Metamorphosis

As a child, I was brought up to value education. Every time I massaged her back with my pre-adolescent fingers, Nanay told me to give my best effort and maximize the opportunities of education. When I was in high school, I used to pluck her white hairs and she urged me to become a CPA. She believed it to be financially rewarding; respectable and honorable; and, she always had wanted to become one. In all those occasions, she never failed to end her discussion with, “Waray ko iba nga maitatagubilin ha im kun diri an edukasyon. Bisan san-o di it mawawara haim upod han tanan nga napabutnga han im duha nga talinga.” I once found a crumpled faded part of a letter from one of my uncles addressed to my father which said, “Nestor, ang taong nakapag-aral ng tama kailanman ay di mapapalupig at di manlulupig.” My maternal grandparents had the greatest praises for three relatives who were all siblings because they were a lawyer, an engineer, and a teacher-nun. All of them pointed me to a direction where education was not only an end to itself but a means to achieve affluence, respectability, honor, and admiration.

Since I started to consciously think of education though, I have unceasingly discovered and rediscovered that it is much greater than the achievement of all the glories attached to it. It is a metamorphosis that leads me home to the best place in the world… myself. First, I learned that formal education is not the absolute form of education and that I could learn a lot of things without undergoing it; and that I could learn by reading, doing, listening and getting some informal mentoring. Second, it has brought complete changes in the way I viewed a lot of things. I used to think that the world is unjust but I was disproven by history that there will always be people who will fight and die for justice. I always have thought that death is unbearable but then as I studied biology, chemistry, psychology, and mythology I realized that it is a fact and something that can be postponed but never evaded. I always felt that I had to pay a certain price just to enjoy beauty but when I took up literature I saw that poetry is free. Third, it has equipped me with skills that I need for my sources of livelihood and above all, for living. I have acquired the technical competencies I need as a CPA and a teacher. I have become prepared to take on the challenges of life anytime because I have learned to enjoy, analyze and deconstruct both abstractions and facts with an objectivity that only education could afford.

It seems though that today’s youth are more interested in just getting a diploma than acquiring the knowledge, skills, and attitudes that they would need for their future livelihood and prepare themselves for the greater responsibilities of life. Most of them do not feel the need to pursue endeavors such as self-improving tasks that are not required by formal education. Within or without the classroom, they prefer to stick to what is required to earn the grade to complete their degrees. They have not realized that the purpose of education is metamorphosis; that with it they can transform to someone better for whatever purposes it may be- grand or not. When I asked some youngsters though about the purpose of their education, most of them answered that they want to finish their programs so that they could go abroad and earn greater amounts of money that could never be realized in the Philippines. In fact, the 2003 World Bank Country Report on the Philippines by Josefina Santamaria and A.G. Watts states that for the past two decades, students have flocked to courses such as information technology, nursing, teaching, and care giving because of their big demand abroad. Furthermore, the Personnel Management Association of the Philippines found out in one of its recent surveys that most college graduates are not prepared to take on entry level jobs in accounting, sales, and administrative positions because they have poor communication skills; low self-confidence; and, lack of technical skills. There are students who have managed to reach their final year in college but have failed to develop the simple skill of creating a cohesive and well-thought of paragraph. There are many graduates who know the procedures and know-how of tasks but do not have the appreciation and understanding of the principles involved. This could be fatal because it makes them functional illiterates who would easily crumble under the toils of pressure, responsibilities, and decision making.

The youth must learn to value education. They need to be educated on what they need in order to prepare them for their professions and lives. They need to be taught the importance of what they need to learn too so that they would not grow up acting like automatons incapable of thought, discovery, self-criticism, and sound judgment. They need to be educated for their sake; they must not just be trained just to become sources of labor both locally and abroad because wage is not the sole purpose of education. They must be educated to bring the best out of them so that they may bask in a life that is well-lived and well-thought of. They need to have their metamorphosis or else they are doomed to suffer.

Naiibog versus Naawa

Another post on FB that generated much attention. :)

Success, a Question

One evening sometime in June 2011, I took a tricycle ride home. The driver asked me, “Ma’am kay ano ka nagpakyaw na damo pa man dyip tikadto San Jose? Ginkakapoy ka?”  I leaned a bit forward and turned my head to the left to get a clearer glimpse of his time-weathered countenance that was blurry under the beams of the dim street lights. I slowly replied, “Libre ko ini ha ak kalugaringon mano.” I saw a smile crawling from the corners of his lips and serious thoughtfulness leapt from his eyes. When they met, I saw his young dead ringer who said, “Maupay iton,” and to it I replied, “Salamat mano.” As we progressed in travel he told me bits of his life: he never finished college; he resides in a rented house with his wife and two teenage daughters; everyday is financially challenging; he pays boundary to the owner of the tricycle; and, his happiness especially when he is home. Our encounter dissolved into silence as we shortened the distance to my destination but in my forever I will call him Manong Driver.

Thank you to whoever made this drawing. No source was cited.

I was recently asked, “What is success?” I saw their shoulders stooped and eyes averted under my steady stare after I said, “I do not know.” It was as if I committed a great social blunder that was beyond reparation. It would have been friendlier to say that success is the achievement of recognition, fame and glory in any chosen field; educational attainment that eases the hustles and bustles of job procurement and respect; or, financial stability that could afford the most recent models of mobile phones,  computers, game gadgets, houses, travel, and other modern luxuries. However they felt or whatever they thought were of no consequence to me because at the back of my mind the smile of the young dead ringer lingered and a miniscule of that memory badgered the thinking me with these questions, “How about Manong Driver? He does not have any of those; does it mean he is not successful? Does it mean he is a failure?”

People often say the phrase BIG TIME with awe and admiration on their face and when asked the cause of their reaction the usual answers are wealth, fame, and power. When relatives from abroad come home for a vacation they become instant celebrities because of their perceived affluence. Taclobanons and visitors rushed on June 25 to Robinson’s Place to see some currently popular Manila-based actors; the event caused one of the heaviest traffic jams by far in the area. When VP Binay came to Tacloban I saw at least a hundred of photos proclaiming proximity and acquaintance posted on Facebook by several friends and acquaintances. But, are they successful?

Everyone wants to be called successful or be associated with success; nobody would want to be called a failure or be associated with it. The pursuit for success has pushed individuals such as Nelson Mandela from disadvantageous backgrounds to strive and achieve greater political and social statuses. The consummation of the pursuit has brought about happiness and exhilaration to those who circumvent all barriers. Nevertheless, its absence has driven away some people from attending reunions with classmates or relatives; led a friend to commit suicide; and, has turned the eyes of good hearted people green thereby making them behave like dogs catching their tails. Nevertheless, the want to be seen as successful has imprisoned lots of souls such as the Ampatuans in the cages of avarice for wealth, fame, or power.

The question though that matter for me now is this, is success necessary that we live pursuing it? If it is, then I will redefine it so that next time when asked I would be able to properly reply. If it is, then it would mean doing best what one does best; loving what one is doing; giving the best in one’s self to bring out the best in others; not quitting just because one fears failure; and, above all, not pursuing it… let it be an afterthought of a fruitful, wise, just and happy life. Even Manong Driver does not want to be called unsuccessful… a failure, because he is not.

Litson ngan Gaway

Inin kamagsarangkay

sugad hin litson ngan gaway.

Panit hit litson, tambok

ngan unod waray mapantay.

Ugaring, kun di asya

an timplada- an kalangsa

labaw hasang han isda.

An katam-is ngan tigson

han gaway... himaya ha at

kangipunan ngan dila.

Ugaring kun mapan-os na

katol napairapa.

Igsura an litson samtang

nagsasamsam hin gaway;

im ngaran mahangalimtan.

Basta upaya gud la
im pagtimpla ngan pagtuon

sugad han kamagsarangkay.

The Daguitan Bridge in Me

The Daguitan River (Photo is courtesy of Meg Jocson)

In April 1984 I was a nine year old awakening to the implications of the life changing decision of Auntie, as I fondly called my Aunt Letty, to marry. The entangled emotions of fear and anticipation were so suffocating and heart wrenching that I cried the whole time Gaano Ko Ikaw Kamahal played. I was so afraid that the new chapter in her life might mean my loss. I was so full of anticipation for the moment that I would love and hug her children the way she loved and hugged me.

In the midst of all the wedding celebration which was followed by two weeks of fracas brought about by visiting relatives of varying degrees, I wanted solace so that I could think of how things would change even if she already told me that nothing would be different because I knew they would be. I tried to think of how I would deal with the weekends which I used to spend with her- we bathed in the Daguitan River; read books; listened to music especially ABBA and the Carpenters; and played cards. I tried to figure out whom to run to when things get awry at home since she and Tio Dan planned to settle outside of Dulag. I tried to think but everyone was just so festive thus I failed. In spite of the happiness surrounding me I was a very worried nine-year old. Despite this selfish worrying, I imagined her smiling face while her children would run to her the way I always did.

The need to be alone to think and resolve internal conflict was born to me. Then, what I could do to be alone without the adults getting anxious came to me. During one of the family’s big simple dinners, I volunteered to walk from Barbo to Fatima selling ice candies made by Nanay. At first my mother disagreed and said, “Mag-iiritom ka kay mapaso,” and my quick reply was, “Ayla ito Nanay, marisyo man.”

The next day, I left home at nine in the morning with an ice box full of yellow and red condiments as my ticket to solace. I was shaded by the trees that lined up the Maharlika Highway. When I reached the middle of the Daguitan Bridge, I became completely immersed in the unrelenting objectivity of the sun and the strong yet so kind breezes of the river and the Pacific Ocean. I stopped walking and put down the ice bucket. I sat on the side walk of the bridge facing the river going to the ocean; and, for the first time in weeks I was happy. While motorcycles passed with passengers and drivers hurrying to destinations unknown to me, I felt that everything made sense and thought that everything was connected. In the river and the ocean, I saw how Auntie’s marriage connected her more to me and how the generations that she would give forth to the world be connected to me. My young awakening self recognized the individuality of human beings through her and the singleness of lives including hers. For the first time, I understood the freedom of letting go of possessing someone because it was just an illusion because in truth we are all one, we are all connected.

On that day, the Daguitan Bridge in me was born. When things in life get so muddled, I go to that place in me and remember that awakening nine year old who learned to change perspectives and saw the world in its full glory. When things in life get so intoxicatingly fine, I go to that place in me so that I will never forget the unrelenting objectivity of the sun and the strong yet so kind breezes of the river and the Pacific Ocean.

My Auntie, Ms. Letecia Garcia-Cabanero. She has two wonderful children, Gladys and Bryan. She lives in Brgy. Salvacion, Dulag, Leyte with Tio Dan. They are my sanctuary. They have become more than blood to me.

Jeepney Everyday

Dyipni by Neenun Benitez

Epicurus says that for one to be happy one has to be just and wise; to be wise, happy and just; and, to be just, wise and happy. Happiness. Justice. Wisdom. Three ideals, states of the mind, world philosophies, and characters that are quite easier said than done... but they can be done.

A jeepney ride is the cheapest mode of transportation for any Taclobanon. In my case, I take a jeepney ride going to school and coming home. I pay P9.00 each time- a very affordable amount in exchange for the philosophical interplays I witness and the time of reprieve between destinations.

Each time I ride a jeepney, I see how happiness, wisdom, and justice interplay in the lives of people- strangers and sometimes familiar faces who at that point are my acquaintances by chance and necessity. There is justice as each passenger pays his or fare without being prompted by the driver; and, the driver stops at the nearest destination advantageous to the passengers. There are times when the driver overcharges the passenger and immediately it is settled by a swift, "Mano, tikang la ako may Coca-Cola," and the former giving back to the latter the extra peso or fifty centavos. There are cases too when the driver returns extra centavos and the passenger without much ado gives them back to him and saying, "Mano, sobra im sukli." Between them comes the other passengers who serve as carriers of the extra or lacking change and at the same time mediators of justice who either side with the driver or the concerned passenger without any bias at all and just have fair fare as their guide. The driver exercises wisdom in deciding whether to take passenger in or not and the same with the passenger whether to take the offered ride or not. When a passenger says, "Mano, may St. Paul's ako," the driver would say "Maliko ngadto LNU,"; right there on the passenger decides with wisdom whether to take or not the jeepney ride. There is happiness because everyone is in a state of suspension from all their points of departure and destination. Nobody is disallowed to take the ride because of civil status, sexual orientation, color, economic status, body mass, fashion taste or whatever superficial standards. Nobody is given preference in terms of seat space; everyone is expected to pay the amount equitable to the space occupied. In fact there are even cases when the driver exercises pro bono when someone does not have enough fare or when someone gets off because he left something- all these decisions made in quick seconds. The driver ensures the happiness of the passengers by barring those who might wreck it such as drunk and unruly prospective passengers by simply saying, "Pasensya mano."

With the perfect balance achieved, the jeepney is filled with contented quiet and the humming sound of silent individual thoughts. The sharers of the space treat each other with equal respect.  The destinations are reached without hassle. No angry passengers who are late for work or school because the driver has to stop for gasoline. No disgruntled passengers because of rowdy neighbors. It is almost bliss.

=========== REVISED VERSION =================================

Jeepney Everyday

I take a jeepney ride in going to work and coming home; and, I pay P9.00 each time. I take a jeepney ride when I go to parties or gathering with friends, meetings with colleagues, and utility companies to settle the bills; and, I pay at least P7.50. A jeepney ride may be the cheapest mode of transportation for any Taclobanon but it houses treasures of philosophical interplays and reprieves between destinations shared amongst strangers and sometimes familiar faces who at the point of convergence inside a jeepney are acquaintances by chance and necessity.

Each passenger pays his or fare without being prompted by the driver; and, the driver stops at the nearest destination advantageous to the passengers. There are times when the driver overcharges the passenger and immediately it is settled by a swift, "Mano, tikang la ako may Coca-Cola," and the former giving back to the latter the extra peso or fifty centavos. There are cases too when the driver returns extra centavos or a peso and the passenger without much ado gives them back to him and saying, "Mano, sobra im sukli." Between them come the other passengers who serve as carriers of the extra or lacking change and at the same time mediators; they side either with the driver or the concerned passenger without any bias at all and just have fair fare as their guide.

Nobody is disallowed to take the ride because of civil status, sexual orientation, color, economic status, body mass, fashion taste or whatever superficial standards. Nobody is given preference in terms of seat space; everyone is expected to pay the amount equitable to the space occupied. In fact there are even cases when the driver exercises pro bono when someone does not have enough fare or when someone gets off because he left something- all these decisions made in quick seconds. There are instances when the driver keeps on taking in more passengers in order to reach the quota seating capacity even when there is no space anymore but this is immediately rectified by simply saying, “Mano, puno na.” When there are passengers who knock on the roof to signal that they want to get off even if the next stop is a just a few meters away, the driver would say, “Unhan la kay bawal didi.”

The driver exercises expert discernment whether to take passenger in or not and the same with the passenger too as to whether to take the offered ride or not. When a passenger says, "Mano, may St. Paul's ako," the driver would say "Maliko ngadto LNU," and right there on the passenger decides whether to take or not the jeepney ride. Even when the driver fails to refuel before he started his route resulting to a stop or two at gasoline stations passengers do not complain; and, when a passenger wears a strong perfume that causes nasal congestion the other passengers do not breathe a word of irritation at all.

Inside the jeepney, everyone looks at each other without seeing each other. The jeepney is filled with silent individual thoughts. The thoughts are either at rest or occupied by the minute details of daily routines, fantasies, and even dreams of life ahead. In a jeepney, a working woman with her children hurrying for school and work is in equal state of suspension from all her points of departure and destination as much as a man who is going home from his night job as a security officer. There is that shared lull of peace where everything about life seems to stand still. The driver ensures that this is sustained by barring those who might wreck it such as a drunk or unruly prospective passenger by simply saying, "Pasensya mano."

The Untouchable Me

This is a photo of a Facebook shoutout I kept for three days. I am trying to understand why it generated many likes from my friends. Some messaged me via private messaging and text messaging about it. I posted it as a reminder to one of my closest students.

Measures of Pleasure

Originally published via Gahum Weekly Vol. 2 No. 14 July 4-10, 2011

A friend of mine told me that on one of her mid-day breaks during a route ride around her sales area, she saw two boys raiding a large garbage can. She watched them rummaged through the junk for things they could sell. She heard them conversing where they had to go next because they needed to gather more plastic bottles since their price has increased from seven pesos to ten pesos per kilo. The younger one said that with two kilos they could already buy half a kilo of rice and surely their mother would be very happy. The other said, “I hope we could find some steel because they are more expensive.” She told me she felt like she was clandestinely spying on businessmen who were seriously strategizing the rise of their empire. She was intrigued when their faces turned so bright with delight and their voices quite animated. They found a red toy car with missing front wheels. For several minutes she was an unnoticed witness to their jocular mood as they abandoned the garbage can and made motor sounds as they played with car races in their young minds until the older one said with reverberating bravado in his voice, “Let’s go home and give this to Intoy.”

Some say that no pleasure is sweeter than those we cannot afford. The world though is abundant of pleasures that are free or inexpensive. I find measures of them in a pedicab ride from our home to Robinson’s and back during our Sunday grocery rituals. With the wind on my face and the steady rhythm of the turning wheels and sprockets I feel the release of days of work from my shoulders. I also enjoy great measures of them from the 15-minute conversations I make with drivers of tricycles I hire at a minimum of P50 and maximum of P70 on my way home during late hours. The hedonistic value of talking to them, strangers that I probably would not see or hire again because they are hundreds in numbers in Tacloban City, is so accessible yet so rare to those who fail to appreciate. I bask in measures of them every morning while aboard a jeepney where I get to glimpse the anticipation and purposes of each of the passengers as they look at their watches, fidget with their mobile phones, and sometimes their conversations. There is someone I know who derives measures of pleasure from the colors and designs of her fingernails. A friend is filled with joy every time she listens to Sara Bareille’s songs while cleaning her bathroom. There is a food server at the green walled carenderia where I eat my lunch who is always pleased to see me because I say thank you to him.

Everything and everyone can be a source of measures of pleasure. We are all vessels and seekers of pleasure. The only thing that keeps us away from accessing these measures of pleasure is the failure to exercise imagination. With today’s consumerist orientation, most people prefer canned pleasures. It is as if it should be branded with the word pleasure before something becomes pleasurable. It is as if it should be packaged pleasurable before something becomes pleasurable. It is as if I pleasure has become pricey. A lot of us have feared to embark within us and discover that something could be a source of measures of pleasure without the price, brand, and package. Some children have already become unimaginative in their pursuit of pleasure. They have learned to prefer the branded pleasure of PS3 and PS2 over the more free-flowing hedonism of climbing a tree and running under the torrential rain shower. Some of them choose Disney over an afternoon of hide and seek. Among the teenagers, it is noticeable that they would spend hours going from one shop to another in Robinson’s during slack time and not bother at all with the wondrous stars on any given clear night. My friend’s story about the two boys has given me hope though because in it I heard the hearts of those who still know that pleasure emanates from imagination. To those boys, a discarded battered toy fit for the garbage can still be a great source of pleasure because they have imagination.

Tulo nga Babayi, Ak mga Anak

 (An attempt to translate Merlie Alunan's THREE DAUGHTERS I HAVE.)

Merlie Alunan was my professor in UP Tacloban in the Visayas. Formally I was under her instruction for one semester only and the subject was Literature, Man and Society. She has been my mentor though even without her knowing it. I have learned a lot from her and above all... through her. Please feel free to copy this link to know more about her craft and contributions: 

http://www.gmanews.tv/story/216711/lifestyle/kiss-of-the-visayan-spiderwoman

Of Fishers of Men and Women

Originally published via Gahum Weekly Vol. 2 No. 14 June 20-26, 2011

In 1985 to 1986, when we saw her coming, we scampered away from the makeshift school gate but not without catching her image of leveled shoulders, upturned chin, and a black umbrella on her right hand. By the time she reached our classroom we were all seated with straight backs, hands on our desks, and a ready greeting of, “Good morning Mrs. Delmo!” By the mid-mornings of our small universe, we already traversed the tenses of the English language including the participles; the gods and goddesses of Olympus; and sometimes, the works of foreign bards. Before lunch we saw our reading charts changing like the traffic signals: red for poor; blue for good; and, green was for very good. By noon we shouted, “Good bye Mrs. Delmo.” At lunch break, young as we were and everything was fleeting, we forgot whatever green we achieved and red we suffered in the morning. We ate lunch in haste and spent the rest playing batak-batak.

At exactly one in the afternoon we were once again seated with straight backs, hands on our desks, and this time a ready greeting of, “Good afternoon Mrs. Delmo.” By mid-afternoon, we uncomplainingly shed gallons of sweat from the humidity outside and the almost insurmountable tasks of deciphering algebraic expressions or geometrical theorems. Late in the afternoon, regardless of our academic achievements or should I say shortfalls, she marshaled us to the mini-garden of roses, bougainvilleas, and lacatan grass where we toiled, pruned, watered, and endlessly chattered under our breaths about significant stuffs of our young lives such as who made the best balls from coconut leaves; who had the highest Chinese garter leap; or, what flowers to bring the next day. We washed the dirt that clung to our hands and seeped underneath our fingers; and, one by one my classmates left after saying, “Good bye Mrs. Delmo!”

I silently walked beside her to her residence at Serrano Street where I spent two hours more under her instruction to peel off little by little the mysteries of mathematics regardless of my health or what happened at home the night before. While I contemplated the thickness of her graying hair strands, she explained with the clarity of pure water spring how to unlock the most Sphinx-like formulas. While her family prepared dinner which I often shared, she focused her black-rimmed eyeglasses on the remnants of my love affairs and sometimes skirmishes with numbers. While my parents quarreled at home, she taught me without words the intricate wisdom of numbers but she always said, “Flow with the problem.” On weekends whether my parents were at peace or war, I shared her space with Florissa and Jean; and, she urged us on to believe that we could master numbers and not make them our masters.

“Hi Pelimon, hi Pelimon nangisda ha kadagatan/Nakadakop nakadakop hin isda nga tambasakan/Ginbaligya, ginbaligya ha merkadong guba.” The lyrics may not be right but I prefer to stick with them because they grip me like the little memories I have left of Ma’am Delmo. On and on the song rolls on my tongue with the bittersweet memory of her adamant voice that kept telling me to continue on my worksheets on areas, volumes, and parameters as I feared for my mother’s emotional stability after it was known that my father sired a child with another woman. On and on it rolls on my tongue with the milk chocolate sweetness of the image of her thrifty smile when the three of us bagged the championship for the team division and the top three places in the individual division. The last time I saw her, I saw her from afar. I was already a CPA and she still walked with leveled shoulders, upturned chin, and a black umbrella on her right hand. I waved at her and she nodded at me with the same thrifty smile. When thinking of her, I think of a fish caught by a fisherman. It would probably end up dead, eaten, or placed in an aquarium. When I think of her, I think of me caught by her. She was a fisher of men and women thus I became alive; and, freed of fear and ignorance.

The Tie that Binds

Originally published via Gahum Weekly Vol. 2 No. 13 June 6-12, 2011

“All babies are flown from the Universe/From there they're lifted by the hands of angels/
God gives them the stars to use as ladders.” (Excerpt from All Babies by Sinead O’Connor)

I speak with courage because I will not quote and you may seek me to take full responsibility of every intention these words will bring you. Above all, I hope that they become seeds for us in our search for understanding and solution.

When we entered primary education we were taught the concept of family and it being the foundation of society; and, for those of us who received Catholic catechism we learned that God is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. From the moment we knew we could learn, we were taught to love, obey and honor our parents; and, not to learn this was not only unspeakable but beyond conception. In the deepest recesses of ourselves, we always had known though that it was right to do such with or without us being instructed.

The tie that binds us to our parents is beyond the fact that we are products of their sperms and egg cells. It transcends the fact that our mothers carried us in their wombs for nine months. It is much more complex than them being the givers and us the takers of care and sustenance. They are not just progenitors of the future because they are unique individuals capable of anything and everything… even wanting a life with or without us. The tie that binds us leads us to expect them to be the first bearers of love. In our souls, this tie makes us want them to be our first protectors. In our hearts, this tie allows us to believe they are the heralds of trust. Nobody taught us to create this tie. We did not need to learn that we needed our parents to love and protect us and for us to trust in them. We just did.

There are children though who need to unravel this tie that binds. There are some who suffer from physically abusive fathers who say in the aftermath of their violence, “Pasalamat kamo amo la ini iyo gin-aagain. Waray ini magkatunga han pangastigo han iyo lolo ha ak.” There are some who are inflicted a million paper cuts when their mothers verbally and emotionally abuse them for the sins of the fathers. Many children are in agony and helplessness over the pain that their battered mothers go through. Many children are ailed with isolation as their parents pass their responsibility of parenthood to others such as relatives, strangers, or the State. They are children who must learn to unravel the tie that binds or else they will continue needing the love and protection of parents who cannot give such and trust parents who cannot be trusted. If they do not unravel the tie that binds, they will just become part of the vicious cycle because there will be no recognition of error thus the children when they become parents will repeat the same mistakes.

There are laws that have been legislated to protect the children such as the RA 9262 (Anti-Violence against Women and Their Children Act of 2004) and RA 7610 (Special Protection of Children against Abuse, Exploitation and Discrimination Act). Their existence has made me ask three questions. Do we really need laws that could punish just to know what to do right for our children? Is the natural law of kindness not enough to rule parent-children relations? Are they effective in getting to the root of the problems?

I was a child. I am a child. I will always be a child. I have learned how to deal with the tie that binds. Just like any sojourner in the world, I met my parents by chance and they too met me by chance. I believe that there is no better rule than kindness among sojourners… one-way or two-way street, it does not matter… as long as I do what is right.

Kan Lopez

Originally published via Gahum Weekly Vol. 2 No. 12 May 23-29, 2011

As we all grow older, we try to reach back somewhere to our childhood for moments that could take us away especially from the meanderings of adulthood. We take shelter in them and bask in the ethereal yet so ephemeral familiarity of memories. My share of these moments includes the dusks when my Lolo Medios told stories about Kan Lopez and its enchanted denizens.

With the glitter that only belief could have brought into his eyes, he lyrically swept us away to a world of beings that looked like men and women but with the powers of gods. One of my favorites of them was Bernabe. He was of Kan Lopez but was born to an elderly couple of Bucatutan, Rizal, which is a barrio of Dulag, Leyte. When he was born, he was as tiny as a sardine can; in days time he was a beautiful toddler; and, in a month he was a handsome young man. He ate too much that his human parents became bankrupt in less than a month thus forcing his father to attempt parricide twice. The first time, he was tricked to jump into the Pacific Ocean where biggest sharks waited; but, he smote all of them with his pisaw then went back home with two… one on each shoulder. The second time, he was lured to accompany his father to a forest filled with trees that almost reached the skies and were ten times wider than the Maharlika Highway. His father asked him to catch a befallen tree and when silence ensued he thought Bernabe was dead. An hour after his father arrived home, Bernabe shouted from the libong, “Tatay, where should I put the firewood?” His parents gazed with awe at the gargantuan tree on his shoulder.

Lolo Medios painted with such beautiful words the kingdom of Kan Lopez. When he told us that one of our departed distant cousins was half engkanto; that he was not actually dead; and, that he was just at Kan Lopez, we all wanted his fate. Ate Puji and I were so convinced that every time we walked under the cool shades of the Kan Lopez trees, we respectfully chanted, “Tabi apoy. Tabi mga umurukoy.” More importantly, we never treaded the silent roads of Bucatutan without salt in our pockets because as much as we were so enamored with the fair-skinned tall people of Kan Lopez- we were afraid never again to lay sight on our loved ones.

Amusingly, at 36 years of age… when the ground I stand upon shake, I think of Bernabe. Lolo Medios told us that he made a giant kasing from the tree he carried home and rode on it to Amandewing where he slew the giant who guarded the two rock foundations of earth thus the responsibility of holding them apart rested on him. Every time I feel an earthquake I speak in an almost prayerful yet smiling tone, “Bernabe must be resting…”

Lola Martina's Lesson

A revised version was published via Gahum Weekly Vol. 1 No.9 Jan. 16-30, 2011

On January 6, 1996 my grandfather took his shotgun; walked with steady feet the distance between the house where he lived for decades with his wife and the Daguitan river bank. He shot his wife at the back of her head while she was facing the river and picking buga that she intended to use to scrub the soot off a kaldero. He walked backwards a couple of steps; and, shot himself amidst the stunned panic of those who were doing laundry along the banks.

This shook the idyllic moods of some Dulagnons who were still getting ready to go back to work and school after a long holiday; fueled the thoughts of those who were into existential discussions at Bulan’s barber shop; and, became the main dish of those who tried to figure out who was to blame and why it happened. To their children and grandchildren, it became unfathomable grief and betrayal without redress.

Lolo Peping at that time was 79 and Lola Martina was 77. They lived together as a couple for more than 55 years before 1995 and had eight children. There were only very few occasions of physical separation between them such as when my grandfather joined the Guerilla Movement during World War II; when either of them went to Manila to visit their children which was like thrice their lifetimes; and, thrice when my grandmother left to escape physical battery.

The first time she left she was around sixty-five. She went to Manila and took refuge in the fact of distance. My grandfather wooed her back.  The second time, she was seventy. She stayed at Cambula where she thought her son would shield her from his father only to protect her daughter-in-law from her son’s perennial anger. She went back again after Lolo Peping asked forgiveness and cried himself out professing undying love and need. The third time she left, it was with full conviction that she was never to return. In spite of my grandfather’s persistent visits to my aunt’s home, where Lola Martina had lived for months in safety and joy, she did not budge.

At 77, she said to me, “Maaram na ak hit ak karuyag. Di na maiha ak kinabuhi. Karuyag ko maging malipay maski naman la ha haligot na panahon.” My grandmother was so hopeful that she could still live free from violence. Sadly, this was curtailed by the man who should had have understood. Sometimes, to console myself I say, “At least before she died, she was happy.”

It has been more than fourteen years since her death, yet I see my Lola Martina in many women. They suffer in the hands or from the tongue of the men they hold so dear and worthy of sharing their lives with. One of them is a 20-year old who she said that she cannot leave her boyfriend because she does not want their child to grow up without a father. Another is a woman who has gained a lot of academic and professional recognition but she refuses to let go of the relationship because she says, he is her husband. In spite of their education which my grandmother never had, they feel that there is no way out of the tunnel of their suffering. They believe that they must keep in silent shroud their predicament because it bears the sign of shame. When I see their hopes for freedom dissipate, I say, “Lola Martina was 77 but she believed that her life was still worth living. Just be wiser, learn RA 9262.”