Monday, May 13, 2013
What I Did on Election Day
What I did on election day
By Paulynn P. Sicam
I voted early, with no hassles. The polling place is a public school five minutes’ walk from my house. I was back home in 20 minutes. On my way home, I met my kasambahay and her husband who were going to cast their own votes. When they got back after over an hour, they said they were not able to vote. They searched every voters’ list in every precinct in our barangay but they didn’t find their names
.
That didn’t sit well with me since we registered at the same time and voted together in the same precinct in 2010. So how could it be that I could vote and they couldn’t? Her husband had given up and gone to work but Eva and I went back to the polling place in the afternoon where the person at the PPCRV desk suggested that we go to the Comelec office in City Hall to get a waiver so she could vote.
So at 3:30 in the afternoon of election day, Eva and I took a jeep to Maysilo Circle in Mandaluyong to get a waiver from the local Comelec office. The Comelec office in Mandaluyong is a non-descript hole in the wall of what looks like a condemned building in the circle. There were some 18 employees in pink t-shirts, some occupying desks overflowing with folders, two working before computers, with several others looking over their shoulders. The rest were just sitting around staring blankly. An officer-in-charge sat behind a desk right in front of the front door looking officious. As soon as we told him what we were there for, he yelled at the staff to attend to us then made a quick getaway.
The person manning one computer looked for Eva’s name and found her file promptly. But, he said, it showed that Eva had “transferred out” of the district and was therefore purged from the voter’s list. The computer spat out the same information about her husband Jonathan. But, we protested, we haven’t moved out of our address where we have been staying for 14 years. So, I asked if the computer could say where Eva and Jonathan had transfer out. The computer didn’t say and no one could explain their delisting to us.
So, I asked if they could give us a waiver saying there’d been a mistake, so she could go back to her precinct and vote. The Comelec personnel looked at each other, at the ceiling and the floor, anywhere but at me. Sorry, they could not issue a waiver because she had been delisted and even if they could, there was no one who could sign it. The City Election Officer was at the gym, they said, and she could not be disturbed.
Was she exercising? I asked. No, she was at the Mandaluyong gym for the canvassing. So, couldn’t anyone go find her and tell her that a crowd of people wanting waivers to be able to vote had gathered at the office? No, she was not to be disturbed. And I was told, I couldn’t go there to talk to her because the gym was being prepared for the canvass of votes and was off limits to anyone without an ID.
This was when I took to my soapbox, albeit an imaginary one. Pacing the floor in that crowded office, I lectured the Comelec personnel on the sacredness of the right to vote, free elections being a pillar of our democracy, and the duty of every Filipino, especially those who are mandate to manage the election process, to respect every person’s desire to choose their own officials and representatives. I was so eloquent in both Tagalog and English, I surprised even myself.
At this point, I realized that I was only in my pambahay shorts, a faded t-shirt and slippers. But it must have been my silver hair and my occasional lapses into English that made everyone stop what they were doing, and with downcast eyes, listen to this citizen’s harangue. “There are 18 of you in this office, and not a single one can help us?” I felt sorry for this unempowered lot but I rubbed it in.
After waiting fruitlessly for another half hour or so, I decided to explore the circle’s maze-like corridors and hallways and look for the gym. Eva and I found our way to the gym which was easy enough to enter. A door was open and no one stopped us. To some officious looking people on the stage, I asked, “Where can I find Atty Julie Villar, the election officer of Manadaluyong?” “I am she,” volunteered a perky brown-haired woman. “How can I help you?”
When we told her what we needed, she quickly wrote an affidavit in long hand saying what we’d been telling the people at the office all afternoon, for Eva to sign. After Eva signed it, Atty. Villar admonished her, “If I find out later that you lied about this, I will have you arrested.” Then she added, “But I know you are telling the truth.”
We were back at the polling place at 6 pm and Eva was able to cast her vote.
The thing is, the Comelec crew in Mandaluyong was totally unempowered. Like much of the bureaucracy, they had no authority to respond beyond “It can’t be done”. So they sat there helpless, or walked around zombie-like, trying to look busy amid the growing growling crowd of disgusted disenfranchised voters. When I told this to Atty. Villar, I got a glimpse of the bureaucrat’s mind: “Of course,” she responded, “they are not lawyers,” adding that only she had the authority to act on our complaints. But of course she wasn’t at her desk to attend to us and she didn’t authorize anyone to act on her behalf.
We could have given up in the morning, after Eva found out their names were not in the voters’ list. The PPCRV person told me a total of 72 people in that polling place complained of being disenfranchised, but as far as I know, only Eva and one other bothered to challenge it before the Comelec. Eva was primed to fulfil her democratic duty. And me? I wanted to see how far a citizen’s protest would go on election day. While we got what we wanted, many others just walked away, disappointed that there was no one to speak to the Comelec on their behalf.
And that’s what we did on election day.
Comelec, fail.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
My visits with Mafe
23 July 2011
It's uncanny, how my visits with Mafe have been so well-timed. When I flew in for a weekend in May to use an air ticket that was about to expire, I was the only guest. Mafe was ailing. She had had a bad night and she didn't want to eat.
When I came in, she greeted me with a smile and asked what I was doing in Davao. Did I have a meeting to attend? I said no, I came to see her. Her face crumpled as if to cry, and she just said, "Kayo talagang mga pamangkin ko..."
She lay in her bed, weak from hunger, but refusing to take anything in except Coke and some lugaw. I sat beside her bed and asked if she was depressed. She thought about it and said, maybe. But when I asked her if she was the kind of woman who would just wither away because her husband has died, she said defiantly, of course not. She had a life to live.
We had lunch in her room as we watched the video of the mass and eulogies for Tito Chito in Manila two weeks earlier. I said I didn't realize how much he had done until the heard the eulogies that finally connected the dots in my memory of the stories he used to tell me about martial law, the military, the RAM, Cory Aquino and governance. Mafe said she too didn't really know what he was doing and the eulogies were new to her as well.
She got up soon after and we moved to Tito Chito's room where his yellow ceramic urn was displayed amid candles and flowers. On his bed was the Legion of Honor Award he received posthumously from President Noynoy Aquino for his exemplary service to country. WE talked about Tito Chito a lot.
Mafe ordered Halo Halo and sandwiches from Foping's and we chatted there with Gina, Ann Marie and Pia. George passed by show her the new tombstones he had made for Lolo and Lola's graves in Eden.
Then Mafe said it as time to go down to the living room, as Mike would be around soon. I held her hand as we went down the stairs. We then went straight for the couch where she lay down propped on pillows. I sat by her feet, massaging her legs which looked remarkably like my Mom's, as we talked like women, about our lives, loves, joys, heartaches, disappointments and dreams. Mafe shared her feelings openly, not mincing words, not leaving out painful details, but managing to be philosophical and smile all the way. She was in fact, matter-of-fact, not angry, bitter or cynical.
She was at peace with herself. And now that a part of her life was over, she looked forward to living the rest of her life in peace, doing what she loved most in the way she wanted.
We sat there for several hours, thick as thieves, talking in whispers about the trauma of past events, much of which we had already shared before, but she seemed to need to spill it out one more time, as some form of catharsis. Then she said, it was time to walk. Mike was coming and he would ask her if she had walked. I held her hand as we took the walkway between home base and Mike's house, chatting away as we walked, slowly, deliberately. When we got to the end of the walkway, she said she was tired and we sat down to rest. Then we walked again, this time a shorter distance. She said she was tired and rested at a round table, in the shadow of large blown up photos of Tito Chito displayed in the Bulwagan. Our story-telling went on until she stood up to go back go her couch where she again laid down.
At dinner, she sat with us at the big table but she did not touch her food and after a few minutes, she went back to the couch. She needed to rest. But we continued to talk. I left her at around nine pm, promising to see her again the following morning.
I went back at 9 AM after having breakfast with Gina, Mike and Gauss in the other house. Mike told me that my visit seemed to have done Mafe a lot of good. Whatever it was we talked about, it made her more energetic than she had been in a while. Mafe and I talked until 11 when she called everyone to lunch, because I had to leave the house by 12 to catch my flight home.
It was such a satisfying visit, so private and intimate. But when I left, I had a sinking feeling that it would not happen again. I was truly blessed because two days later, she was hospitalized for water in her lungs. And it's been downhill since then.
I went back in June with my siblings when Mike sounded the call that Mafe's health had taken a turn for the worse. She was having difficulty breathing on her own. She was intubated and in a makeshift ICU and all we could do was blow her kisses from behind a glass door. It was painful seeing her looking so uncomfortable and helpless, but she was still fiesty, resisting the infernal tube down her throat, and finally getting her demand met to have it removed in favor of a tracheotomy.
I had planned to see her in July but Lory dissuaded me saying that Mike and family needed the space to be with Mafe and to grief over their impending loss. So I dropped my plan until Gina called to say Mike said I should come.
I arrived on a Wednesday evening, saw Mafe from behind the glass door of her sterile sick room in home base, and broke down. This was not going to be easy. Visits with her were being regulated and I did not expect to be with her longer than five minutes a day. But again, I was blessed. After some visitors left on Thursday afternoon and the last one left on Friday, I was given practically free access to her.
The first time I went in on Thursday afternoon, I forgot to wear a mask. Mafe was restless and I could find nothing to say to her. I held her hand and told her I couldn't keep away and that I loved her. I sang her some old songs then I told the nurses to put on some music, because what is Mafe without music? She seemed to recognize me and she asked for Pia. Pia was still sick, Bebot told her. She'll come back when she is well. When I left the room, I broke down again.
On Friday morning, I went to Home Base bright and early, slipped into Mafe's room and held her hand for around 30 minutes, kissing it and holding it to my cheek. Later that morning, chatting with Mike, he told me about a type-written manuscript that Mafe had given him last year in San Francisco, urging him to read it. He didn't know its provenance but he said he read it on the plane back to Manila and he was quite impressed by it. I recognized the now-yellowed typewritten manuscript. Mafe had given me a set many years back but I barely read it.
It was a transcript of her conversations with Harry, her spirit guide and liaison with God. Sometime in the Seventies, through me, she met a group of women that was into 'psychism', a practice of meditation that I didn't understand, and this document of conversations with Harry, was the result of her practice. I browsed through it and realized that it contained Mafe's core beliefs, the basis of her spirituality. Excited, I asked Mike if I could read it to her. He told me to go ahead.
I showed Mafe the manuscript, asking if she recognized it. Her eyes lit up. I asked if she wanted me to read some of it to her. She raised an eyebrow in assent. Holding her hand, I began to read entries about love, pain, friendship, prayer, sharing God and carrying one's cross. She was agitated and began to stir, wanting to talk. I heard her struggle to say, "Ma...Ma..." I aksed, "Do you want Mike? I'll go get Mike." But she tightened her hold on my hand, indicating that I stay. The she cried, out loud, with a hoarse voice that came from deep in her being, "Have mercy!" And then she said it again, loud and clear, "Have mercy!"
When she calmed down, I asked if I should continue reading and she nodded. I read until she fell asleep. I loosened my hand from her grip and went out to look for Mike. Mike told me I was an instrument, and perhaps I was. Mafe seemed to be thirsting for Harry's guidance.
That afternoon, I went in with Pia, who was now pronounced well. I said, "Maf, look who's here. Miss na miss ka na nya kasi wala nang sumisigaw sa kanya." Mafe's eyes lit up and she gave us a half-smile. I sang her another song, 'Anima Cristi', my favorite prayer that I told her I prayed for her.
On Saturday morning, she was having a good day. She was awake and responsive, smiling a lot and winking. I told her about my realization that I had become my mother, her Ate, who seemed to be telling me what to do. I asked if I could sing her another song, this time, from Lory, who asked me to look up the words of 'Stay with me', the theme from The Cardinal, and sing it to her. My voice broke, but she didn't seem to mind.
To break the silence that followed, I told her I had another song for her, 'All of Me', which Pia said, was her favorite. This made her smile. Then I asked her if she wanted me to read more from Harry and she nodded. As I read to her, she fell asleep.
I sat there for a long time, holding her hand, kissing it, and just looking at her face, so peaceful in repose. She looked like a Misa. I saw my Mom in her stately brow. When she woke up, which was often, I chattered away. I told her that many people had texted, sending their love: June Lopez (wide smile), Mila Reyes (nod), Surf Reyes (nod), Willie Cruz (wide smile); Greg (eyes tightly closed); Poch Lozano (nod). Even my ex sends prayers, I added. To this, she gave me a wide conspiratorial grin.
I have not introduced anyone to Mafe who did not end up loving her.
I went back in later with Pia and we reminisced about my childhood when I thought she was a movie star. I wanted to grow up to be like her -- pretty, sexy, a good dresser, and so desirable. She had many admirers who came to visit her at home. Mafe seemed to enjoy our banter, following us with her eyes. I also told her that Gary had been calling Lory, asking about her, sending messages of love and prayers. She held my hand tightly and closed her eyes tight as well.
I told her I was leaving for Manila that afternoon, that I loved her and that I would continue to pray for her and with her. I thanked her for the love and everything she'd done for me -- the caring, the pleasure of her company, the many fun times, the secrets we shared, and when she helped me out in times of trouble. I told her I loved her and no one came close. I left knowing I would not see her alive again.
I have learned that since I left, she has became less communicative, that her system has begun to shut down. I thank God for the privilege of these timely and meaningful private visits with Mafe.
I already miss her, my Mafe, whom I will forever be grateful to for teaching me how to love well, and how to give unconditionally, with all my heart.
It's uncanny, how my visits with Mafe have been so well-timed. When I flew in for a weekend in May to use an air ticket that was about to expire, I was the only guest. Mafe was ailing. She had had a bad night and she didn't want to eat.
When I came in, she greeted me with a smile and asked what I was doing in Davao. Did I have a meeting to attend? I said no, I came to see her. Her face crumpled as if to cry, and she just said, "Kayo talagang mga pamangkin ko..."
She lay in her bed, weak from hunger, but refusing to take anything in except Coke and some lugaw. I sat beside her bed and asked if she was depressed. She thought about it and said, maybe. But when I asked her if she was the kind of woman who would just wither away because her husband has died, she said defiantly, of course not. She had a life to live.
We had lunch in her room as we watched the video of the mass and eulogies for Tito Chito in Manila two weeks earlier. I said I didn't realize how much he had done until the heard the eulogies that finally connected the dots in my memory of the stories he used to tell me about martial law, the military, the RAM, Cory Aquino and governance. Mafe said she too didn't really know what he was doing and the eulogies were new to her as well.
She got up soon after and we moved to Tito Chito's room where his yellow ceramic urn was displayed amid candles and flowers. On his bed was the Legion of Honor Award he received posthumously from President Noynoy Aquino for his exemplary service to country. WE talked about Tito Chito a lot.
Mafe ordered Halo Halo and sandwiches from Foping's and we chatted there with Gina, Ann Marie and Pia. George passed by show her the new tombstones he had made for Lolo and Lola's graves in Eden.
Then Mafe said it as time to go down to the living room, as Mike would be around soon. I held her hand as we went down the stairs. We then went straight for the couch where she lay down propped on pillows. I sat by her feet, massaging her legs which looked remarkably like my Mom's, as we talked like women, about our lives, loves, joys, heartaches, disappointments and dreams. Mafe shared her feelings openly, not mincing words, not leaving out painful details, but managing to be philosophical and smile all the way. She was in fact, matter-of-fact, not angry, bitter or cynical.
She was at peace with herself. And now that a part of her life was over, she looked forward to living the rest of her life in peace, doing what she loved most in the way she wanted.
We sat there for several hours, thick as thieves, talking in whispers about the trauma of past events, much of which we had already shared before, but she seemed to need to spill it out one more time, as some form of catharsis. Then she said, it was time to walk. Mike was coming and he would ask her if she had walked. I held her hand as we took the walkway between home base and Mike's house, chatting away as we walked, slowly, deliberately. When we got to the end of the walkway, she said she was tired and we sat down to rest. Then we walked again, this time a shorter distance. She said she was tired and rested at a round table, in the shadow of large blown up photos of Tito Chito displayed in the Bulwagan. Our story-telling went on until she stood up to go back go her couch where she again laid down.
At dinner, she sat with us at the big table but she did not touch her food and after a few minutes, she went back to the couch. She needed to rest. But we continued to talk. I left her at around nine pm, promising to see her again the following morning.
I went back at 9 AM after having breakfast with Gina, Mike and Gauss in the other house. Mike told me that my visit seemed to have done Mafe a lot of good. Whatever it was we talked about, it made her more energetic than she had been in a while. Mafe and I talked until 11 when she called everyone to lunch, because I had to leave the house by 12 to catch my flight home.
It was such a satisfying visit, so private and intimate. But when I left, I had a sinking feeling that it would not happen again. I was truly blessed because two days later, she was hospitalized for water in her lungs. And it's been downhill since then.
I went back in June with my siblings when Mike sounded the call that Mafe's health had taken a turn for the worse. She was having difficulty breathing on her own. She was intubated and in a makeshift ICU and all we could do was blow her kisses from behind a glass door. It was painful seeing her looking so uncomfortable and helpless, but she was still fiesty, resisting the infernal tube down her throat, and finally getting her demand met to have it removed in favor of a tracheotomy.
I had planned to see her in July but Lory dissuaded me saying that Mike and family needed the space to be with Mafe and to grief over their impending loss. So I dropped my plan until Gina called to say Mike said I should come.
I arrived on a Wednesday evening, saw Mafe from behind the glass door of her sterile sick room in home base, and broke down. This was not going to be easy. Visits with her were being regulated and I did not expect to be with her longer than five minutes a day. But again, I was blessed. After some visitors left on Thursday afternoon and the last one left on Friday, I was given practically free access to her.
The first time I went in on Thursday afternoon, I forgot to wear a mask. Mafe was restless and I could find nothing to say to her. I held her hand and told her I couldn't keep away and that I loved her. I sang her some old songs then I told the nurses to put on some music, because what is Mafe without music? She seemed to recognize me and she asked for Pia. Pia was still sick, Bebot told her. She'll come back when she is well. When I left the room, I broke down again.
On Friday morning, I went to Home Base bright and early, slipped into Mafe's room and held her hand for around 30 minutes, kissing it and holding it to my cheek. Later that morning, chatting with Mike, he told me about a type-written manuscript that Mafe had given him last year in San Francisco, urging him to read it. He didn't know its provenance but he said he read it on the plane back to Manila and he was quite impressed by it. I recognized the now-yellowed typewritten manuscript. Mafe had given me a set many years back but I barely read it.
It was a transcript of her conversations with Harry, her spirit guide and liaison with God. Sometime in the Seventies, through me, she met a group of women that was into 'psychism', a practice of meditation that I didn't understand, and this document of conversations with Harry, was the result of her practice. I browsed through it and realized that it contained Mafe's core beliefs, the basis of her spirituality. Excited, I asked Mike if I could read it to her. He told me to go ahead.
I showed Mafe the manuscript, asking if she recognized it. Her eyes lit up. I asked if she wanted me to read some of it to her. She raised an eyebrow in assent. Holding her hand, I began to read entries about love, pain, friendship, prayer, sharing God and carrying one's cross. She was agitated and began to stir, wanting to talk. I heard her struggle to say, "Ma...Ma..." I aksed, "Do you want Mike? I'll go get Mike." But she tightened her hold on my hand, indicating that I stay. The she cried, out loud, with a hoarse voice that came from deep in her being, "Have mercy!" And then she said it again, loud and clear, "Have mercy!"
When she calmed down, I asked if I should continue reading and she nodded. I read until she fell asleep. I loosened my hand from her grip and went out to look for Mike. Mike told me I was an instrument, and perhaps I was. Mafe seemed to be thirsting for Harry's guidance.
That afternoon, I went in with Pia, who was now pronounced well. I said, "Maf, look who's here. Miss na miss ka na nya kasi wala nang sumisigaw sa kanya." Mafe's eyes lit up and she gave us a half-smile. I sang her another song, 'Anima Cristi', my favorite prayer that I told her I prayed for her.
On Saturday morning, she was having a good day. She was awake and responsive, smiling a lot and winking. I told her about my realization that I had become my mother, her Ate, who seemed to be telling me what to do. I asked if I could sing her another song, this time, from Lory, who asked me to look up the words of 'Stay with me', the theme from The Cardinal, and sing it to her. My voice broke, but she didn't seem to mind.
To break the silence that followed, I told her I had another song for her, 'All of Me', which Pia said, was her favorite. This made her smile. Then I asked her if she wanted me to read more from Harry and she nodded. As I read to her, she fell asleep.
I sat there for a long time, holding her hand, kissing it, and just looking at her face, so peaceful in repose. She looked like a Misa. I saw my Mom in her stately brow. When she woke up, which was often, I chattered away. I told her that many people had texted, sending their love: June Lopez (wide smile), Mila Reyes (nod), Surf Reyes (nod), Willie Cruz (wide smile); Greg (eyes tightly closed); Poch Lozano (nod). Even my ex sends prayers, I added. To this, she gave me a wide conspiratorial grin.
I have not introduced anyone to Mafe who did not end up loving her.
I went back in later with Pia and we reminisced about my childhood when I thought she was a movie star. I wanted to grow up to be like her -- pretty, sexy, a good dresser, and so desirable. She had many admirers who came to visit her at home. Mafe seemed to enjoy our banter, following us with her eyes. I also told her that Gary had been calling Lory, asking about her, sending messages of love and prayers. She held my hand tightly and closed her eyes tight as well.
I told her I was leaving for Manila that afternoon, that I loved her and that I would continue to pray for her and with her. I thanked her for the love and everything she'd done for me -- the caring, the pleasure of her company, the many fun times, the secrets we shared, and when she helped me out in times of trouble. I told her I loved her and no one came close. I left knowing I would not see her alive again.
I have learned that since I left, she has became less communicative, that her system has begun to shut down. I thank God for the privilege of these timely and meaningful private visits with Mafe.
I already miss her, my Mafe, whom I will forever be grateful to for teaching me how to love well, and how to give unconditionally, with all my heart.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
How do I experience prayer?
Written for Pergola, SSC e-newsletter, June 2011 edition
When Mother Irene taught us the Jesus prayer at the seminar in Tagaytay, a number of us could not relate to it. We could not relate to the supplication in “Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me.” I felt that it challenged my entire relationship with the God of Love, that I was entirely comfortable with. My God was a laughing God, a friendly God, who had a sense of humor and could take a joke.
My favorite icon is a painting of the laughing Christ. It was painted by this priest who does really tacky portraits of Jesus as a cyclist, a rock star, a basketball player, and the like. But he also did this one of Christ laughing, His eyes dancing, which I love. It is the portrait of a comfortable presence in my life, my friend, Jesus.
You can take it or leave it, Mother Irene said of the Jesus prayer. It was just another form of prayer she was suggesting.
But days after the seminar, I found myself saying, ‘Jesus, son of God, have mercy on me!’ in many circumstances. When I am sad, angry, bored, harassed, tired, it seems right to say, Jesus, have mercy. When I am on the road in traffic, late for a meeting, or unprepared for a presentation, how appropriate it is to ask, “Jesus, Have mercy on me.’ And when I hear news of an accident, a fire, a death, any loss, how fitting it is to cry put, ‘Lord, Have mercy!’
My relationship with God is such that when I pray, I do not ask for anything specific, outside of enlightenment, discernment, understanding, compassion and strength in the face of adversity. I hesitate to ask for something specific, having been warned to be careful what you ask for. So, I have learned to say, not without trepidation – “Thy will be done”.
And He has always listened. He has answered my prayers again and again. When I am tempted to be resentful, frustrated or angry at Him for not seeming to hear me, I literally cry out for help. And help comes, not always in ways I expect, but it comes. Always.
I am helpless before God’s will so I do not fight it. It is a difficult plan --demanding, expensive, requiring total commitment, and some of my friends say, over and above the call of duty. But He has never left me in the lurch. When the fulfillment of His plan requires something I cannot provide or afford, I cry for help and something comes up to make it happen. He sometimes makes me go through hoops, but this is something I have gotten used to. I’ve learned to say, with a laugh, “Bring it on, Lord. It can’t be more difficult than it already is.”
I have this running conversation with God which, until lately, I did not realize was a form of prayer. In recent months, I have felt exhausted, drained, my soul dry. When I remembered to pray, I would recite the ones I memorized as a child – rote, perfunctory, meaningless. I was bored with my prayer life. I had no passion for my usual causes. I was on auto-pilot, pretending to be interested in my family, my friends, my work, but really just going through the motions. But my ever-faithful God was looking out for me. He made it possible for me to go to Tagaytay for the seminar on “Praying Our Heart’s Desire” with Mother Irene. It was just what this tired old soul needed.
God has always been faithful, even when I am not.
Meiling
16 April 2011
When Mother Irene taught us the Jesus prayer at the seminar in Tagaytay, a number of us could not relate to it. We could not relate to the supplication in “Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me.” I felt that it challenged my entire relationship with the God of Love, that I was entirely comfortable with. My God was a laughing God, a friendly God, who had a sense of humor and could take a joke.
My favorite icon is a painting of the laughing Christ. It was painted by this priest who does really tacky portraits of Jesus as a cyclist, a rock star, a basketball player, and the like. But he also did this one of Christ laughing, His eyes dancing, which I love. It is the portrait of a comfortable presence in my life, my friend, Jesus.
You can take it or leave it, Mother Irene said of the Jesus prayer. It was just another form of prayer she was suggesting.
But days after the seminar, I found myself saying, ‘Jesus, son of God, have mercy on me!’ in many circumstances. When I am sad, angry, bored, harassed, tired, it seems right to say, Jesus, have mercy. When I am on the road in traffic, late for a meeting, or unprepared for a presentation, how appropriate it is to ask, “Jesus, Have mercy on me.’ And when I hear news of an accident, a fire, a death, any loss, how fitting it is to cry put, ‘Lord, Have mercy!’
My relationship with God is such that when I pray, I do not ask for anything specific, outside of enlightenment, discernment, understanding, compassion and strength in the face of adversity. I hesitate to ask for something specific, having been warned to be careful what you ask for. So, I have learned to say, not without trepidation – “Thy will be done”.
And He has always listened. He has answered my prayers again and again. When I am tempted to be resentful, frustrated or angry at Him for not seeming to hear me, I literally cry out for help. And help comes, not always in ways I expect, but it comes. Always.
I am helpless before God’s will so I do not fight it. It is a difficult plan --demanding, expensive, requiring total commitment, and some of my friends say, over and above the call of duty. But He has never left me in the lurch. When the fulfillment of His plan requires something I cannot provide or afford, I cry for help and something comes up to make it happen. He sometimes makes me go through hoops, but this is something I have gotten used to. I’ve learned to say, with a laugh, “Bring it on, Lord. It can’t be more difficult than it already is.”
I have this running conversation with God which, until lately, I did not realize was a form of prayer. In recent months, I have felt exhausted, drained, my soul dry. When I remembered to pray, I would recite the ones I memorized as a child – rote, perfunctory, meaningless. I was bored with my prayer life. I had no passion for my usual causes. I was on auto-pilot, pretending to be interested in my family, my friends, my work, but really just going through the motions. But my ever-faithful God was looking out for me. He made it possible for me to go to Tagaytay for the seminar on “Praying Our Heart’s Desire” with Mother Irene. It was just what this tired old soul needed.
God has always been faithful, even when I am not.
Meiling
16 April 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Two Amazing Women
21 May 2011
I recently visited with two women who have influenced me greatly. They're not exactly the mothers I would have wanted to have; they're not even surrogate moms to me. They are women who have taught me about life and living it well, and love and giving it freely. These women are not saints. They are people with feet of clay, but their hearts are big and golden, and their tents are as large as their hearts. I know there is always room for me there.
Both are elderly and recently widowed. I hesitated to be in touch so soon after the deaths of their husbands, feeling that they might want some solitude, and knowing they have both not been really well. But when I did go to see them, I asked myself why I stayed away so long.
I met Gilda when I was a young editorial assistant at the Chronicle. She came often to deliver her articles to the desk across the room where Eggie Apostol and Doris Nuyda ruled over the women's section. She was beautiful and funny in a loud way. I observed her from behind my desk, fascinated by this older woman who had so much life in her, she seemed young enough to be my contemporary. I thought she could be a friend, but naaah, she was too high up there. Gilda Cordero Fernando was a famous short story writer, and I was just a recent graduate, an English major, but a nothing sill in journalism.
When my editor started giving me writing assignments, Gilda began to notice me, sending word through Eggie that she thought my last article was good, or writing little notes of encouragement urging me to keep up the good work. Soon, she was inviting me to lunch. What an adventure she was! She had this antique shop in Malate she called Junque where we hung out between long meals peppered with girl talk. She was a persistent interviewer -- she wanted to know me inside out. But she was also a generous sharer. She told me about aspects of her life that I didn't realize existed in the generation before mine. She sought my advise and dispensed hers copiously.
She told me that I must continue to write because, she said, I was good at it.
Gilda would come early in the day to my apartment in Teachers' Village and with a guilty smile and her irresistible charm, seek "permission" from my husband to kidnap me for a day. And the girl talk between two women 17 years apart in age would commence, unending until she brought me home at dinner time. Ed was ecstatic about Gilda's interest in me. He told me that when we got old, he wanted me to be like her. I smiled. If he only knew what women really talked about! But I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to grow old.
Because Gilda is Peter Pan, a woman who refuses to grow old. She has re-invented herself several times, her mind racing ahead of everybody's, creating books, literature, fashion, and lately, art, starting trends that have astounded her audience at every turn. Recently, at 81, she mounted an art exhibit that looked like the work of a woman half her age.
At her husband's wake, she told me that someone I introduced her to decades ago had come the day before and re-introduced himself to her as my friend. She wondered what made a ghost from the very distant past, practically a stranger, had come to see her after all these years. But I understood. Gilda is irresistible. He just had to have another fix.
Mafe is my ninang. She was my mother's half-sister who was 12 years old when I was born. It is said that she claimed me from birth, insisted that she should be made my ninang. When I was around six or seven, she and her widowed mother, my grandfather's second wife, came to live with us. Mom had just bought four matching rattan beds for her four daughters -- a luxury in our family of ten where the smaller kids, including myself, slept mostly on mats on the floor, cuddled up to Inay or Nuna, who smelled faintly of sweet tobacco leaves, or shared the stinky blue bed in our parents' room reserved for when we were sick and needed overnight attention.
When Mafe came, I felt I as in the presence of a goddess. Se was ravishingly beautiful, sophisticated and stylish. She dressed in figure-hugging clothes, wore high heels and red lipstick. I thought she was a movie star -- she looked like Marilyn Monroe -- and my brother Gabby and I looked for her picture in the TEX cards we bought daily at the nearby sari-sari store. We could not understand why our beautiful aunt was not included in the constellation of actors featured in those cards.
She had a slew of admirers who came to visit, or fetched her on dates. Some were invited to join the family for lunch. Mafe had a life and wanted to grow up and be her. But I had a problem with her. She got my bed. When she moved into the girls' room, I had to move out -- back to the mat on the floor, or the stinky blue bed. I remember resenting this, but I don't remember what she keeps laughing about to this day -- that I griped about this a lot and when they got married, Tito Chito told me, 'Now, you can have your bed back.'
Mafe is everyone's favorite aunt. All her nephews and nieces feel that we are her favorite. That's because her loving arms extend as far as they are needed. Her generosity is legend and I, like many others, have been blessed by this. But my relationship with Mafe goes beyond my material needs or hers. We are truly steadfast, trusting friends. Cuddled in her over-sized bed in Foster City, driving around Eden in her golf cart, or having a sumptuous meal in a restaurant, we have shared our life stories, talking, weeping, laughing out loud, teasing, being silly, or seriously giving and seeking advice. We have bonded as women who love, trust and respect each other -- which is for me, a rare gift from another generation.
Mafe is all love. She may be cantankerous and bratty at times, for she is undeniably a spoiled girl, but I don't know anyone else who has her capacity to love.
Seeing them both shortly after they were widowed, I found them to be less self-absorbed than I expected recent widows to be. Gilda, still ravishing at 81, didn't skip a beat, picking up from our last merienda together, she teased, scolded, advised, flattered, charmed, like she has always done. And Mafe jumped right back into our old intimacy, sharing feelings, shedding tears and dissolving into laughter, like we also have.
I have been blessed with the gift of Gilda and Mafe. I have so wanted to be like them but when God created them, she threw away the mold. They are each one-of-a-kind -- amazing, fascinating, wonderful women. I bask in their reflected glory, grateful for the friendship and affection that have enriched my existence.
I recently visited with two women who have influenced me greatly. They're not exactly the mothers I would have wanted to have; they're not even surrogate moms to me. They are women who have taught me about life and living it well, and love and giving it freely. These women are not saints. They are people with feet of clay, but their hearts are big and golden, and their tents are as large as their hearts. I know there is always room for me there.
Both are elderly and recently widowed. I hesitated to be in touch so soon after the deaths of their husbands, feeling that they might want some solitude, and knowing they have both not been really well. But when I did go to see them, I asked myself why I stayed away so long.
I met Gilda when I was a young editorial assistant at the Chronicle. She came often to deliver her articles to the desk across the room where Eggie Apostol and Doris Nuyda ruled over the women's section. She was beautiful and funny in a loud way. I observed her from behind my desk, fascinated by this older woman who had so much life in her, she seemed young enough to be my contemporary. I thought she could be a friend, but naaah, she was too high up there. Gilda Cordero Fernando was a famous short story writer, and I was just a recent graduate, an English major, but a nothing sill in journalism.
When my editor started giving me writing assignments, Gilda began to notice me, sending word through Eggie that she thought my last article was good, or writing little notes of encouragement urging me to keep up the good work. Soon, she was inviting me to lunch. What an adventure she was! She had this antique shop in Malate she called Junque where we hung out between long meals peppered with girl talk. She was a persistent interviewer -- she wanted to know me inside out. But she was also a generous sharer. She told me about aspects of her life that I didn't realize existed in the generation before mine. She sought my advise and dispensed hers copiously.
She told me that I must continue to write because, she said, I was good at it.
Gilda would come early in the day to my apartment in Teachers' Village and with a guilty smile and her irresistible charm, seek "permission" from my husband to kidnap me for a day. And the girl talk between two women 17 years apart in age would commence, unending until she brought me home at dinner time. Ed was ecstatic about Gilda's interest in me. He told me that when we got old, he wanted me to be like her. I smiled. If he only knew what women really talked about! But I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to grow old.
Because Gilda is Peter Pan, a woman who refuses to grow old. She has re-invented herself several times, her mind racing ahead of everybody's, creating books, literature, fashion, and lately, art, starting trends that have astounded her audience at every turn. Recently, at 81, she mounted an art exhibit that looked like the work of a woman half her age.
At her husband's wake, she told me that someone I introduced her to decades ago had come the day before and re-introduced himself to her as my friend. She wondered what made a ghost from the very distant past, practically a stranger, had come to see her after all these years. But I understood. Gilda is irresistible. He just had to have another fix.
Mafe is my ninang. She was my mother's half-sister who was 12 years old when I was born. It is said that she claimed me from birth, insisted that she should be made my ninang. When I was around six or seven, she and her widowed mother, my grandfather's second wife, came to live with us. Mom had just bought four matching rattan beds for her four daughters -- a luxury in our family of ten where the smaller kids, including myself, slept mostly on mats on the floor, cuddled up to Inay or Nuna, who smelled faintly of sweet tobacco leaves, or shared the stinky blue bed in our parents' room reserved for when we were sick and needed overnight attention.
When Mafe came, I felt I as in the presence of a goddess. Se was ravishingly beautiful, sophisticated and stylish. She dressed in figure-hugging clothes, wore high heels and red lipstick. I thought she was a movie star -- she looked like Marilyn Monroe -- and my brother Gabby and I looked for her picture in the TEX cards we bought daily at the nearby sari-sari store. We could not understand why our beautiful aunt was not included in the constellation of actors featured in those cards.
She had a slew of admirers who came to visit, or fetched her on dates. Some were invited to join the family for lunch. Mafe had a life and wanted to grow up and be her. But I had a problem with her. She got my bed. When she moved into the girls' room, I had to move out -- back to the mat on the floor, or the stinky blue bed. I remember resenting this, but I don't remember what she keeps laughing about to this day -- that I griped about this a lot and when they got married, Tito Chito told me, 'Now, you can have your bed back.'
Mafe is everyone's favorite aunt. All her nephews and nieces feel that we are her favorite. That's because her loving arms extend as far as they are needed. Her generosity is legend and I, like many others, have been blessed by this. But my relationship with Mafe goes beyond my material needs or hers. We are truly steadfast, trusting friends. Cuddled in her over-sized bed in Foster City, driving around Eden in her golf cart, or having a sumptuous meal in a restaurant, we have shared our life stories, talking, weeping, laughing out loud, teasing, being silly, or seriously giving and seeking advice. We have bonded as women who love, trust and respect each other -- which is for me, a rare gift from another generation.
Mafe is all love. She may be cantankerous and bratty at times, for she is undeniably a spoiled girl, but I don't know anyone else who has her capacity to love.
Seeing them both shortly after they were widowed, I found them to be less self-absorbed than I expected recent widows to be. Gilda, still ravishing at 81, didn't skip a beat, picking up from our last merienda together, she teased, scolded, advised, flattered, charmed, like she has always done. And Mafe jumped right back into our old intimacy, sharing feelings, shedding tears and dissolving into laughter, like we also have.
I have been blessed with the gift of Gilda and Mafe. I have so wanted to be like them but when God created them, she threw away the mold. They are each one-of-a-kind -- amazing, fascinating, wonderful women. I bask in their reflected glory, grateful for the friendship and affection that have enriched my existence.
Two Amazing Women
I recently spent quality time with two women who have influenced me greatly. They're not exactly the mothers I would have wanted to have; they're not even surrogate moms to me. They are women who have taught me about life and living it well, and love and giving it unconditionally. These women are not saints. They are people with feet of clay, but their hearts are big and golden, and their tents are as large as their hearts. I know that there is always room for me there.
Both are elderly and recently widowed. I hesitated to be in touch so soon after the deaths of their husbands, feeling that they might want some solitude, and knowing they have both not been really well. But when I finally went to see them, I asked myself why I stayed away so long.
I met Gilda when I was a young editorial assistant at the Chronicle. She came often to deliver her articles to the desk across the room where Eggie Apostol and Doris Nuyda ruled over the women's section. She was beautiful and funny in a loud way. I observed her from behind my desk, fascinated by this older woman who had so much life in her, she seemed young enough to be my contemporary. I thought she could be a friend, but naaah, she was too high up there. Gilda Cordero Fernando was a famous short story writer, and I was just a recent graduate, an English major, but a nothing sill in journalism.
When my editor started giving me writing assignments, Gilda began to notice me, sending word through Eggie that she thought my last article was good, or writing little notes of encouragement urging me to keep up the good work. Soon, she was inviting me to lunch. What an adventure she was! She had this antique shop in Malate she called Junque where we hung out between long meals peppered with girl talk. She was a persistent interviewer -- she wanted to know me inside out. But she was also a generous sharer. She told me about aspects of her life that I didn't realize existed in the generation before mine. She sought my advise and dispensed hers copiously.
She told me that I must continue to write because, she said, I was good at it.
Gilda would come early in the day to my apartment in Teachers' Village and with a guilty smile and her irresistible charm, seek "permission" from my husband to kidnap me for a day. And the girl talk between two women 17 years apart in age would commence, unending until she brought me home at dinner time. Ed was ecstatic about Gilda's interest in me. He told me that when we got old, he wanted me to be like her. I smiled. If he only knew what women really talked about! But I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to grow old.
Because Gilda is Peter Pan, a woman who refuses to grow old. She has re-invented herself several times, her mind racing ahead of everybody's, creating books, literature, fashion, and lately, art, starting trends that have astounded her audience at every turn. Recently, at 81, she mounted an art exhibit that looked like the work of a woman half her age.
At her husband's wake, she told me that someone I introduced her to decades ago had come the day before and re-introduced himself to her as my friend. She wondered what made a ghost from the very distant past, practically a stranger, had come to see her after all these years. But I understood. Gilda is irresistible. He just had to have another fix.
Mafe is my ninang. She was my mother's half-sister who was 12 years old when I was born. It is said that she claimed me from birth, insisted that she should be made my ninang. When I was around six or seven, she and her widowed mother, my grandfather's second wife, came to live with us. Mom had just bought four matching rattan beds for her four daughters -- a luxury in our family of ten where the smaller kids, including myself, slept mostly on mats on the floor, cuddled up to Inay or Nuna, who smelled faintly of sweet tobacco leaves, or shared the stinky blue bed in our parents' room reserved for when we were sick and needed overnight attention.
When Mafe came, I felt I as in the presence of a goddess. Se was ravishingly beautiful, sophisticated and stylish. She dressed in figure-hugging clothes, wore high heels and red lipstick. I thought she was a movie star -- she looked like Marilyn Monroe -- and my brother Gabby and I looked for her picture in the TEX cards we bought daily at the nearby sari-sari store. We could not understand why our beautiful aunt was not included in the constellation of actors featured in those cards.
She had a slew of admirers who came to visit, or fetched her on dates. Some were invited to join the family for lunch. Mafe had a life and wanted to grow up and be her. But I had a problem with her. She got my bed. When she moved into the girls' room, I had to move out -- back to the mat on the floor, or the stinky blue bed. I remember resenting this, but I don't remember what she keeps laughing about to this day -- that I griped about this a lot and when they got married, Tito Chito told me, 'Now, yo can have your bed back.'
Mafe is everyone's favorite aunt. All her nephews and nieces feel that we are her favorite. That's because her loving arms extend as far as they are needed. Her generosity is legend and I, like many others, have been blessed by this. But my relationship with Mafe goes beyond my material needs or hers. We are truly steadfast, trusting friends. Cuddled in her over-sized bed in Foster City, driving around Eden in her golf cart, or sharing a sumptuous meal in a restaurant, we have shared our life stories, talking, weeping, laughing out loud, teasing, being silly, or seriously giving and seeking advice. We have bonded as women who love, trust and respect each other -- which is for me, a rare gift from another generation.
Mafe is all love. She may be cantankerous and bratty at times, for she is undeniably a spoiled girl, but I don't know anyone else who has her capacity to love.
Seeing them both shortly after they were widowed, I found them to be less self-absorbed than I expected recent widows to be. Gilda, still ravishing at 81, didn't skip a beat, picking up from our last merienda together, she teased, scolded, advised, flattered, charmed, like she has always done. And Mafe jumped right back into our old intimacy, sharing feelings, shedding tears and dissolving into laughter, like we also have.
I have been blessed with the gift of Gilda and Mafe. I have so wanted to be like them but when God created them, she threw away the mold. They are each one-of-a-kind -- amazing, fascinating, wonderful women. I bask in their reflected glory, grateful for the friendship and affection that have enriched my existence.
Both are elderly and recently widowed. I hesitated to be in touch so soon after the deaths of their husbands, feeling that they might want some solitude, and knowing they have both not been really well. But when I finally went to see them, I asked myself why I stayed away so long.
I met Gilda when I was a young editorial assistant at the Chronicle. She came often to deliver her articles to the desk across the room where Eggie Apostol and Doris Nuyda ruled over the women's section. She was beautiful and funny in a loud way. I observed her from behind my desk, fascinated by this older woman who had so much life in her, she seemed young enough to be my contemporary. I thought she could be a friend, but naaah, she was too high up there. Gilda Cordero Fernando was a famous short story writer, and I was just a recent graduate, an English major, but a nothing sill in journalism.
When my editor started giving me writing assignments, Gilda began to notice me, sending word through Eggie that she thought my last article was good, or writing little notes of encouragement urging me to keep up the good work. Soon, she was inviting me to lunch. What an adventure she was! She had this antique shop in Malate she called Junque where we hung out between long meals peppered with girl talk. She was a persistent interviewer -- she wanted to know me inside out. But she was also a generous sharer. She told me about aspects of her life that I didn't realize existed in the generation before mine. She sought my advise and dispensed hers copiously.
She told me that I must continue to write because, she said, I was good at it.
Gilda would come early in the day to my apartment in Teachers' Village and with a guilty smile and her irresistible charm, seek "permission" from my husband to kidnap me for a day. And the girl talk between two women 17 years apart in age would commence, unending until she brought me home at dinner time. Ed was ecstatic about Gilda's interest in me. He told me that when we got old, he wanted me to be like her. I smiled. If he only knew what women really talked about! But I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to grow old.
Because Gilda is Peter Pan, a woman who refuses to grow old. She has re-invented herself several times, her mind racing ahead of everybody's, creating books, literature, fashion, and lately, art, starting trends that have astounded her audience at every turn. Recently, at 81, she mounted an art exhibit that looked like the work of a woman half her age.
At her husband's wake, she told me that someone I introduced her to decades ago had come the day before and re-introduced himself to her as my friend. She wondered what made a ghost from the very distant past, practically a stranger, had come to see her after all these years. But I understood. Gilda is irresistible. He just had to have another fix.
Mafe is my ninang. She was my mother's half-sister who was 12 years old when I was born. It is said that she claimed me from birth, insisted that she should be made my ninang. When I was around six or seven, she and her widowed mother, my grandfather's second wife, came to live with us. Mom had just bought four matching rattan beds for her four daughters -- a luxury in our family of ten where the smaller kids, including myself, slept mostly on mats on the floor, cuddled up to Inay or Nuna, who smelled faintly of sweet tobacco leaves, or shared the stinky blue bed in our parents' room reserved for when we were sick and needed overnight attention.
When Mafe came, I felt I as in the presence of a goddess. Se was ravishingly beautiful, sophisticated and stylish. She dressed in figure-hugging clothes, wore high heels and red lipstick. I thought she was a movie star -- she looked like Marilyn Monroe -- and my brother Gabby and I looked for her picture in the TEX cards we bought daily at the nearby sari-sari store. We could not understand why our beautiful aunt was not included in the constellation of actors featured in those cards.
She had a slew of admirers who came to visit, or fetched her on dates. Some were invited to join the family for lunch. Mafe had a life and wanted to grow up and be her. But I had a problem with her. She got my bed. When she moved into the girls' room, I had to move out -- back to the mat on the floor, or the stinky blue bed. I remember resenting this, but I don't remember what she keeps laughing about to this day -- that I griped about this a lot and when they got married, Tito Chito told me, 'Now, yo can have your bed back.'
Mafe is everyone's favorite aunt. All her nephews and nieces feel that we are her favorite. That's because her loving arms extend as far as they are needed. Her generosity is legend and I, like many others, have been blessed by this. But my relationship with Mafe goes beyond my material needs or hers. We are truly steadfast, trusting friends. Cuddled in her over-sized bed in Foster City, driving around Eden in her golf cart, or sharing a sumptuous meal in a restaurant, we have shared our life stories, talking, weeping, laughing out loud, teasing, being silly, or seriously giving and seeking advice. We have bonded as women who love, trust and respect each other -- which is for me, a rare gift from another generation.
Mafe is all love. She may be cantankerous and bratty at times, for she is undeniably a spoiled girl, but I don't know anyone else who has her capacity to love.
Seeing them both shortly after they were widowed, I found them to be less self-absorbed than I expected recent widows to be. Gilda, still ravishing at 81, didn't skip a beat, picking up from our last merienda together, she teased, scolded, advised, flattered, charmed, like she has always done. And Mafe jumped right back into our old intimacy, sharing feelings, shedding tears and dissolving into laughter, like we also have.
I have been blessed with the gift of Gilda and Mafe. I have so wanted to be like them but when God created them, she threw away the mold. They are each one-of-a-kind -- amazing, fascinating, wonderful women. I bask in their reflected glory, grateful for the friendship and affection that have enriched my existence.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
27 March 2011
Pathetic.
I spend hours grazing through facebook, lurking in other people's pages and entries, looking...for what? I don't know. There are causes galore in Facebook and I do resonate with some of them. But i can't seem to develop enough interest in them to get angry or sign a statement, or even share them with others. I'm in a funk, a pretty deep one.
Facebook is a drug. It brings you nowhere but it provides some kind of relief, in this case, from the nothingness of a day of no work, no friends, no funds. It is a virtual barkada or even workplace that doesn't even know I exist.
I look for people to chat with but no one really interests me. Or I'm afraid I would be bothering them -- everyone seems so busy, so preoccupied with their own activities and I just sit here looking busy, but really, just hanging out, hoping the angst that's eating me up would go away.
It will be a long summer. I hope something comes up soon. I have several pots on the fire but they haven't bubbled up yet, if they ever do. I need to be occupied. I need to focus on something. I need to earn.
Universe, help. Dad, please do something. I need some good news that will tide this family over. I know it will come. God has never let me down. The jobs do come in and I make the necessary money to keep things going at home. I just have to patient, visualize the solutions, and believe.
I spend hours grazing through facebook, lurking in other people's pages and entries, looking...for what? I don't know. There are causes galore in Facebook and I do resonate with some of them. But i can't seem to develop enough interest in them to get angry or sign a statement, or even share them with others. I'm in a funk, a pretty deep one.
Facebook is a drug. It brings you nowhere but it provides some kind of relief, in this case, from the nothingness of a day of no work, no friends, no funds. It is a virtual barkada or even workplace that doesn't even know I exist.
I look for people to chat with but no one really interests me. Or I'm afraid I would be bothering them -- everyone seems so busy, so preoccupied with their own activities and I just sit here looking busy, but really, just hanging out, hoping the angst that's eating me up would go away.
It will be a long summer. I hope something comes up soon. I have several pots on the fire but they haven't bubbled up yet, if they ever do. I need to be occupied. I need to focus on something. I need to earn.
Universe, help. Dad, please do something. I need some good news that will tide this family over. I know it will come. God has never let me down. The jobs do come in and I make the necessary money to keep things going at home. I just have to patient, visualize the solutions, and believe.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
dumbing down -- 6 march 2010
i have had problems with the spoken word lately. in the middle of a spoken sentence, i have often had to stop to find the right word. and often, i have had to resort to tagalog to express what i mean. i suspect this has had to do with the fact that i've been editing other people's work for too long. i have had to acquire their language, the cadence of their sentences, the idiosyncracies of their expression, in order to edit them faithfully, while preserving the integrity of their manuscript. while this is legitimate professional work, it has had the effect of dumbing me down, so to speak.
i haven't even had the energy to write my own stuff, or to read a book. at the end of the day, my eyes are bleary from editing other people's work, and outside of it, i cannot focus on the printed word for too long. so i've been watching TV sitcoms to relax and fall asleep to.
talk of dumbing down.
last friday, i was invited to a birthday dinner in dasmarinas village. it was karina bolasco's birthday party that she was co-celebrating with linda panlilio. apparently, linda has been running a kind of salon at her place where the literati are welcome and where they feel right at home. not being a literary writer, i had no idea this existed. so when i got the invite saying karina and linda invite you, i had to ask, who is linda?
when i walked into linda's parlor with no idea what to expect, i felt a moment of panic seeing a roomful of people, half of who were new to me. and as the rest of the guests streamed in, i realized i was at a party of literary writers -- poets, novelists with literary awards casually tucked in their back pockets. how many of them had i read? embarrassingly, only one. i hoped that i wouldn't be asked, or that there would be no discussions about the merits of anyone's work!
but the company was warm and accepting, and fun. the conversation was thankfully mundane. i didn't stand out like a sore thumb or wilt like an abandoned plant in a corner. there was enough interest in me, the new person in what seemed like a tight group. feasting on bleu cheese and salami and sangria and wine, they wanted to know about my brother jim, his latest projects, his tussle on tweeter with Gringo. such fan-like concerns from a supposedly erudite group!
i felt right at home. And to my surprise, words -- the right ones -- simply floated seamlessly out of my mouth. i wasn't trying to be smart or erudite, i thought i was just being myself, but that night, i probably found a part of myself that i hadn't been in touch with for a while -- my long-untapped thinking, creative self. it was delightful hearing the verbs, nouns and adjectives tumbling out of my mouth like musical notes. for once in a long long while, i wasn't grasping helplessly for words. It was like breathing pure, clean air.
later in the evening, some of us gathered around a grand piano where the pianist who seemed to know every song ever written, made it easy for even non-singers to reach every note. here i felt i had a slight edge over most of the talent in the room.
i must remember to thank karina for including me in her exclusive guest list. knowing her, i think she must have a plan in her head to rescue me from the dreariness of editing mode and bring me back to the thrill of creativity as I recover my own voice. i have a long ways to go. i still have my editing job that i think i'm good at. but i now know how much i need to nurture that part of me that has been repressed for so long.
now that hard part begins.
i haven't even had the energy to write my own stuff, or to read a book. at the end of the day, my eyes are bleary from editing other people's work, and outside of it, i cannot focus on the printed word for too long. so i've been watching TV sitcoms to relax and fall asleep to.
talk of dumbing down.
last friday, i was invited to a birthday dinner in dasmarinas village. it was karina bolasco's birthday party that she was co-celebrating with linda panlilio. apparently, linda has been running a kind of salon at her place where the literati are welcome and where they feel right at home. not being a literary writer, i had no idea this existed. so when i got the invite saying karina and linda invite you, i had to ask, who is linda?
when i walked into linda's parlor with no idea what to expect, i felt a moment of panic seeing a roomful of people, half of who were new to me. and as the rest of the guests streamed in, i realized i was at a party of literary writers -- poets, novelists with literary awards casually tucked in their back pockets. how many of them had i read? embarrassingly, only one. i hoped that i wouldn't be asked, or that there would be no discussions about the merits of anyone's work!
but the company was warm and accepting, and fun. the conversation was thankfully mundane. i didn't stand out like a sore thumb or wilt like an abandoned plant in a corner. there was enough interest in me, the new person in what seemed like a tight group. feasting on bleu cheese and salami and sangria and wine, they wanted to know about my brother jim, his latest projects, his tussle on tweeter with Gringo. such fan-like concerns from a supposedly erudite group!
i felt right at home. And to my surprise, words -- the right ones -- simply floated seamlessly out of my mouth. i wasn't trying to be smart or erudite, i thought i was just being myself, but that night, i probably found a part of myself that i hadn't been in touch with for a while -- my long-untapped thinking, creative self. it was delightful hearing the verbs, nouns and adjectives tumbling out of my mouth like musical notes. for once in a long long while, i wasn't grasping helplessly for words. It was like breathing pure, clean air.
later in the evening, some of us gathered around a grand piano where the pianist who seemed to know every song ever written, made it easy for even non-singers to reach every note. here i felt i had a slight edge over most of the talent in the room.
i must remember to thank karina for including me in her exclusive guest list. knowing her, i think she must have a plan in her head to rescue me from the dreariness of editing mode and bring me back to the thrill of creativity as I recover my own voice. i have a long ways to go. i still have my editing job that i think i'm good at. but i now know how much i need to nurture that part of me that has been repressed for so long.
now that hard part begins.
Friday, December 10, 2010
December 10, 2010
Home visit, part 1
I'm not used to this. To be home and not working, with no deadlines to meet. I am a working stff who doesn't know how to relax. But I've also gotten used to my space, my privacy, my solitude and this has been intense family time for me. One of these days, I'll get Poch to kidnap me for a day, just to gete my bearings back.
It is also an odd arrangement to have Edmund around all the time. And he hasn't exactly been pleasant. Plus, my money is running out fast. In fact, everyone's money is running out fast.
But I am actually happy to have Monica home with the kids. It is a good thing they have a condo to stay in -- thanks heaps, Ed Morato! -- or it would be really be a tight squeeze here at home. It already is, most of the day when they're all here.
Tomorrow, we're going out, I still don't know where. We'll take a drive somewhere pleasant. Thanks to Poch Lozano, we have access to a large van so we can travel together in one vehicle.
Maya is such a delight. A patient, happy child, the smilingest little girl in the world. I love it when she sleeps on my chest. Its the sweetest thing.
I'm not used to this. To be home and not working, with no deadlines to meet. I am a working stff who doesn't know how to relax. But I've also gotten used to my space, my privacy, my solitude and this has been intense family time for me. One of these days, I'll get Poch to kidnap me for a day, just to gete my bearings back.
It is also an odd arrangement to have Edmund around all the time. And he hasn't exactly been pleasant. Plus, my money is running out fast. In fact, everyone's money is running out fast.
But I am actually happy to have Monica home with the kids. It is a good thing they have a condo to stay in -- thanks heaps, Ed Morato! -- or it would be really be a tight squeeze here at home. It already is, most of the day when they're all here.
Tomorrow, we're going out, I still don't know where. We'll take a drive somewhere pleasant. Thanks to Poch Lozano, we have access to a large van so we can travel together in one vehicle.
Maya is such a delight. A patient, happy child, the smilingest little girl in the world. I love it when she sleeps on my chest. Its the sweetest thing.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
24 November 2010
Yesterday, I was in the presence of goodness and it affected me so deeply, I was teary-eyed all throughout.
It was Howard Dee's 80th birthday, and I was privileged to be there. Viel texted me on Monday afternoon inviting me to the mass and lunch the next day. I dropped everything to be at San Jose Seminary for 11:30 am mass followed by lunch.
It was such a loving celebration of a life lived fully and well by a man so humble and compassionate, and who is so palpably close to God. Fr. Arevalo spoke of Howard Dee's five friends -- God, Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Francis of Assisi, St. Joseph, and his wife Betty. Such a wondrous life he has had, totally dedicated to his God, country, people and family. And I am so privileged to have known him and worked with him and learned fom him for the past 18 years.
At the lunch, Betty Dee told us about the life of her husband. He was the fifth of 11chldren, not born to wealth and of poor health. When he was courting her, he said, he had spent the first 20 years olf his life learning, and would spend the next 20 working. And the rest of his life, he would spend in the service of God and country. And that is exactly how he has lived his life.
Betty spoke about the three women in Howard Dee's life, according to the late Cardinal Sin. He said the first was Mary, the second Cory, and Betty only came third. She laughed saying, it's ok as long as I'm not number four! They've been married 52 years and this was the first time Howard had so many people come on his birthday. And the only way this could be possible was they kept it a secret from him.
It was good to be there -- hearing mass at the chapel in San Jose, listening to Fr. Arevalo, and just watching Howard Dee sit with his head bowed, his eyes closed tight, as if in struggle with himself whether or not to accept the kind and admiring words of his friend at the pulpit. It was just what I needed. To be in the presence of such goodness was to be refreshed, to quench the thirst that was killing my soul, to be in touch with that part of me that has been lying dormant, unreachable to my cluttered mind and heart.
Thank you, Lord, for the gift of Howard Dee in my life. And for others whom You have allowed me to encounter and who have brought me closer to you -- Gasty Ortigas, Fr. Arevalo, Cory Aquino, Rapa Lopa, Sister Andy, Fr. Joel Tabora, Eva Galvey. There are many others You have sent my way just when I needed what they had to give. By their presence in my life, I know that You love me.
It was Howard Dee's 80th birthday, and I was privileged to be there. Viel texted me on Monday afternoon inviting me to the mass and lunch the next day. I dropped everything to be at San Jose Seminary for 11:30 am mass followed by lunch.
It was such a loving celebration of a life lived fully and well by a man so humble and compassionate, and who is so palpably close to God. Fr. Arevalo spoke of Howard Dee's five friends -- God, Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Francis of Assisi, St. Joseph, and his wife Betty. Such a wondrous life he has had, totally dedicated to his God, country, people and family. And I am so privileged to have known him and worked with him and learned fom him for the past 18 years.
At the lunch, Betty Dee told us about the life of her husband. He was the fifth of 11chldren, not born to wealth and of poor health. When he was courting her, he said, he had spent the first 20 years olf his life learning, and would spend the next 20 working. And the rest of his life, he would spend in the service of God and country. And that is exactly how he has lived his life.
Betty spoke about the three women in Howard Dee's life, according to the late Cardinal Sin. He said the first was Mary, the second Cory, and Betty only came third. She laughed saying, it's ok as long as I'm not number four! They've been married 52 years and this was the first time Howard had so many people come on his birthday. And the only way this could be possible was they kept it a secret from him.
It was good to be there -- hearing mass at the chapel in San Jose, listening to Fr. Arevalo, and just watching Howard Dee sit with his head bowed, his eyes closed tight, as if in struggle with himself whether or not to accept the kind and admiring words of his friend at the pulpit. It was just what I needed. To be in the presence of such goodness was to be refreshed, to quench the thirst that was killing my soul, to be in touch with that part of me that has been lying dormant, unreachable to my cluttered mind and heart.
Thank you, Lord, for the gift of Howard Dee in my life. And for others whom You have allowed me to encounter and who have brought me closer to you -- Gasty Ortigas, Fr. Arevalo, Cory Aquino, Rapa Lopa, Sister Andy, Fr. Joel Tabora, Eva Galvey. There are many others You have sent my way just when I needed what they had to give. By their presence in my life, I know that You love me.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
22 November 2010
I woke up at 4 am. I knew this would happen since i went to bed at 930 last night. I tried to read but I couldn't finish a page. Didn't even bother to turn on the TV. I just drifted into sleep.
And when I woke up, my mind was full of details -- bills to be paid, budgetting for the holidays, my meetings this week, and preparing for Monica's arrival on December 4. Bring bed sheets to borrowed condo, buy toiletires and breakfast food. And the logistics of moving her brood about -- she's arriving with a baby and two young boys, with stroller and luggage. Should I try and get a pass to help her get through the baggage area and customs? Details. Details. Am I a worry wart or what?
Call Rapa to ask Bodet for a NAIA pass.
Call Ed Mo to ask for key to condo.
Tell Poch we're picking up his van at 3 PM on December 4.
Finish all my deadlnes before December 4.
I have listed down all my immediate tasks, hoping I can get them all done in time. Before Monica arrives, I have to get the PBSP write-ups and Bei's request, and the Bayan brochure out of the way. I'll gt them done. I work best on a deadline.
Meanwhile, its getting light outside. In Mandaluyong where I live, the cocks start crowing at around 2 am. But strangely, they quiet down at around 330 until 430. Then the chorus resumes. I've gotten used to it. The crowing no longer wakes me. It is a given in a neighborhood as tightly packed as this.
It is the yapping dogs that I cannot stand. I think if you own a dog, you must see to it that it is comfortable so it doesn't inconvenience your neighbors. One morning, I awoke to the incessant yelping of a dog who was obviously in need of some attention. It was the dog of the neghbor downstairs who was left outside for the night. I wouldn't kill the dog but I could see myself strangling my neighbor for inflicting such cruelty on an animal.
Speaking of dogs, I have just realized that I love Ice Tea, our scrappy little Aspin at home. In Sydney, I fell in love with Jack, but it was some kind of forbidden love since he was under disciplinary action -- meaning he was undergoing strict training under my son-in-law with rules of behaviour that I tended to violate -- and he wasn't bathed too often and so I got really dirty and smelly when I played with him. But Jack is a handsome black lab, Ice Tea is not. He's a common dog, wih traces of some pedigree watered-down through several generations of cross-breeding, probably in some back alley. His body is overly long and his front paws toe in. But its his dopey ears that get me every time.
All my life, my experience with dogs has been negative. I hated -- make that feared -- dogs. All dogs. Cute ones, handsome ones, ugly ones, freindly and fierce ones. I'd cross the street when I saw a dog on my path. It didn't matter that it wagged its tail in friendship. I just hated those yappy critters.
But now I seem to be hooked. Ice Tea comes up to me and puts his paws on my lap, asking to be petted and I stop whatever I'm doing to oblige him. I have a feeling I know where this is going. I see myself and my need to be tactile in Ice Tea. Now I know why a lot of people need a dog. They're lonely. They need to touch and be touched. And there's no more loyal, more dependable creature on earth than a dog.
On that note, allow me to say, Good Morning World, and start my day's work.
And when I woke up, my mind was full of details -- bills to be paid, budgetting for the holidays, my meetings this week, and preparing for Monica's arrival on December 4. Bring bed sheets to borrowed condo, buy toiletires and breakfast food. And the logistics of moving her brood about -- she's arriving with a baby and two young boys, with stroller and luggage. Should I try and get a pass to help her get through the baggage area and customs? Details. Details. Am I a worry wart or what?
Call Rapa to ask Bodet for a NAIA pass.
Call Ed Mo to ask for key to condo.
Tell Poch we're picking up his van at 3 PM on December 4.
Finish all my deadlnes before December 4.
I have listed down all my immediate tasks, hoping I can get them all done in time. Before Monica arrives, I have to get the PBSP write-ups and Bei's request, and the Bayan brochure out of the way. I'll gt them done. I work best on a deadline.
Meanwhile, its getting light outside. In Mandaluyong where I live, the cocks start crowing at around 2 am. But strangely, they quiet down at around 330 until 430. Then the chorus resumes. I've gotten used to it. The crowing no longer wakes me. It is a given in a neighborhood as tightly packed as this.
It is the yapping dogs that I cannot stand. I think if you own a dog, you must see to it that it is comfortable so it doesn't inconvenience your neighbors. One morning, I awoke to the incessant yelping of a dog who was obviously in need of some attention. It was the dog of the neghbor downstairs who was left outside for the night. I wouldn't kill the dog but I could see myself strangling my neighbor for inflicting such cruelty on an animal.
Speaking of dogs, I have just realized that I love Ice Tea, our scrappy little Aspin at home. In Sydney, I fell in love with Jack, but it was some kind of forbidden love since he was under disciplinary action -- meaning he was undergoing strict training under my son-in-law with rules of behaviour that I tended to violate -- and he wasn't bathed too often and so I got really dirty and smelly when I played with him. But Jack is a handsome black lab, Ice Tea is not. He's a common dog, wih traces of some pedigree watered-down through several generations of cross-breeding, probably in some back alley. His body is overly long and his front paws toe in. But its his dopey ears that get me every time.
All my life, my experience with dogs has been negative. I hated -- make that feared -- dogs. All dogs. Cute ones, handsome ones, ugly ones, freindly and fierce ones. I'd cross the street when I saw a dog on my path. It didn't matter that it wagged its tail in friendship. I just hated those yappy critters.
But now I seem to be hooked. Ice Tea comes up to me and puts his paws on my lap, asking to be petted and I stop whatever I'm doing to oblige him. I have a feeling I know where this is going. I see myself and my need to be tactile in Ice Tea. Now I know why a lot of people need a dog. They're lonely. They need to touch and be touched. And there's no more loyal, more dependable creature on earth than a dog.
On that note, allow me to say, Good Morning World, and start my day's work.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
I must, i will write something everyday
Thursday, November 18, 2020
So this is what it feels like to be dry. I am bored with my work. I have no conversation. I cannot find the words for my thoughts. I am so distracted, I can’t finish writing a sentence.
Instead of chatting, I tend to whine. I am so boring. I have no original insights. And I can’t even be funny anymore.
My soul is drying up. I thirst for a shot, of what, I don’t know.
Listened to a writer talk about writing last night. For a moment there, I was high. He spoke a language I understood completely. And I just wanted to cry.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Another unproductive day, work-wise. But I did write a short blog this morning. It was not great but I liked that it was easy to write. It flowed quite easily at 5 AM, and I kept it to 300 words. I should write something short every day. 300 words. A small story. A single insight. An exercise in thinking, in stringing words together, in writing. Tomorrow, I will write again for an hour in the morning. Then I will go into my work. No TV, No FB. No Internet. I can do it. I will do it. Get the work out by Monday morning. There is much to do next week. Meetings, meeting, meetings.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Good morning, world!
Last night, I went to the TOWNS Christmas Party. I’ve been avoiding going over the years because going to TOWNS affairs always costs. But this year, Mel Tiangco offered her home and had the party catered. And there was no exchange gift. Just come and enjoy the sisterhood.
There were issues that hung in the air --- political, professional, personal – but they didn’t get in the way of people expressing their strong opinions and still having arousing good time. There was laughter, empathy, brilliance, gratitude, generosity, camaraderie – and compassion. Egos were in check as most of us girls just wanted to have fun.
I came in a t-shirt with a plunging neckline, carefully made-up and in uncomfortable heels, fully aware that I had dressed up for the women, which is something I do not do as consciously when I’m out with men. Why is that? Am I that competitive? Or is it that I don’t go out much and it was fun getting dolled up? Or perhaps it is because it is ‘safe’ to live out my fantasies in the company of women.
Whatever. Now it’s back to reality. Focus, focus, Meiling. You will meet your deadline TODAY.
So this is what it feels like to be dry. I am bored with my work. I have no conversation. I cannot find the words for my thoughts. I am so distracted, I can’t finish writing a sentence.
Instead of chatting, I tend to whine. I am so boring. I have no original insights. And I can’t even be funny anymore.
My soul is drying up. I thirst for a shot, of what, I don’t know.
Listened to a writer talk about writing last night. For a moment there, I was high. He spoke a language I understood completely. And I just wanted to cry.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Another unproductive day, work-wise. But I did write a short blog this morning. It was not great but I liked that it was easy to write. It flowed quite easily at 5 AM, and I kept it to 300 words. I should write something short every day. 300 words. A small story. A single insight. An exercise in thinking, in stringing words together, in writing. Tomorrow, I will write again for an hour in the morning. Then I will go into my work. No TV, No FB. No Internet. I can do it. I will do it. Get the work out by Monday morning. There is much to do next week. Meetings, meeting, meetings.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Good morning, world!
Last night, I went to the TOWNS Christmas Party. I’ve been avoiding going over the years because going to TOWNS affairs always costs. But this year, Mel Tiangco offered her home and had the party catered. And there was no exchange gift. Just come and enjoy the sisterhood.
There were issues that hung in the air --- political, professional, personal – but they didn’t get in the way of people expressing their strong opinions and still having arousing good time. There was laughter, empathy, brilliance, gratitude, generosity, camaraderie – and compassion. Egos were in check as most of us girls just wanted to have fun.
I came in a t-shirt with a plunging neckline, carefully made-up and in uncomfortable heels, fully aware that I had dressed up for the women, which is something I do not do as consciously when I’m out with men. Why is that? Am I that competitive? Or is it that I don’t go out much and it was fun getting dolled up? Or perhaps it is because it is ‘safe’ to live out my fantasies in the company of women.
Whatever. Now it’s back to reality. Focus, focus, Meiling. You will meet your deadline TODAY.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Glenmore Park, Sydney, Australia
23 September 2010
I've been here five weeks. I didn't think I'd survive four, but at the end of five weeks with ten days to go before I leave for home, I find that I am settling in very well to the life here. Well, to the life here in Monica and Edge's house. I haven't really been out there navigating through Aussie society. I've just been home helping with housework and caring for Maya. I've cooked, cleaned house, done laundry, even sewed bed lnens for Maya's crib and made her two body pillows. And I've enjoyed myself immensely.
I keep telling myself that I am ejoying myself because I know it isn't forever -- that I will go home one day to resume life as I've always known it -- which is an endless stream of writing assignments. Pure drudgery, but it brings in the bacon.
I realized being here and truly enjyoing chopping onions, hanging up laundry, picking up sfter the boys, and sewing and darning, that I can do these very well and I am happy doing them. the reason I never did them was because I was always busy making a living and doing anything that was not work as I've known it has always made me feel guilty about 'wastng' precious time. Even reading books and watching movies on dvd have been anathema since these are non-producive pursuits.
Which has made me realize how much I've missed in life -- the small joys of home making, the ability to relax and have 'me' time. Now I can't wait to retire and live my twilight years pleasing myself and my grandchildren.
I've been here five weeks. I didn't think I'd survive four, but at the end of five weeks with ten days to go before I leave for home, I find that I am settling in very well to the life here. Well, to the life here in Monica and Edge's house. I haven't really been out there navigating through Aussie society. I've just been home helping with housework and caring for Maya. I've cooked, cleaned house, done laundry, even sewed bed lnens for Maya's crib and made her two body pillows. And I've enjoyed myself immensely.
I keep telling myself that I am ejoying myself because I know it isn't forever -- that I will go home one day to resume life as I've always known it -- which is an endless stream of writing assignments. Pure drudgery, but it brings in the bacon.
I realized being here and truly enjyoing chopping onions, hanging up laundry, picking up sfter the boys, and sewing and darning, that I can do these very well and I am happy doing them. the reason I never did them was because I was always busy making a living and doing anything that was not work as I've known it has always made me feel guilty about 'wastng' precious time. Even reading books and watching movies on dvd have been anathema since these are non-producive pursuits.
Which has made me realize how much I've missed in life -- the small joys of home making, the ability to relax and have 'me' time. Now I can't wait to retire and live my twilight years pleasing myself and my grandchildren.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Me and my APO
31 May 2010
Watching the third to the last APO show at Music Museum last Thursday, I saw my adult life pass before me, in slow motion and in vivid color. As expected, the experience was as tearful as it was laden with laughter.
Actually, it began when I was in college and Jim was in high school, just learning how to play the guitar. With siblings Gabby, Raffy, Tictac and Lory, we sang folk songs and Beatles songs with Jim groping for the right chords on his Lumanog that Tictac bought for him on his 12th birthday. We sang at home around the dining table, in the car during long drives, and later, on stage -- this time just Lory, Jim and me -- after we were noticed by Sonny Joaquin at a bonfire in Cresta Ola, his family's resort in La Union.
Jim was young and generally cooperative, but he had his tantrums and his idiocyncracies. A full moon, for example, could mean any of two mishaps -- he would have a bum stomach, or he would mess up his chords. And on our very first gig in Baguio, he almost walked out when he saw the handmade posters announcing our participation in the show as "The Paredes Sisters". Although Lory and I were having too much fun and we tended to ignore his angst, Jim was the all-important third wheel in our trike without whose guitar-playing we could not perform.
When Jim was in high school, he had this big barkada who hung out a lot at home. Gus Cosio, Sonny Santiago, Chito Kintanar, Butch Dans, Lito de Joya are just a few of the big gang of Ateneo high school kids who, like my family, would spontaneously break into song. I remember them signing "Satin Doll" in many voices, plus choreography. They were delightful.
Somehow, their number whittled on four or five regulars and when I got married in 1970, I asked Jim of he could get his group together to sing at my wedding. At the rehearsals the day before, Jim, Danny, Boboy, Lito de Joya and Chito Kintanar practiced the mass songs they knew from being members of Onofre Pagsanghan's Dulaang Sibol. Fr. Joe O'Hare, SJ, who was the officiating priest, suggested they do "Let it Be" to introduce the Gospel. I loved it. The wedding ceremony went without a hitch, the music was wonderful, I was so happy. Until the end when, as Ed and I went down the aisle, the group broke into a spirited "Suicide is Painless" from the movie MASH.
Since then, I have not been shocked or awed by anything the APO has ever done.
They soon needed a name and my brother Ducky suggested Apolinario Mabini Hiking Society, which was ironic enough for the Seventies generation.
APO has since been a large part of my family's life. Ed, who was a TV director, got them to perform a political spoof in the Gridiron on TV, using songs from Jesus Christ Superstar to pan Imelda and Ferdinand Marcos. They mounted small shows in my Mom's backyard, where the ruins of what was once a set for LVN movies was the perfect setting for moonlit concerts where they performed with the "Two of Us", and other up-coming singers of the day.
When the APO held their first farewell concert at the Meralco Theater in 1972, they asked Ed to be their director. They had graduated from college and Jim was leaving for Turkey as an exchange student. But the APO already had a following and they had to say goodbye. The theater was full on both nights.
Oh, they were great entertainers, four cute guys singing covers and their first tentative compositions and doing gags they have become famous for. Lito de Joya's "What's a G, man" is an enduring memory. The boys were young, good-looking, smart, wise-cracking, talented, and they did the entire show in English. They were Ateneo boys, after all.
A very welcome bonus was the intermission number by the George and Raffy Black Gang Clique -- a rather spontaneous faux circus act by Danny's brother George and my brother Raffy who brought the house down with their stunts.
I watched on the two nights of the show, marveling at how they had recycled and expanded on family jokes and gags from our childhood for the audience to appreciate. On the second night, when most of the family came, I was seated with my Mom and my cousin Nani. I thought they would pee in their pants from laughing. I remember wishing Jim wouldn't leave. It would be sad to see this end. I also wanted George and Raffy to be an enduring partnership. They were so funny.
Well, Jim never got to leave. And the APO continued to be. Martial Law was proclaimed and Raffy went underground. So much for Geroge and Raffy. But the APO endured, with a few glitches here and there, one of which was a letter from the chief martial law censor, Kit Tatad, who said that the band had dishonored the name of a national hero. So, since then, they called themselves the APO Hiking Society.
My children and nieces and nephews grew up thinking Danny and Boboy were their real uncles. When the APO recorded "Love is for Singing" and needed children's voices, Ana, Gina, and Tina Quirino were drafted. And when my daughter Monica, then a first grader at St Paul's in Pasig was asked if she could get her uncles to perform at a school fair, she asked us to bring her to a taping in Broadcast City where, with full sense of entitlement, she asked Danny, Boboy and Jim to say yes, they would do it, for free.
My Mom's 75th birthday party became even more festive, especially for Mom's PWU high school classmates when the APO sang a few songs. And they did me a favor in the early '80s when I asked them to perform at Odette Alcantara's Heritage Gallery in Cubao for the Women Writers' in Media Now's first anniversary party.
At the Music Museum, watching Jim, Danny and Boboy perform for the last time, I sang along with every song and watched people's reactions as I anticipated their punch lines. Although I knew all their jokes and memorized all their musical arrangements, I laughed out loud again, as I have done in every APO show over the past 40 years. Every song they sang brought back a memory -- of a happy shared childhood; of long drives to Baguio and La Union and magical nights singing folk songs at the beach around a campfire; of my hopes and dreams as a young married woman; of births, weddings, anniversaries, home visits by siblings, and deaths in the family; of the children running around Mom's large grassy backyard with its large mango and santol trees; of surviving martial law; of long talks with Danny about life; of loves won and lost; of disappointments and heartaches; of personal, family and national triumphs; of EDSA and our difficult journey towards the return of democracy.
But mostly I thought of Mom who was so proud of her son and his friends. In my mind's eye, I could see her beaming with pride and laughing out loud watching them at a concert; or in her hospital bed at the Heart Center bragging to all the nurses that Jim Paredes was her son; and in her small bungalow in Loyola Heights demanding that Jim come to her birthday lunch and thrill her amigas with his presence.
I shed a lot of quiet tears that night.
As I watched the adoring crowd eat up every line, every gag, every song the APO dished out, I recalled the post-assassination and pre- and post-EDSA concerts that people attended as much to make a political statement as to show appreciation for their music. Those were heady days. I also recalled concerts where, inexplicably, to me anyway, there were many empty seats. In such times, how my heart bled for my three brothers! But they could even crack jokes about an empty house and they always bounced back. The show always went on. What a class act they were.
When Jim first announced that the APO was disbanding, it felt like an impending death in the family, like someone near and dear had terminal cancer and I had to get used to the idea of losing him or her. I went through denial, disappointment, anger, and finally, acceptance. And, having accepted their impending demise, I asked some of my closest friends to help me face it at the Music Museum.
On Thursday night, I tearfully said my goodbye to the APO -- my APO -- and sent them off to the Great Beyond -- to be enshrined in Philippine music history and in the hearts of their countless fans. I have no doubt that their music -- which are part of the soundtrack of people's lives for 40 years -- will live on.
The APO is family and now it is no more. But my memory chest is full. The APO, and everything they have stood for, are alive and well in my heart and mind.
Thank you, Jim, Danny and Boboy, for a great ride. ###
Watching the third to the last APO show at Music Museum last Thursday, I saw my adult life pass before me, in slow motion and in vivid color. As expected, the experience was as tearful as it was laden with laughter.
Actually, it began when I was in college and Jim was in high school, just learning how to play the guitar. With siblings Gabby, Raffy, Tictac and Lory, we sang folk songs and Beatles songs with Jim groping for the right chords on his Lumanog that Tictac bought for him on his 12th birthday. We sang at home around the dining table, in the car during long drives, and later, on stage -- this time just Lory, Jim and me -- after we were noticed by Sonny Joaquin at a bonfire in Cresta Ola, his family's resort in La Union.
Jim was young and generally cooperative, but he had his tantrums and his idiocyncracies. A full moon, for example, could mean any of two mishaps -- he would have a bum stomach, or he would mess up his chords. And on our very first gig in Baguio, he almost walked out when he saw the handmade posters announcing our participation in the show as "The Paredes Sisters". Although Lory and I were having too much fun and we tended to ignore his angst, Jim was the all-important third wheel in our trike without whose guitar-playing we could not perform.
When Jim was in high school, he had this big barkada who hung out a lot at home. Gus Cosio, Sonny Santiago, Chito Kintanar, Butch Dans, Lito de Joya are just a few of the big gang of Ateneo high school kids who, like my family, would spontaneously break into song. I remember them signing "Satin Doll" in many voices, plus choreography. They were delightful.
Somehow, their number whittled on four or five regulars and when I got married in 1970, I asked Jim of he could get his group together to sing at my wedding. At the rehearsals the day before, Jim, Danny, Boboy, Lito de Joya and Chito Kintanar practiced the mass songs they knew from being members of Onofre Pagsanghan's Dulaang Sibol. Fr. Joe O'Hare, SJ, who was the officiating priest, suggested they do "Let it Be" to introduce the Gospel. I loved it. The wedding ceremony went without a hitch, the music was wonderful, I was so happy. Until the end when, as Ed and I went down the aisle, the group broke into a spirited "Suicide is Painless" from the movie MASH.
Since then, I have not been shocked or awed by anything the APO has ever done.
They soon needed a name and my brother Ducky suggested Apolinario Mabini Hiking Society, which was ironic enough for the Seventies generation.
APO has since been a large part of my family's life. Ed, who was a TV director, got them to perform a political spoof in the Gridiron on TV, using songs from Jesus Christ Superstar to pan Imelda and Ferdinand Marcos. They mounted small shows in my Mom's backyard, where the ruins of what was once a set for LVN movies was the perfect setting for moonlit concerts where they performed with the "Two of Us", and other up-coming singers of the day.
When the APO held their first farewell concert at the Meralco Theater in 1972, they asked Ed to be their director. They had graduated from college and Jim was leaving for Turkey as an exchange student. But the APO already had a following and they had to say goodbye. The theater was full on both nights.
Oh, they were great entertainers, four cute guys singing covers and their first tentative compositions and doing gags they have become famous for. Lito de Joya's "What's a G, man" is an enduring memory. The boys were young, good-looking, smart, wise-cracking, talented, and they did the entire show in English. They were Ateneo boys, after all.
A very welcome bonus was the intermission number by the George and Raffy Black Gang Clique -- a rather spontaneous faux circus act by Danny's brother George and my brother Raffy who brought the house down with their stunts.
I watched on the two nights of the show, marveling at how they had recycled and expanded on family jokes and gags from our childhood for the audience to appreciate. On the second night, when most of the family came, I was seated with my Mom and my cousin Nani. I thought they would pee in their pants from laughing. I remember wishing Jim wouldn't leave. It would be sad to see this end. I also wanted George and Raffy to be an enduring partnership. They were so funny.
Well, Jim never got to leave. And the APO continued to be. Martial Law was proclaimed and Raffy went underground. So much for Geroge and Raffy. But the APO endured, with a few glitches here and there, one of which was a letter from the chief martial law censor, Kit Tatad, who said that the band had dishonored the name of a national hero. So, since then, they called themselves the APO Hiking Society.
My children and nieces and nephews grew up thinking Danny and Boboy were their real uncles. When the APO recorded "Love is for Singing" and needed children's voices, Ana, Gina, and Tina Quirino were drafted. And when my daughter Monica, then a first grader at St Paul's in Pasig was asked if she could get her uncles to perform at a school fair, she asked us to bring her to a taping in Broadcast City where, with full sense of entitlement, she asked Danny, Boboy and Jim to say yes, they would do it, for free.
My Mom's 75th birthday party became even more festive, especially for Mom's PWU high school classmates when the APO sang a few songs. And they did me a favor in the early '80s when I asked them to perform at Odette Alcantara's Heritage Gallery in Cubao for the Women Writers' in Media Now's first anniversary party.
At the Music Museum, watching Jim, Danny and Boboy perform for the last time, I sang along with every song and watched people's reactions as I anticipated their punch lines. Although I knew all their jokes and memorized all their musical arrangements, I laughed out loud again, as I have done in every APO show over the past 40 years. Every song they sang brought back a memory -- of a happy shared childhood; of long drives to Baguio and La Union and magical nights singing folk songs at the beach around a campfire; of my hopes and dreams as a young married woman; of births, weddings, anniversaries, home visits by siblings, and deaths in the family; of the children running around Mom's large grassy backyard with its large mango and santol trees; of surviving martial law; of long talks with Danny about life; of loves won and lost; of disappointments and heartaches; of personal, family and national triumphs; of EDSA and our difficult journey towards the return of democracy.
But mostly I thought of Mom who was so proud of her son and his friends. In my mind's eye, I could see her beaming with pride and laughing out loud watching them at a concert; or in her hospital bed at the Heart Center bragging to all the nurses that Jim Paredes was her son; and in her small bungalow in Loyola Heights demanding that Jim come to her birthday lunch and thrill her amigas with his presence.
I shed a lot of quiet tears that night.
As I watched the adoring crowd eat up every line, every gag, every song the APO dished out, I recalled the post-assassination and pre- and post-EDSA concerts that people attended as much to make a political statement as to show appreciation for their music. Those were heady days. I also recalled concerts where, inexplicably, to me anyway, there were many empty seats. In such times, how my heart bled for my three brothers! But they could even crack jokes about an empty house and they always bounced back. The show always went on. What a class act they were.
When Jim first announced that the APO was disbanding, it felt like an impending death in the family, like someone near and dear had terminal cancer and I had to get used to the idea of losing him or her. I went through denial, disappointment, anger, and finally, acceptance. And, having accepted their impending demise, I asked some of my closest friends to help me face it at the Music Museum.
On Thursday night, I tearfully said my goodbye to the APO -- my APO -- and sent them off to the Great Beyond -- to be enshrined in Philippine music history and in the hearts of their countless fans. I have no doubt that their music -- which are part of the soundtrack of people's lives for 40 years -- will live on.
The APO is family and now it is no more. But my memory chest is full. The APO, and everything they have stood for, are alive and well in my heart and mind.
Thank you, Jim, Danny and Boboy, for a great ride. ###
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Why I never mourned for Magsaysay
A reprint of a column I wrote on my Dad's death anniversary
Why I never mourned for Magsaysay
March 16, 1997
Tomorrow is the 40th death anniversary of my father, Jess Paredes Jr. He perished with around 20 others in an airplane crash on Mount Manuggal in Cebu.
The nation was devastated by that tragedy which took the life of President Ramon Magsaysay, but I didn’t know it. After all, my family was going through its own agony. Also our neighborhood in Cubao got a triple whammy; besides my Dad, his friend Secretary Hernandez, who lived several blocks away, was in that plane. So was Senator Lopez, who lived on Lantana and whose daughter Sonia was a friend of my sister and my cousins.
When I said goodbye to my Dad on March 16, he was getting into Secretary Hernandez’s limousine to go to the airport where they would catch the Mr. Pinatubo, RM’s plane, and ride with the President to Cebu. Magsaysay was to deliver three commencement addresses in Cebu City and my Dad wrote two of them. The President had asked my Dad to come and hear him deliver the speeches—and who could say no to the President?
My Dad was overworked, he had stretched himself thin working as executive secretary of the Catholic Educational Association of the Philippines, teaching at two law schools, doing two radio programs, and running errands for the Archbishop of Manila. And then he was a part of the President’s circle, close enough to be given an assignment as one of RM’s ghost writers.
He had a hacking cough that wouldn’t go away. He worked late into the night, his typewriter clickety-clacking in the silence of our large new house. He hardly had time for himself and here he was taking off for Cebu just to hear the President deliver some speeches. “Never mind,” he told my Mom. “We may take the presidential yacht on the way home. Then, I’ll be able to rest.”
So when we heard about the crash of the presidential plane, my Mother clung to the hope that my Dad had heeded his own need to relax and opted to take the slow boat to Manila.
In the afternoon of March 17, I learned that the word “confirmed” meant something other than a state of having received the second sacrament. It’s confirmed, my uncle said. Jess is dead. The wreckage of the plane had been found. There was only one survivor, a newsman named Nestor Mata.
My father’s remains were brought to our house where he lay in state for a couple of days. He had a fine bronze coffin, very heavy, and covered with a Philippine flag. We were told that the coffin was originally meant for the President’s remains. However, an even fancier coffin arrived from the United States and my father was next in line for the top-of-the-line items, behind the senators, congressmen, Cabinet secretaries, generals and colonels who had perished with the President. So he ended up with second best. Not bad for a man who had no title other than “Attorney”.
The coffin was sealed so it was easy for a 10-year old to deny that her father was in there. At the time, it just felt like he was taking an awfully long time to come home.
After the coffin came, the flowers followed. Wreaths with ribbons bearing the names of the rich and famous overflowed from the living room to the garage, to the terrace and the garden. I gaped at the people who crowded into our home—senators and congressmen, priests and nuns, radio people, movie people, stage people, my brothers’ classmates and teachers from the Ateneo, and hundreds of relatives. I remember seeing Diosdado Macapagal who had been our neighbour in Laura Street in San Juan, Raul Manglapus who had played the organ at my parent’s wedding some 19 yeas before, Emmanuel Pelaez, Ambrosio Padilla and Soc Rodrigo. There were other important persons who came but a 10-year-old could only be impressed by the most prominent faces.
Letters, cards, checks poured in from everywhere. I figured we must have gotten famous overnight because the mailman delivered a card to our house in Cubao addressed to Mrs. Jess Paredes Jr, Manila, Philippines.
On the day of the burial, we wheeled my Dad’s coffin up Boston Street and down Lantana, to Immaculate Conception Church where a mass was held. Then we motored to a cemetery in Manila where I was shocked to find a non-descript hole in the wall awaiting his elegant coffin.
I remember a crush of people in a small space, a bunch of red roses and a bag of soil being passed from hand to hand to be placed in the niche with my Dad’s remains. The roses were a remembrance from his wife and 10 children; the soil was a part of the Jesuit cemetery in Novaliches where my father had said he wanted to be buried. Since Novaliches was only for Jesuits, the fathers did the next best thing and gave him a piece of Novaliches.
Five years later, my mother brought us to the cemetery to exhume my father’s grave and transfer his remains to the basement of our parish church. Several men pried the black marble nameplate and pulled out the bronze coffin. They lifted the cover and my siblings and I saw its contents for the firs time: a fatigue-colored body bag. My mother unzipped the bag and a fine dust rose with the breeze.
My father’s remains were a mixture of bones, a pocket watch, a half burned wallet, and a gun. The worldly goods were not his, but my mother said she recognized his teeth among the bones. My siblings and I picked up the pieces and put them in a white box which we brought to the crypt for a second burial.
When the crash happened in 1957, the entire country mourned for Magsaysay. But not me. All I knew was my father would not be coming home to the new house he built us in Cubao. I would never again hear his hearty laughter, or feel his tight hugs. The center of my life was gone.
Why I never mourned for Magsaysay
March 16, 1997
Tomorrow is the 40th death anniversary of my father, Jess Paredes Jr. He perished with around 20 others in an airplane crash on Mount Manuggal in Cebu.
The nation was devastated by that tragedy which took the life of President Ramon Magsaysay, but I didn’t know it. After all, my family was going through its own agony. Also our neighborhood in Cubao got a triple whammy; besides my Dad, his friend Secretary Hernandez, who lived several blocks away, was in that plane. So was Senator Lopez, who lived on Lantana and whose daughter Sonia was a friend of my sister and my cousins.
When I said goodbye to my Dad on March 16, he was getting into Secretary Hernandez’s limousine to go to the airport where they would catch the Mr. Pinatubo, RM’s plane, and ride with the President to Cebu. Magsaysay was to deliver three commencement addresses in Cebu City and my Dad wrote two of them. The President had asked my Dad to come and hear him deliver the speeches—and who could say no to the President?
My Dad was overworked, he had stretched himself thin working as executive secretary of the Catholic Educational Association of the Philippines, teaching at two law schools, doing two radio programs, and running errands for the Archbishop of Manila. And then he was a part of the President’s circle, close enough to be given an assignment as one of RM’s ghost writers.
He had a hacking cough that wouldn’t go away. He worked late into the night, his typewriter clickety-clacking in the silence of our large new house. He hardly had time for himself and here he was taking off for Cebu just to hear the President deliver some speeches. “Never mind,” he told my Mom. “We may take the presidential yacht on the way home. Then, I’ll be able to rest.”
So when we heard about the crash of the presidential plane, my Mother clung to the hope that my Dad had heeded his own need to relax and opted to take the slow boat to Manila.
In the afternoon of March 17, I learned that the word “confirmed” meant something other than a state of having received the second sacrament. It’s confirmed, my uncle said. Jess is dead. The wreckage of the plane had been found. There was only one survivor, a newsman named Nestor Mata.
My father’s remains were brought to our house where he lay in state for a couple of days. He had a fine bronze coffin, very heavy, and covered with a Philippine flag. We were told that the coffin was originally meant for the President’s remains. However, an even fancier coffin arrived from the United States and my father was next in line for the top-of-the-line items, behind the senators, congressmen, Cabinet secretaries, generals and colonels who had perished with the President. So he ended up with second best. Not bad for a man who had no title other than “Attorney”.
The coffin was sealed so it was easy for a 10-year old to deny that her father was in there. At the time, it just felt like he was taking an awfully long time to come home.
After the coffin came, the flowers followed. Wreaths with ribbons bearing the names of the rich and famous overflowed from the living room to the garage, to the terrace and the garden. I gaped at the people who crowded into our home—senators and congressmen, priests and nuns, radio people, movie people, stage people, my brothers’ classmates and teachers from the Ateneo, and hundreds of relatives. I remember seeing Diosdado Macapagal who had been our neighbour in Laura Street in San Juan, Raul Manglapus who had played the organ at my parent’s wedding some 19 yeas before, Emmanuel Pelaez, Ambrosio Padilla and Soc Rodrigo. There were other important persons who came but a 10-year-old could only be impressed by the most prominent faces.
Letters, cards, checks poured in from everywhere. I figured we must have gotten famous overnight because the mailman delivered a card to our house in Cubao addressed to Mrs. Jess Paredes Jr, Manila, Philippines.
On the day of the burial, we wheeled my Dad’s coffin up Boston Street and down Lantana, to Immaculate Conception Church where a mass was held. Then we motored to a cemetery in Manila where I was shocked to find a non-descript hole in the wall awaiting his elegant coffin.
I remember a crush of people in a small space, a bunch of red roses and a bag of soil being passed from hand to hand to be placed in the niche with my Dad’s remains. The roses were a remembrance from his wife and 10 children; the soil was a part of the Jesuit cemetery in Novaliches where my father had said he wanted to be buried. Since Novaliches was only for Jesuits, the fathers did the next best thing and gave him a piece of Novaliches.
Five years later, my mother brought us to the cemetery to exhume my father’s grave and transfer his remains to the basement of our parish church. Several men pried the black marble nameplate and pulled out the bronze coffin. They lifted the cover and my siblings and I saw its contents for the firs time: a fatigue-colored body bag. My mother unzipped the bag and a fine dust rose with the breeze.
My father’s remains were a mixture of bones, a pocket watch, a half burned wallet, and a gun. The worldly goods were not his, but my mother said she recognized his teeth among the bones. My siblings and I picked up the pieces and put them in a white box which we brought to the crypt for a second burial.
When the crash happened in 1957, the entire country mourned for Magsaysay. But not me. All I knew was my father would not be coming home to the new house he built us in Cubao. I would never again hear his hearty laughter, or feel his tight hugs. The center of my life was gone.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Reunion
Reunion (Manila, Feb 3-15, 2010)
February 20, 2010
I'd been thinking about it for a while, since my oldest brother, Jesse turned 70 and our family breached a new decade. Raffy, the youngest of us ten siblings, was already in his fifties. No doubt about it, our family was aging. In recent years, my brothers - Gabby and Jim and Babsy -- decided to stop dyeing their hair, revealing to the entire world the reality that in the clan, we have naturally premature grey hair, something we have lived with since our thirties. Today, only Lory and I are the hold-outs who continue to conceal the grey. My excuse is, my daughter Gogi won't allow me to look so old. Lory says she has to consult her daughter Cristina, if she should or shouldn't let the grey out.
The point is, we had to accept the fact that were getting old. So, early last year, after Ducky celebrated his 70th birthday with another wild but incomplete family party, I wrote a serious letter to my siblings asking them to consider a reunion in the near future. It is time, I told them, to get together. We are now as old or even older than our parents were when we thought they were old. And wouldn't it be nice for the ten of us to be together, complete, in one place before time took its toll and started taking us one by one?
The response was immediate. Yes, let's do it, everyone said. We set it for February 2010, which was when the US contingent of Babsy, Tictac and Aping, and Jim, who resides in Australia, said would be convenient. There was some hemming and hawing from Aping who, protesting the violence and corruption in the country,which he read about in the Internet everyday from his home in Florida, said he was not inclined to risk his and his wife's safety by coming home to the Philippines. Although he kept his options open, in the end, Aping really couldn't come home after his beloved Mary suffered a series of small strokes and needed his undivided attention. Our double first cousins Lita and Ginger said they would join us from Switzerland.
In October, we began to talk about what we would do for the reunion. We knew we would have a big fat Misa-Paredes party with lots of singing, ribbing, corny jokes and family stories. Gabby offered an overnight trip to the beach, and Ducky readily said he'd take care of the bus to take us there. We also talked about visiting Mom and Dad's niche at the Immaculate Conception church in our old neighborhood in Cubao, and the Bantayog memorial where Mom's name is enshrined on a granite wall, along with other heroes of martial law -- nuns, priests, businessmen, politicians, activists and NPA members who fought the Marcos dictatorship.
What else could we do to fill two weeks of our siblings' visit? We needn't have worried. From February 3 to 15, 2010, our days and nights were filled with the camaraderie of the nine siblings who made it and Lita (Ginger didn't make it), our spouses and children, who genuinely like each other. From the first day we were together, first in Jim's house where Babsy and Ivan stayed, and then in Lory's guest condo on C. Salvador where Tiki and Doug were billeted, the laughter was loud and contagious, the singing intoxicating. The jokes were alternately hilarious and excretable. The stories we told and retold were predictable but precious; the ribbing was endless. Jesse danced the ballet, and Raffy did his patented version of Tom Jones' Delilah. We were off to a good start. And the love was truly palpable.
It is amazing how small mistakes we made as children -- like Gabby reaching the top of the steep stairs of our house on Sta. Mesa and sighing 'I are tired', or Jim trying to speak Spanish and saying 'Que te pasa biscuit' to ask that a plate of biscuits be passed to him at table -- are never forgotten. What is even more amazing is that such merciless ribbing about those mistakes, which used to draw annoyance, tears and even anger when we were kids, is now taken so good-naturedly,if not grace.
At the big fat Misa-Paredes party on Feb 6, Lory wrote a number of such gems on placards and held them up for us to identify in a game called, 'Who said this?'. It brought the house down and it started our rollicking ride through the past which included singing the many songs we grew up with; stories about Dad and Mom; our uncles, aunts and cousins; about Inay and Tolindoy; Camacho and Johnny Paa, to name a few; memories of our childhood in Laura, C. de Jesus, Sta Mesa and Boston; and those wonderful weekends in Muntinglupa and summers in Bislig. Ilocano phrases we used to hear from Inay, thrown in by Cris and Sally Bermont with the right gutteral intonation, brought floods of laughter and more stories...
Lory even planned a surprise by importing Anit and Ibyang from Banggued and
asking Sally Mendiola and Aling Pitang's daughter Divina to come to the party. And Jesse came with his own surprise -- Doy's daughter Nancy, whom he brought in from Batangas to join us. I truly missed Inay and Nuna, and my Bobet, who had cooked many wonderful meals for family gatherings in my home. They were probably there too, in spirit. There were copious tears and lots of pictures and videos taken of what turned out to be the grandest reunion our family has ever had.
What a party it was. We were so tightly bound in the same time warp that a few notes strummed by Jim on the guitar or played by Joey on the piano had us singing the same song, in harmony, and even dancing around the table. I didn't want the evening to end. But as it turned out, that was only the beginning on what would be the most joyous two weeks of our lives.
The visit to our parents' grave and to Bantayog were sober, even tearful. But it brought home the realization that we are what we are because we were born of such exceptional parents who loved each other and each of their children, not to mention their country, deeply. They also loved life, laughter and music, which are their priceless legacies to us and our children.
To be sure, we siblings have not always been this close. We've had our share of fights, misunderstandings and pikonan. Our family has had our heartaches. In fact, we've been through the wringer, having to deal with losses, break-ups, separations and long-drawn out tampuhans. But here we are -- in our fifties, sixties and seventies -- whole and complete. We do not always agree on everything -- don't get us started on politics -- but we are a stronger, more loving unit today than when we were kids. Thank you, Dad and Mom, for making us a family, then and until now.
On Tuesday morning, Feb 9, a large bus hired by Ducky came for us for our trip to Gabby and Marianne's beach house in Nasugbu, Batangas. It was a siblings and spouses only affair, but Gabby's son John and daughter Michelle were 'required' to attend. In that fabulous Mediterranean setting, we dined on the patio under beach umbrellas, swam in a pool under ancient trees, had wine and cheese by the ocean at sunset, and sang to our hearts' content every chance we had. Couples doubled up in the bedrooms but Lory and I, who were both partner-less, slept on an inflatable mattress on the porch, al fresco, under a black sky ablaze with stars and planets.
It was difficult to think of wanting to be anywhere else with any other group of people. Here, in the company of my brothers and sisters, I felt our parents' warm embrace, a very large group hug. They were surely there with us in Gabby's paradise. And with God in his heaven, all was right with my world.
There were small quiet lunches and dinners among some of us, and biscoti baking lessons for Patring and Gogi from Babsy. Gogi and I took Tiki and Doug on a ferry ride down what Tiki called "her Pasig River" and toured Fort Santiago on foot. And, Tiki, Doug, Lory, Greg, Lita, and Gina went to watch the APO show. And Babsy and managed to have mini-reunions with old friends and classmates. We all needed the downtime. I, for one, would have burst from the fun of the company.
In the weekend, Babsy and Ivan left for Eugene and Snoogie returned to Medina. After watching Jim perform with the APO on Saturday night, Gina went back to Davao and Lita flew home to Switzerland. On Monday evening, Tiki and Doug flew to Hawaii en route to San Diego. The party was over.
My nest felt empty, but my heart was full. I couldn't complain. Besides,I needed to catch up on my sleep.
The reunion exceeded all my expectations. There are so many memories, old and new, to process, keep, share and write about. The photos and videos are on CDs, and on Facebook and Multiply. But mostly, they are safely tucked in my heart, which is a better place than my mind, which could go any time.
I don't know when we can pull off another reunion like this. Next time, I hope Aping and Mary can join us. (Maybe by then, Lory and I would have gotten the courage to let our hair grow grey.) But, for sure, this reunion, incomplete as we were, has been the most joyous and love-filled we've ever had.
February 20, 2010
I'd been thinking about it for a while, since my oldest brother, Jesse turned 70 and our family breached a new decade. Raffy, the youngest of us ten siblings, was already in his fifties. No doubt about it, our family was aging. In recent years, my brothers - Gabby and Jim and Babsy -- decided to stop dyeing their hair, revealing to the entire world the reality that in the clan, we have naturally premature grey hair, something we have lived with since our thirties. Today, only Lory and I are the hold-outs who continue to conceal the grey. My excuse is, my daughter Gogi won't allow me to look so old. Lory says she has to consult her daughter Cristina, if she should or shouldn't let the grey out.
The point is, we had to accept the fact that were getting old. So, early last year, after Ducky celebrated his 70th birthday with another wild but incomplete family party, I wrote a serious letter to my siblings asking them to consider a reunion in the near future. It is time, I told them, to get together. We are now as old or even older than our parents were when we thought they were old. And wouldn't it be nice for the ten of us to be together, complete, in one place before time took its toll and started taking us one by one?
The response was immediate. Yes, let's do it, everyone said. We set it for February 2010, which was when the US contingent of Babsy, Tictac and Aping, and Jim, who resides in Australia, said would be convenient. There was some hemming and hawing from Aping who, protesting the violence and corruption in the country,which he read about in the Internet everyday from his home in Florida, said he was not inclined to risk his and his wife's safety by coming home to the Philippines. Although he kept his options open, in the end, Aping really couldn't come home after his beloved Mary suffered a series of small strokes and needed his undivided attention. Our double first cousins Lita and Ginger said they would join us from Switzerland.
In October, we began to talk about what we would do for the reunion. We knew we would have a big fat Misa-Paredes party with lots of singing, ribbing, corny jokes and family stories. Gabby offered an overnight trip to the beach, and Ducky readily said he'd take care of the bus to take us there. We also talked about visiting Mom and Dad's niche at the Immaculate Conception church in our old neighborhood in Cubao, and the Bantayog memorial where Mom's name is enshrined on a granite wall, along with other heroes of martial law -- nuns, priests, businessmen, politicians, activists and NPA members who fought the Marcos dictatorship.
What else could we do to fill two weeks of our siblings' visit? We needn't have worried. From February 3 to 15, 2010, our days and nights were filled with the camaraderie of the nine siblings who made it and Lita (Ginger didn't make it), our spouses and children, who genuinely like each other. From the first day we were together, first in Jim's house where Babsy and Ivan stayed, and then in Lory's guest condo on C. Salvador where Tiki and Doug were billeted, the laughter was loud and contagious, the singing intoxicating. The jokes were alternately hilarious and excretable. The stories we told and retold were predictable but precious; the ribbing was endless. Jesse danced the ballet, and Raffy did his patented version of Tom Jones' Delilah. We were off to a good start. And the love was truly palpable.
It is amazing how small mistakes we made as children -- like Gabby reaching the top of the steep stairs of our house on Sta. Mesa and sighing 'I are tired', or Jim trying to speak Spanish and saying 'Que te pasa biscuit' to ask that a plate of biscuits be passed to him at table -- are never forgotten. What is even more amazing is that such merciless ribbing about those mistakes, which used to draw annoyance, tears and even anger when we were kids, is now taken so good-naturedly,if not grace.
At the big fat Misa-Paredes party on Feb 6, Lory wrote a number of such gems on placards and held them up for us to identify in a game called, 'Who said this?'. It brought the house down and it started our rollicking ride through the past which included singing the many songs we grew up with; stories about Dad and Mom; our uncles, aunts and cousins; about Inay and Tolindoy; Camacho and Johnny Paa, to name a few; memories of our childhood in Laura, C. de Jesus, Sta Mesa and Boston; and those wonderful weekends in Muntinglupa and summers in Bislig. Ilocano phrases we used to hear from Inay, thrown in by Cris and Sally Bermont with the right gutteral intonation, brought floods of laughter and more stories...
Lory even planned a surprise by importing Anit and Ibyang from Banggued and
asking Sally Mendiola and Aling Pitang's daughter Divina to come to the party. And Jesse came with his own surprise -- Doy's daughter Nancy, whom he brought in from Batangas to join us. I truly missed Inay and Nuna, and my Bobet, who had cooked many wonderful meals for family gatherings in my home. They were probably there too, in spirit. There were copious tears and lots of pictures and videos taken of what turned out to be the grandest reunion our family has ever had.
What a party it was. We were so tightly bound in the same time warp that a few notes strummed by Jim on the guitar or played by Joey on the piano had us singing the same song, in harmony, and even dancing around the table. I didn't want the evening to end. But as it turned out, that was only the beginning on what would be the most joyous two weeks of our lives.
The visit to our parents' grave and to Bantayog were sober, even tearful. But it brought home the realization that we are what we are because we were born of such exceptional parents who loved each other and each of their children, not to mention their country, deeply. They also loved life, laughter and music, which are their priceless legacies to us and our children.
To be sure, we siblings have not always been this close. We've had our share of fights, misunderstandings and pikonan. Our family has had our heartaches. In fact, we've been through the wringer, having to deal with losses, break-ups, separations and long-drawn out tampuhans. But here we are -- in our fifties, sixties and seventies -- whole and complete. We do not always agree on everything -- don't get us started on politics -- but we are a stronger, more loving unit today than when we were kids. Thank you, Dad and Mom, for making us a family, then and until now.
On Tuesday morning, Feb 9, a large bus hired by Ducky came for us for our trip to Gabby and Marianne's beach house in Nasugbu, Batangas. It was a siblings and spouses only affair, but Gabby's son John and daughter Michelle were 'required' to attend. In that fabulous Mediterranean setting, we dined on the patio under beach umbrellas, swam in a pool under ancient trees, had wine and cheese by the ocean at sunset, and sang to our hearts' content every chance we had. Couples doubled up in the bedrooms but Lory and I, who were both partner-less, slept on an inflatable mattress on the porch, al fresco, under a black sky ablaze with stars and planets.
It was difficult to think of wanting to be anywhere else with any other group of people. Here, in the company of my brothers and sisters, I felt our parents' warm embrace, a very large group hug. They were surely there with us in Gabby's paradise. And with God in his heaven, all was right with my world.
There were small quiet lunches and dinners among some of us, and biscoti baking lessons for Patring and Gogi from Babsy. Gogi and I took Tiki and Doug on a ferry ride down what Tiki called "her Pasig River" and toured Fort Santiago on foot. And, Tiki, Doug, Lory, Greg, Lita, and Gina went to watch the APO show. And Babsy and managed to have mini-reunions with old friends and classmates. We all needed the downtime. I, for one, would have burst from the fun of the company.
In the weekend, Babsy and Ivan left for Eugene and Snoogie returned to Medina. After watching Jim perform with the APO on Saturday night, Gina went back to Davao and Lita flew home to Switzerland. On Monday evening, Tiki and Doug flew to Hawaii en route to San Diego. The party was over.
My nest felt empty, but my heart was full. I couldn't complain. Besides,I needed to catch up on my sleep.
The reunion exceeded all my expectations. There are so many memories, old and new, to process, keep, share and write about. The photos and videos are on CDs, and on Facebook and Multiply. But mostly, they are safely tucked in my heart, which is a better place than my mind, which could go any time.
I don't know when we can pull off another reunion like this. Next time, I hope Aping and Mary can join us. (Maybe by then, Lory and I would have gotten the courage to let our hair grow grey.) But, for sure, this reunion, incomplete as we were, has been the most joyous and love-filled we've ever had.
Why I must write
February 20, 2010
5 AM
I have lost my voice. My writing voice. I have lost my words. I can't seem to find the right words to say what is in my heart and mind. I blame this on my editing work. I am so bent on working on the words of others, I have lost my own capacity to put my own words together and articulate my thoughts. Do I even have original thoughts anymore? And do they really matter?
I envy my colleagues who continue to write. When Neni told me that Friday is her writing day, I thought, what a luxury that would be to have a day set aside only to write. I told myself that I am so busy, I don't have the time for such a non-productive (meaning, non-earning) endeavor. But I am, of course, lying to myself. I simply don't have the discipline, the stick-to-it-iveness, that is needed to be a writer. I have found every excuse not to continue writing: Columnists are a dime a dozen. There's too much opinion out there, too much noise that I don't want to add to. No one is interested anymore. Besides, as a member of the government peace panel, I must keep my opinions to myself.
You know what? It's hogwash. I can think of many other reasons not to go back to writing, but I know I'm being a cop-out.
What am I really afraid of? I have to figure that out. I used to do most of my thinking on paper. By writing out my thoughts, I reached certain conclusions. When I wrote, I didn't really know where a paragraph , much less an entire piece, would take me. Writing was part of my thinking, my analytical process. Now that I have stopped writing, have I also stopped thinking deeply about things? I believe so. I have been merely skimming the surface of issues, content with quick fixes, smart-alecky allusions, re-cycled analyses, stolen insights and unbelievable rationalizations. In afraid I've been faking it for a while now, counting on the residual admiration of people I impressed in the past and who carry a nostalgia for my writing, to still be accepted as a 'journalist on leave'. Someday, I tell those who ask me why I no longer write, I will return to the printed page.
This is both a wish and an aspiration that seems to be more and more difficult to achieve, as I fall deeper into editing the work of others. But I must go back. I must re-gain my voice, find my words, re-claim my space -- or wilt on the vine. I must leave my comfort zone -- which has allowed me to earn more than if I merely wrote opinion -- and forge ahead out there, to my original comfort zone where I was unafraid to be poor and to spill my guts out.
Making ends is meet is important. So is peace-making. So far, I have been able to earn enough by keeping silent and pursuing peace. But I realize I don't have to keep silent to achieve peace. In fact, the path to peace is through dialogue, exposure, transparency, openness. Peace cannot be achieved by keeping mum on the important issues. True peace can be reached when these issues have been thoroughly discussed and consensus reached on the next steps. And that is what writing does -- bring up the issues, put some light to them and hopefully, achieve some clarity so that the right decisions are reached. Writing can be peacemaking.
Lord, let me be that instrument of your peace through my writing. Where there is darkness, let me bring light. Through my words, my thoughts, my actions. Or should that read, through Your words, Your thoughts, Your actions -- through me. Make me the instrument that I was before I began to fear poverty and hunger, to need the comfort of a regular paycheck, and to rationalize these needs as a reason to keep my silence when all hell has been breaking loose in my beloved country.
I must write again, or perish.
5 AM
I have lost my voice. My writing voice. I have lost my words. I can't seem to find the right words to say what is in my heart and mind. I blame this on my editing work. I am so bent on working on the words of others, I have lost my own capacity to put my own words together and articulate my thoughts. Do I even have original thoughts anymore? And do they really matter?
I envy my colleagues who continue to write. When Neni told me that Friday is her writing day, I thought, what a luxury that would be to have a day set aside only to write. I told myself that I am so busy, I don't have the time for such a non-productive (meaning, non-earning) endeavor. But I am, of course, lying to myself. I simply don't have the discipline, the stick-to-it-iveness, that is needed to be a writer. I have found every excuse not to continue writing: Columnists are a dime a dozen. There's too much opinion out there, too much noise that I don't want to add to. No one is interested anymore. Besides, as a member of the government peace panel, I must keep my opinions to myself.
You know what? It's hogwash. I can think of many other reasons not to go back to writing, but I know I'm being a cop-out.
What am I really afraid of? I have to figure that out. I used to do most of my thinking on paper. By writing out my thoughts, I reached certain conclusions. When I wrote, I didn't really know where a paragraph , much less an entire piece, would take me. Writing was part of my thinking, my analytical process. Now that I have stopped writing, have I also stopped thinking deeply about things? I believe so. I have been merely skimming the surface of issues, content with quick fixes, smart-alecky allusions, re-cycled analyses, stolen insights and unbelievable rationalizations. In afraid I've been faking it for a while now, counting on the residual admiration of people I impressed in the past and who carry a nostalgia for my writing, to still be accepted as a 'journalist on leave'. Someday, I tell those who ask me why I no longer write, I will return to the printed page.
This is both a wish and an aspiration that seems to be more and more difficult to achieve, as I fall deeper into editing the work of others. But I must go back. I must re-gain my voice, find my words, re-claim my space -- or wilt on the vine. I must leave my comfort zone -- which has allowed me to earn more than if I merely wrote opinion -- and forge ahead out there, to my original comfort zone where I was unafraid to be poor and to spill my guts out.
Making ends is meet is important. So is peace-making. So far, I have been able to earn enough by keeping silent and pursuing peace. But I realize I don't have to keep silent to achieve peace. In fact, the path to peace is through dialogue, exposure, transparency, openness. Peace cannot be achieved by keeping mum on the important issues. True peace can be reached when these issues have been thoroughly discussed and consensus reached on the next steps. And that is what writing does -- bring up the issues, put some light to them and hopefully, achieve some clarity so that the right decisions are reached. Writing can be peacemaking.
Lord, let me be that instrument of your peace through my writing. Where there is darkness, let me bring light. Through my words, my thoughts, my actions. Or should that read, through Your words, Your thoughts, Your actions -- through me. Make me the instrument that I was before I began to fear poverty and hunger, to need the comfort of a regular paycheck, and to rationalize these needs as a reason to keep my silence when all hell has been breaking loose in my beloved country.
I must write again, or perish.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
22 October 2009
Okay. I am finally starting a blog. It's been suggested that I do but I've dilly-dallied. I've actually become lazy about writing, preferring to edit other people's stuff and make them sound good. But while editing has been good for my pocket, I know I have to write for the good of my soul. So today, I decided to start blgging.
I am actually inspired by the movie Julie and Julia where Julie writes a blog about her adventures with a cookbook by Julia Child. It made me want to cook, and to write. Cooking and writing are my two passions. But since it is easier and more accessible to write, I am starting with writing. Hopefully, I am still inspired during the weekend to try some new recipes. Maybe I should write a food column.
I loved being in Sydney where I became the de facto cook in Monica's house, a.k.a. Inday. Edge gave me the run of kitchen, humoring me by getting the ingredients I needed for the dishes I wanted to try. On my first visit, they complained that I spent too much on groceries, buying too many esoteric ingredients that they would never again use after I left. But this time around, they seemed to give in and allowed me to get the spices I needed for Korean Beef Ribs and the salad dressings I love to concoct. Woolies became my favorite tourist spot! Did I tell you that my favorite aisle in a supermarket is where the herbs and spices are?
I realized that Monica has barely opened the Joy of Cooking that I gave her two years ago since the marker was still where I left it during my last visit. She just isn't very much a kitchen person. But she made mom's Icebox Cake like an expert only on the second try, and I persuaded her to make her quiche and her Butter Chicken recipes that we all like. I think she probably only needs an appreciative audience and she will shine as a cook.
On this visit, Monica found her true calling knitting and sewing, which I introduced her to. I bought her knitting needles, yarn, and a sewing machine. And since then, she has knitted a scarf, and sewed a large quilt for Edge, a rug for Jack,the dog, pillow cases for the boys, and a cover for a floor pillow. I am so proud of her. She is a true progeny of my mom, more so than I am. The best thing about our getting into crafts is Diego and Luis are now ardent knitters as well.
To get back to cooking, I like concocting dishes, figuring out why certain dishes taste the way they do, and finding substitutes for rare ingredients. Reading a recipe book is one of my greatest pleasures. And I actually clip recipes from newspapers (on Thusdays for the Star and Inquirer) and make them my own. I can talk about cooking with another ardent cook for hours, and I consider sweating it out in a kitchen as time well spent.
I have invented my putanesca sauce from the memory of flavors I encountered ordering it in many restaurants. I had the audacity to serve it at a dinner at home attended by an Italian-American who said he usually only ate spaghetti when his mother cooked the sauce but he thought my putanesca tasted authentic. I couldn't tell him that my secret ingredient was bottled chili that came from a Chinese grocery in San Juan!
I have earned a reputation for making the best lasagne this part of town, and my pecan pie recipe is unparalleled. My lasagne came from a recipe book and the pecan pie recipe can be found at the back of a package of pecans. But those who have tried to make them have not been able to replicate the flavors that I have put into mine. That's because while I follow the basic lasagne recipe, I like experimenting with herbs and spices. And I think my pecan pie tastes different because of the crust, which I make myself, and the liberties I have taken with the pie's ingredients, I won't tell which onees.
One of my greatest pleasures, aside from cooking, is experincing the cooking of close friends like Poch Lozano, Alan Robles and George Francisco -- male foodies all. Besides the excellent cuisine, the company is always great, and the conversation can't be beat. Send me a man who cooks!
Actually, I enjoy the adventure of cooking, presenting dishes, and feeding my guests more than the eating. And I always leave room for dessert. Now all this talk about food is making me hungry.
Okay. I am finally starting a blog. It's been suggested that I do but I've dilly-dallied. I've actually become lazy about writing, preferring to edit other people's stuff and make them sound good. But while editing has been good for my pocket, I know I have to write for the good of my soul. So today, I decided to start blgging.
I am actually inspired by the movie Julie and Julia where Julie writes a blog about her adventures with a cookbook by Julia Child. It made me want to cook, and to write. Cooking and writing are my two passions. But since it is easier and more accessible to write, I am starting with writing. Hopefully, I am still inspired during the weekend to try some new recipes. Maybe I should write a food column.
I loved being in Sydney where I became the de facto cook in Monica's house, a.k.a. Inday. Edge gave me the run of kitchen, humoring me by getting the ingredients I needed for the dishes I wanted to try. On my first visit, they complained that I spent too much on groceries, buying too many esoteric ingredients that they would never again use after I left. But this time around, they seemed to give in and allowed me to get the spices I needed for Korean Beef Ribs and the salad dressings I love to concoct. Woolies became my favorite tourist spot! Did I tell you that my favorite aisle in a supermarket is where the herbs and spices are?
I realized that Monica has barely opened the Joy of Cooking that I gave her two years ago since the marker was still where I left it during my last visit. She just isn't very much a kitchen person. But she made mom's Icebox Cake like an expert only on the second try, and I persuaded her to make her quiche and her Butter Chicken recipes that we all like. I think she probably only needs an appreciative audience and she will shine as a cook.
On this visit, Monica found her true calling knitting and sewing, which I introduced her to. I bought her knitting needles, yarn, and a sewing machine. And since then, she has knitted a scarf, and sewed a large quilt for Edge, a rug for Jack,the dog, pillow cases for the boys, and a cover for a floor pillow. I am so proud of her. She is a true progeny of my mom, more so than I am. The best thing about our getting into crafts is Diego and Luis are now ardent knitters as well.
To get back to cooking, I like concocting dishes, figuring out why certain dishes taste the way they do, and finding substitutes for rare ingredients. Reading a recipe book is one of my greatest pleasures. And I actually clip recipes from newspapers (on Thusdays for the Star and Inquirer) and make them my own. I can talk about cooking with another ardent cook for hours, and I consider sweating it out in a kitchen as time well spent.
I have invented my putanesca sauce from the memory of flavors I encountered ordering it in many restaurants. I had the audacity to serve it at a dinner at home attended by an Italian-American who said he usually only ate spaghetti when his mother cooked the sauce but he thought my putanesca tasted authentic. I couldn't tell him that my secret ingredient was bottled chili that came from a Chinese grocery in San Juan!
I have earned a reputation for making the best lasagne this part of town, and my pecan pie recipe is unparalleled. My lasagne came from a recipe book and the pecan pie recipe can be found at the back of a package of pecans. But those who have tried to make them have not been able to replicate the flavors that I have put into mine. That's because while I follow the basic lasagne recipe, I like experimenting with herbs and spices. And I think my pecan pie tastes different because of the crust, which I make myself, and the liberties I have taken with the pie's ingredients, I won't tell which onees.
One of my greatest pleasures, aside from cooking, is experincing the cooking of close friends like Poch Lozano, Alan Robles and George Francisco -- male foodies all. Besides the excellent cuisine, the company is always great, and the conversation can't be beat. Send me a man who cooks!
Actually, I enjoy the adventure of cooking, presenting dishes, and feeding my guests more than the eating. And I always leave room for dessert. Now all this talk about food is making me hungry.
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