hear.

When I finally opened the TV for the evening news, it was her face I saw, and the voice that I earlier managed to shut off reverberated through my ears and started to annoy the hell out of me.

But I did not put off the TV. I watched as my president smiled and smirked, as she criticized her critics for criticizing her, as she spoke of strong economic fundamentals, as she harped about the gains of her budget-busting foreign trips, as she praised Manny Pacquiao to high heavens.

I watched as my country’s lawmakers applauded, like puppets on strings, their ring leader’s every word. I watched as the congressional and senatorial wives scramble for the best positions during the photo-ops, sashaying in their fabulously expensive gowns like there are no starving children in their husbands’ constituencies.

When the circus was finally over, I found myself staring at the TV screen, wondering how on earth we got to this.

How indeed? Don’t we have a land rich in natural resources? Are we not a nation of smart and skilled people? Why are we being left behind by our Asian neighbors? Until when are we going to suffer the indignity of being called the “sick man of Asia”? Maybe, when Laos has overtaken the Philippines, we will finally do something.

“I did not become President to be popular,” Mrs. Macapagal-Arroyo said in her speech (which I’m quoting from the transcript I found in GMA 7’s news website). Of course, she did not – she wanted to become the most powerful and very, very rich.

“To work, to lead, to protect and preserve our country, our people, that is why I became President,” my president in pink added. I have no problems with the first two verbs, but the third and fourth? To protect and preserve our country and our people from whom? From her? From her greedy husband and her arrogant sons?

“When my father left the Presidency, we were second to Japan,” Mrs. Macapagal-Arroyo, the ex-president’s daughter, beamed with pride. But she forgot to mention how her father also left the nation with tons of toxic foreign debts, and how he handed Sabah to the Malaysians.

“I want our Republic to be ready for the first world in 20 years,” the little president with the gargantuan temper went on to say. With the current state of politics, I wonder how the Philippines will be ready for the first world in 50 years. From the look of things now, my future son or daughter will, heaven forbids, more likely be living in a fourth-world country.

My president also talked about the Securitization Law, the Special Purpose Vehicle Act, the Rent Control Law, the EPIRA, the Cheaper Medicine Law, the Economic Resiliency Plan. Big words pleasant to the ears, but to a development worker who had witnessed the plight of the urban poor in the slums of Malabon and Navotas, they are devoid of meaning until the most marginalized communities start gaining substantially from them.

And yes, my president talked about stepping down from the stage after her speech, but she forgot to mention – explicitly - that she is going step down from her post when her term expires. She reminded everyone that her presidency is not due until next year, but she failed to make it clear that she is going to hand over the position to the next elected president come June 2010.

“We can and we must march forward with hope, optimism and determination,” Mrs. Macapagal-Arroyo urged her long-suffering people at the end of her SONA. I will remain hopeful, optimistic and determined, but I am begging my president to not pussyfoot and leave Malacañang when she must, because I don’t know how I can march forward with her leading the procession.  

Gout And Everything After

Until Taco Bell starts making and selling a veggie variant, today is the last day I’ve stuffed chicken chalupa into my mouth. I’m finally, totally, swearing off meat from my life not because I’ve become an animal welfare activist all of a sudden, but because I have gout. Yes, GOUT, which, according to Dr. Philip S. Chua, is “a chronic inflammation of the peripheral joints caused by the deposition in and about connective tissues, like the joints and the tendons, of needle-like monosodium urate crystals resulting from very high levels of uric acid in the body fluids. The inflammation causes swelling, pain, heat, redness and stiffness in the joints. Gout comprises about five percent of all cases of arthritis in the body.” It’s getting more burdensome as days go by, and I have to do something drastic if I want to harbor any hope of going to Spain and walk the Camino de Santiago.

I already suspected having an arthritis-related disease a few years back when, one morning somewhere in Africa, I woke up with a terrible pain in my left knee. It was so painful I needed to rush to the doctor for an injection of painkiller, as over-the-counter pills were just not strong enough. I told the doctor of my suspicion, but she gave me a motherly smile and told me I was too young to be afflicted with the disease. I left the clinic with my left knee able to support me, and with a smug smile on my face because someone had confirmed my youth.

Some months ago, I started feeling an uncomfortable throbbing in my lower left limb. So I went to my friendly doctor at Saint Luke’s and she confirmed what I’ve always suspected - I have an arthritis-related disease.  Gout to be precise. She prescribed me some medicines and advised me to exercise and stay away from certain food. She mentioned beans and red meat, but further research informed me that there’s quite a long list of food I should not put into my mouth if I want my joints to still function when I’m forty five.

So today I say farewell to chicken, as I’ve earlier done to beef, pork, shrimps, crabs, oysters and other shellfish. Soon, I will also have to bid adieu to tuna and salmon (sushiiii!!!) and, yes, chocolate.

I wonder what wrongs did I commit in my past life to deserve my present fate...

Taming Death

I was waiting for the chill to go down my spine, to shake me, to render me immobile. I was waiting for the chill to numb my senses and paralyze me for a while. But it did not come – I was calm and composed. I felt light.

Michael Jackson was dead. But why was I not stunned?

It was an entirely different scenario when, in 1993, the death of River Phoenix sent chills into my system that left me restless and sleepless for weeks. The tragedy shook me so badly that I began to look at the world with even more cynical eyes. How could someone so young, so precious, die?

The years that came after that tragic event saw me slowly and painfully come to terms with the sad truth that eventually, all of us will have to bid adieu to this temporal world. That, ironic as it may sound, death is a part of life.

My introduction to death – and the pain that comes along with seeing and knowing someone dear is forever gone – came rather too soon and without warning in 1982. It was the seventh day of October, a Thursday, a fine day. It was the day my father died.

I was very young then, barely ten, and I did not know what to do. How was a care-free girl supposed to react? How was I supposed to grieve?

I was hurt and sad and mad. I was outraged. I was angry at my father for leaving us, and I was angry at God for taking him too soon. But when my fury finally ebbed, I began to ask myself questions: What would happen to my mom and my younger siblings? What would happen to me? 

When my young and weary mind got tired of asking, and when my badly bruised heart got tired of waiting for answers, I decided to just drop everything off. It’s just a bad dream, I told myself, tomorrow I’d wake up and everything would be back to normal.

But it was not a dream. So I floated on thin air, drifted, silently telling myself that my father was just somewhere far doing research. Someday, he would return. He would return. I refused to talk about him, not with friends, not with relatives. I silently clung to my belief that my father was not dead.

My growing up years were marked by two things: rebellion and denial. The former was strong and feverish, but the latter was undetected.

But looking back now, it was not really denial. Most of it was fear of death. How many morbid thoughts ran wild inside my nervous brain in high school? Countless. There were many afternoons that I found myself begging God and fervently hoping that I would see everyone in the family alive and well the moment I arrived from school. It was that dreadful thought, that dreadful feeling, that kept me on the edge throughout my adolescent years. Nobody knew, not even my mother, how badly the fear of death was torturing me. It was downright crazy, but there were times when I trembled over the deaths of people I hardly knew. Even the death of the most insignificant showbiz starlets affected me.

It has been twenty six years since my father’s frail heart decided to stop beating. Twenty six antsy years. The angry and confused kid is now an adult – though, at times, still angry and confused. The time that swiftly passed tested me really tough but made me learn and, to some extent, helped me tame my fear of death.

But have I really? Have I, finally, conquered the monster that haunted my youth? If I were to use my calm response to Michael Jackson’s death as a gauge, the answer is yes. Not that I no longer fear death – somehow, I still do – but I have stopped it from intimidating me.

 

Thoughts After Sunday

I’m not a religious person. I’ve never been and I don’t think I will ever be. But I want to find and define my spirituality - a spirituality that, I hope, will not be dominated by dogmas and concepts of an omnipotent god, but by faith rooted in love, justice and peace. My quest for spirituality is a journey not towards salvation, but towards meaning and truth. Salvation will come if and when I find my meaning and my truth.

Whenever pressed to indicate my religion in some forms or documents, I write catholic, because, technically, I still am. I have not been converted or baptized to another faith or religion, and one time when I wrote down “ecumenical” on the corresponding space, I was asked what I meant, and, most of the time, explaining about one’s spiritual beliefs can be a really tedious undertaking. So, yes, I’m a catholic with a small c.

I don’t attend mass, but I do go to church. I especially like going to adoration chapels because these are quiet places where I can have conversations with my Creator. I’ve taken to reading the Bible, but I’ve also started reading some books that tell me of things related to the Judaism and the Christianity but are not explicitly mentioned in the Bible. Things like the possible connection of Venus worship to the two religions, but I can’t write about them now because I don’t know enough.

I believe that there is only one God who made everything and everyone. A God who has always encouraged diversity, so He/She/Neuter has allowed everyone to call Him/Her/Neuter by all sorts of names and worship Him/Her/Neuter through different ways and means.  I also believe that there are no “chosen people”, not because I have something against those who claim to be, but because that concept implies a God who discriminates. No, the God who created me does not play favorites. 

Nothing doing.

I am tired of sighing and staring at the ceiling, but they are all I can do now. Umberto Eco’s book lie on the floor, waiting for me to pick it up, but my eyes are too lazy to read and my brain is too indifferent to comprehend. There are movies to watch and games to play, but I am too bored to do anything. Even daydreaming is not an enticing option. 

However, there is something I would kill to do right now: To be in a passionate debate with someone about globalization, about Cristiano Ronaldo and what an overhyped asshole he actually is, about global warming, about love, about Latin American telenovelas, about anything.  I want my brain to be picked and I want to pick someone else’s.  I am in a desperate want of an intellectual intercourse.

Maybe I should stand in front of a mirror and argue with my reflection?

I am...

And what’s your name?” 

“Wait, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Just like in Umberto Eco’s book, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, I’m beginning this blog by keeping my name on the tip of my tongue. Not that I don’t want people to know me - they will if they get to read what I write - but simply because I’m more comfortable this way. Besides, didn’t Shakepeare declare, “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name will be just as sweet.” I agree, but I’m not a rose. Nor am I sweet. 

Anyway, I hope I'll make some sense.