Showing posts with label Youngblood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Youngblood. Show all posts
Old Shoes
Published in the Youngblood section of the March 24, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
Among the more than 6,000 pairs of shoes you will find in our school, mine must be in the poorest shape. All that is left of its original label are scattered dots. The tongue and side flaps of each shoe are in danger of falling apart anytime, much like the petals of a withered rose. The rubber soles and front covers, which were once white, are now gray with dust and age. With every step I take, my little toes peek out from tiny holes at the sides. (Now girls looking at me as I walk can find out if a guy with small shoes has small . . . toes.)
The size-7 canvas shoes cost me P209 last year. Now, beggars would sneer if I offered them my shoes. Well, they don't have to do that because I don't have any plans of letting go of them yet. In fact, I've decided to wear them until the end of the school year, or until all my toes are exposed, whichever comes first.
I'm amused when other students stare at my battered and tattered footwear. I try to guess what's on their minds. They probably pity me. I sure look poorer than a barefoot rat.
But I couldn't care less. Being poor is currently in fashion. (With the expanded value-added tax and all the corruption in government, we don't have much choice, do we?) What matters to me is that I don't have athlete's foot. Besides, school is not a catwalk.
I'm glad male students are free to wear any kind of pants in my school. Sneakers look just fine with jeans.
For more than a year, I've been wearing the same shoes every day—in the classroom, out on the streets, even during acquaintance parties. I take them off only when I'm going to sleep or taking a bath. Their sole competition is the red, oversized slippers my old roommate in the dorm gave me to remember him by.
The shoes were the best investment I have ever made by far. They helped me pass two Physical Education classes—dancing and badminton—but they have to last until I get through basketball this semester. I've worn them for more than 400 days already. This means that I've spent about 50 centavos a day only for my very reliable footwear. (I figure that if our lawmakers adopt this kind of austerity measure for themselves instead of burdening the people with so many much taxes, our economy might recover faster.)
I have no plans of buying a new pair yet because walking inside the mall makes my legs ache. And I hate crowded places. And I hate shopping. And I hate capitalism.
Of course, I'm just making pathetic excuses. I'm actually waiting for the day when I will have enough money to buy better shoes (I'm dreaming of Ferragamos or a pair of Zoom LeBron III). In the meantime, I am thinking of a way to convince Manny Pacquiao how badly I need money so that he would give me some balato(share) from his latest win. And I'm still weighing the moral implications of betting in the illegal numbers game called “last two.”
I never liked sneakers before. I bought mine only because all my newfound friends last year were wearing sneakers. We agreed to wear shoes of the same kind but of different colors. There were already red, green and blue, and I was supposed to have Power Ranger white. But I had to settle for a black pair with slightly different markings because it was the only one available in the store then.
From the moment I started wearing them, I was convinced canvas shoes were the most comfortable shoes in the world. They also made me part of a cool brotherhood like the Fellowship of the Ring. Thus, seven pairs of sneakers would usually walk together to and from Mathematics, Chemistry and Technical Drawing classes. And suddenly, I was not this antisocial paperback junkie anymore, and the number of people calling me “weird” was getting smaller by the week. Before that, a lone pair of black suede shoes trod the school premises by themselves.
The sneakers, however, did not keep our brotherhood together for long. The next semester, the one who always thought up ways for the group to bond together had to transfer school. Another stopped studying. We also had different class schedules and others found the company of others more enjoyable. My sneakers had their chance to take a different path when I finally realized that I was always getting lost trying to find the x's and y's, and decided I might do better if I aspired for public service.
I don't see the other guys very often anymore. But most of us still use the same old shoes. And I'll continue wearing my sneakers, even if they are stained, discolored and torn. I don't want to buy new shoes. I might never find a better or equally valuable pair.
The Walk
Published on page A13 of the February 24, 2005 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
To help mark the "Mindanao Week of Peace" late last year, our school organized a walk for peace. I thought I could use the bonus points I would earn in my Religious Education class, so I decided to join it. But typhoon Yoyong forced its cancellation.
I was disappointed. Southern Mindanao only had light rain showers that day but the suspension of classes was nationwide. I spent the whole day grumbling about the fun I had missed. I was looking forward to the event as an occasion to get better acquainted with my new classmates.
I knew the walk was meant as a call for lasting peace in Mindanao. But I thought it no longer necessary. The whole island had been rather quiet for some time. The most gruesome terrorist act in my memory—the bombing of the Davao airport—happened two years earlier. The government's counter-terrorism efforts must have borne fruit. So if the walk had anything to do with peace, it must be a celebration.
Or so I thought. A few days later, another bomb went off in General Santos City, killing several people and injuring dozens of others.
The blast opened my eyes to reality and made me reevaluate my purpose for joining the walk. Peace seemed more elusive than ever before. The terrorists had taken only a brief respite and they were on the prowl again. I should take part in the walk for peace not for some selfish reasons but to help bring about its ultimate goal: peace.
The walk pushed through a week later. The night before the event, I stayed up late working on the placard I would carry. As I struggled to find the perfect message, I remembered one incident that occurred during my childhood.
It happened about 15 years ago during one of the few times I visited Cotabato City. My parents and their friends were following up some papers at the branch office of the Government Service Insurance System in front of the city plaza. While the women were inside, my father and my godfather took me to the park.
There I met a Muslim boy who was a little older than me. He must have been one of several children of a vendor. We became instant friends. Somehow, we managed to communicate even though he spoke Maguindanaoan and I could only speak Ilonggo. Knowing I was a visitor, he invited me for a walk around the park.
We were at the back of the statue of Jose Rizal when a poorly covered manhole caught my eye. I don't know what got into my 4-year-old mind, but I put my foot tentatively on the thin sheet of metal, turned to my companion, and declared, "Tapakan ko ni (Do you want me to step on this)?"
He mumbled his disapproval, but my braggadocio got the better of me. I stepped on the cover and it gave way immediately. I fell into the hole, and cold, murky water engulfed my tiny body.
I don't know what happened next. When I was out of the water, the first face I saw was my father's. Then my mother bought me new clothes, a balloon and everything I pointed at in the store we went to. I completely forgot my newfound friend.
I found out later that I could have died if not for the boy's quick action. When he saw me disappear into the manhole, he immediately looked for my father. My father saw my hands trying to grasp at anything among the dead frogs floating in the dark-green water. He pulled me out and was greatly relieved to see that I was conscious.
It was an unforgettable experience for me. The incident has been etched in my memory as my second birth. Remembering what happened that afternoon is like watching a monochromatic film: Two boys take a leisurely walk, oblivious of the rest of the world. It does not matter to them if one prays to God by kneeling down and looking up to heaven, while the other worships Allah by kneeling down and kissing the ground. The friendship they share knows no religion, language or culture.
So when I walked around Koronadal City with my fellow students of Notre Dame, I carried my placard up high so that everyone could read what I had written: "Prejudice creates injustice. Injustice destroys peace."
Midway through the activity, I was filled with doubts. I began questioning the significance of what I was doing. Would the walk have any impact on the peace and order situation in Mindanao? I thought the walk would bring awareness and awaken the peacemaking instinct in people. But those who came out to watch went back to whatever they were doing after seeing that it was not a parade. Those who stayed did so because they were amused by the sight of students marching like labor union members on strike. Motorists were obviously annoyed to find the flow of traffic being disturbed.
I asked myself if the terrorists would heed to the silent cry of a few hundred students. They were deaf to the wails of families left by the innocent civilians killed by their bombs. They were blind to the agony of those who were crippled and maimed by the explosion. Their hearts had been hardened by the injustices they suffered. Their minds had been clouded by ideologies.
I finished the walk feeling lost and confused amid the throng of students. But I realized afterwards, during the symposium and the Mass, that the walk was not useless or futile. It may not have changed the minds of the terrorists, but it helped everyone who joined become aware of his vital role in peacekeeping. It may not have moved those we passed by, but it made us resolve to become peacemakers. After the walk, we were ready to wipe away the prejudices we had acquired and judge everyone on the basis of his character, not his religion or ethnicity.
I hope other young people of Mindanao—both Christians and Muslims—will have the opportunity to join a walk for peace or any related activity. If every young man and woman would work for peace today, who is going to plant bombs tomorrow? Propagating a culture of peace among the youth is the way to put an end to the insurgencies in Mindanao.
The walk was exhausting and made my feet ache. But the pain was nothing compared to the rewards I got. The bonus points? I did not get any because our teacher was not able to join us. But the enlightenment I received was much more valuable. And I gained friends—peace-loving friends.
To help mark the "Mindanao Week of Peace" late last year, our school organized a walk for peace. I thought I could use the bonus points I would earn in my Religious Education class, so I decided to join it. But typhoon Yoyong forced its cancellation.
I was disappointed. Southern Mindanao only had light rain showers that day but the suspension of classes was nationwide. I spent the whole day grumbling about the fun I had missed. I was looking forward to the event as an occasion to get better acquainted with my new classmates.
I knew the walk was meant as a call for lasting peace in Mindanao. But I thought it no longer necessary. The whole island had been rather quiet for some time. The most gruesome terrorist act in my memory—the bombing of the Davao airport—happened two years earlier. The government's counter-terrorism efforts must have borne fruit. So if the walk had anything to do with peace, it must be a celebration.
Or so I thought. A few days later, another bomb went off in General Santos City, killing several people and injuring dozens of others.
The blast opened my eyes to reality and made me reevaluate my purpose for joining the walk. Peace seemed more elusive than ever before. The terrorists had taken only a brief respite and they were on the prowl again. I should take part in the walk for peace not for some selfish reasons but to help bring about its ultimate goal: peace.
The walk pushed through a week later. The night before the event, I stayed up late working on the placard I would carry. As I struggled to find the perfect message, I remembered one incident that occurred during my childhood.
It happened about 15 years ago during one of the few times I visited Cotabato City. My parents and their friends were following up some papers at the branch office of the Government Service Insurance System in front of the city plaza. While the women were inside, my father and my godfather took me to the park.
There I met a Muslim boy who was a little older than me. He must have been one of several children of a vendor. We became instant friends. Somehow, we managed to communicate even though he spoke Maguindanaoan and I could only speak Ilonggo. Knowing I was a visitor, he invited me for a walk around the park.
We were at the back of the statue of Jose Rizal when a poorly covered manhole caught my eye. I don't know what got into my 4-year-old mind, but I put my foot tentatively on the thin sheet of metal, turned to my companion, and declared, "Tapakan ko ni (Do you want me to step on this)?"
He mumbled his disapproval, but my braggadocio got the better of me. I stepped on the cover and it gave way immediately. I fell into the hole, and cold, murky water engulfed my tiny body.
I don't know what happened next. When I was out of the water, the first face I saw was my father's. Then my mother bought me new clothes, a balloon and everything I pointed at in the store we went to. I completely forgot my newfound friend.
I found out later that I could have died if not for the boy's quick action. When he saw me disappear into the manhole, he immediately looked for my father. My father saw my hands trying to grasp at anything among the dead frogs floating in the dark-green water. He pulled me out and was greatly relieved to see that I was conscious.
It was an unforgettable experience for me. The incident has been etched in my memory as my second birth. Remembering what happened that afternoon is like watching a monochromatic film: Two boys take a leisurely walk, oblivious of the rest of the world. It does not matter to them if one prays to God by kneeling down and looking up to heaven, while the other worships Allah by kneeling down and kissing the ground. The friendship they share knows no religion, language or culture.
So when I walked around Koronadal City with my fellow students of Notre Dame, I carried my placard up high so that everyone could read what I had written: "Prejudice creates injustice. Injustice destroys peace."
Midway through the activity, I was filled with doubts. I began questioning the significance of what I was doing. Would the walk have any impact on the peace and order situation in Mindanao? I thought the walk would bring awareness and awaken the peacemaking instinct in people. But those who came out to watch went back to whatever they were doing after seeing that it was not a parade. Those who stayed did so because they were amused by the sight of students marching like labor union members on strike. Motorists were obviously annoyed to find the flow of traffic being disturbed.
I asked myself if the terrorists would heed to the silent cry of a few hundred students. They were deaf to the wails of families left by the innocent civilians killed by their bombs. They were blind to the agony of those who were crippled and maimed by the explosion. Their hearts had been hardened by the injustices they suffered. Their minds had been clouded by ideologies.
I finished the walk feeling lost and confused amid the throng of students. But I realized afterwards, during the symposium and the Mass, that the walk was not useless or futile. It may not have changed the minds of the terrorists, but it helped everyone who joined become aware of his vital role in peacekeeping. It may not have moved those we passed by, but it made us resolve to become peacemakers. After the walk, we were ready to wipe away the prejudices we had acquired and judge everyone on the basis of his character, not his religion or ethnicity.
I hope other young people of Mindanao—both Christians and Muslims—will have the opportunity to join a walk for peace or any related activity. If every young man and woman would work for peace today, who is going to plant bombs tomorrow? Propagating a culture of peace among the youth is the way to put an end to the insurgencies in Mindanao.
The walk was exhausting and made my feet ache. But the pain was nothing compared to the rewards I got. The bonus points? I did not get any because our teacher was not able to join us. But the enlightenment I received was much more valuable. And I gained friends—peace-loving friends.
The Final Frontier?
I'm reserving this space for my second essay published in the Youngblood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. I'm still looking for a soft copy of it.
Buried Hope
Published in the Youngblood section of the November 22, 2005 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
Who wouldn't want to stumble upon a chest filled with gold bars and precious jewels? With such riches, you can go to the United States, have all the blondes you desire and spite those who spited you before.
I had the same dream several years ago. I wanted to search for a buried treasure, guided by a coded map and all. With the money from the loot, I then imagined, I would go to the States, collect all the Marvel comic books I could get my hands on and eat Pringles all day.
I knew, however, that for every Jim Hawkins of Treasure Island, there's a Long John Silver and a great deal of trouble and adversities. I knew, too, that not all treasures are buried and neither do they necessarily come in the form of gold bars.
But since I could not begin my quest, I contented myself with the fortune-hunting stories of my uncles and their friends. Their adventures were surely not as suspenseful or glamorous as those in books and movies and, worse, they never ended happily, but hearing the stories straight from the horse's mouth was quite exciting.
Aside from farming, treasure hunting is the occupation of a few of my uncles. While waiting for the next harvest, they leave the cornfield and dig in odd places in the provinces of Sultan Kudarat and Cotabato.
One tale I will never forget was about how a babaylan (fortune teller-cum-faith healer) led them through a series of futile searches. The old man claimed that the figurine he was keeping, which resembled the image of Sto. Niño, could point the location of the buried treasure. Off my uncles would go to the site and then they would dig and dig without finding any treasure. Whenever they would find water table or the hole collapsed, the babaylan would say they were being blocked by malevolent spirits. My uncles would then go looking for black chickens to be offered to the spirits, and then start digging in another place the babaylan had identified for them. The search dragged on for several years and was only stopped when the old man died.
My uncles' experiences do seem amusing and deserving of derision. But the hunters' misfortune actually calls for some reflection.
The plight of corn growers is worse than that of the ditch digger's in the story. The digger digs a ditch to earn money to buy food so he would have the strength to dig a ditch. Farmers sow hybrid seeds, use synthetic fertilizers and sell their produce so they can buy food and pest-resistant seeds. While the cost of agricultural supplies rises by several pesos per milligram, the price of corn increases by a few centavos per kilogram. To arrest their slide deeper into poverty, those who till the soil like my uncles will do anything and follow anyone who promises great wealth, even if the scheme seems to be too good to be true.
Treasure hunters once ransacked a cave, damaging a potential eco-tourism destination in the process. When I went inside the cave about 12 years ago, the hunters had chipped off a wall a figure of a naked woman, which might have been an archaeological artifact. Now it's dangerous to go inside the cave because dynamite used by hunters have caused large cracks to form in the mouth and in the roof of the cave. My cousins told me that the stalactites, which took thousands of years to form, have also been destroyed. (Similar problems brought about by treasure hunters threaten the reservation area in Mt. Matutum in South Cotabato.)
It's easy to hate the hunters if you're the type who subscribes to National Geographic and travels to Unesco World Heritage Sites to unwind every summer. You can't empathize with them if you don't have to worry about rats and El Niño destroying your livelihood and you have the leisure to appreciate culture and the arts.
But I refuse to judge the hunters. The holes they dug may be proof of their indolence and greed, but those same holes are also telltale signs of neglect and abuse by those who hold power.
In almost all rural communities of Mindanao I've been to, treasure hunting is commonplace. People are lured into looking for the treasure of Yamashita as easily as betting on "last two," a very popular but illegal numbers game. Many Filipinos would rather stake their future on an illegal activity than trust their leaders to bring about progress in their lives.
If you're a public official born to a family of business tycoons or owners of wide tracks of land, the highest value instilled in you is to bring in the dough and maintain your social status. Thus you would propose or implement laws that benefit you most and you would do everything to stay in power. If you work in the government and got your position through nepotism or bribery, your priority would naturally be to pay back those who helped you or recover your expenses. It is clear from what's happening around us, that public service has taken a back seat retaining power and cutting deals. As long as our form of government continues to be an aristocracy masquerading as a democracy, the masses will remain mired in poverty.
If you're an ordinary Filipino, the best way—or, it seems to be the only way—to secure a better future for yourself is by finding work overseas. If you can't leave, then you must get used to sleeping on an empty stomach and put all your hopes in treasure hunting. You dream not just once but for the rest of your life about finding that hidden chest filled with gold and jewelry so you can go to the States and leave your wretched existence.
Who wouldn't want to stumble upon a chest filled with gold bars and precious jewels? With such riches, you can go to the United States, have all the blondes you desire and spite those who spited you before.
I had the same dream several years ago. I wanted to search for a buried treasure, guided by a coded map and all. With the money from the loot, I then imagined, I would go to the States, collect all the Marvel comic books I could get my hands on and eat Pringles all day.
I knew, however, that for every Jim Hawkins of Treasure Island, there's a Long John Silver and a great deal of trouble and adversities. I knew, too, that not all treasures are buried and neither do they necessarily come in the form of gold bars.
But since I could not begin my quest, I contented myself with the fortune-hunting stories of my uncles and their friends. Their adventures were surely not as suspenseful or glamorous as those in books and movies and, worse, they never ended happily, but hearing the stories straight from the horse's mouth was quite exciting.
Aside from farming, treasure hunting is the occupation of a few of my uncles. While waiting for the next harvest, they leave the cornfield and dig in odd places in the provinces of Sultan Kudarat and Cotabato.
One tale I will never forget was about how a babaylan (fortune teller-cum-faith healer) led them through a series of futile searches. The old man claimed that the figurine he was keeping, which resembled the image of Sto. Niño, could point the location of the buried treasure. Off my uncles would go to the site and then they would dig and dig without finding any treasure. Whenever they would find water table or the hole collapsed, the babaylan would say they were being blocked by malevolent spirits. My uncles would then go looking for black chickens to be offered to the spirits, and then start digging in another place the babaylan had identified for them. The search dragged on for several years and was only stopped when the old man died.
My uncles' experiences do seem amusing and deserving of derision. But the hunters' misfortune actually calls for some reflection.
The plight of corn growers is worse than that of the ditch digger's in the story. The digger digs a ditch to earn money to buy food so he would have the strength to dig a ditch. Farmers sow hybrid seeds, use synthetic fertilizers and sell their produce so they can buy food and pest-resistant seeds. While the cost of agricultural supplies rises by several pesos per milligram, the price of corn increases by a few centavos per kilogram. To arrest their slide deeper into poverty, those who till the soil like my uncles will do anything and follow anyone who promises great wealth, even if the scheme seems to be too good to be true.
Treasure hunters once ransacked a cave, damaging a potential eco-tourism destination in the process. When I went inside the cave about 12 years ago, the hunters had chipped off a wall a figure of a naked woman, which might have been an archaeological artifact. Now it's dangerous to go inside the cave because dynamite used by hunters have caused large cracks to form in the mouth and in the roof of the cave. My cousins told me that the stalactites, which took thousands of years to form, have also been destroyed. (Similar problems brought about by treasure hunters threaten the reservation area in Mt. Matutum in South Cotabato.)
It's easy to hate the hunters if you're the type who subscribes to National Geographic and travels to Unesco World Heritage Sites to unwind every summer. You can't empathize with them if you don't have to worry about rats and El Niño destroying your livelihood and you have the leisure to appreciate culture and the arts.
But I refuse to judge the hunters. The holes they dug may be proof of their indolence and greed, but those same holes are also telltale signs of neglect and abuse by those who hold power.
In almost all rural communities of Mindanao I've been to, treasure hunting is commonplace. People are lured into looking for the treasure of Yamashita as easily as betting on "last two," a very popular but illegal numbers game. Many Filipinos would rather stake their future on an illegal activity than trust their leaders to bring about progress in their lives.
If you're a public official born to a family of business tycoons or owners of wide tracks of land, the highest value instilled in you is to bring in the dough and maintain your social status. Thus you would propose or implement laws that benefit you most and you would do everything to stay in power. If you work in the government and got your position through nepotism or bribery, your priority would naturally be to pay back those who helped you or recover your expenses. It is clear from what's happening around us, that public service has taken a back seat retaining power and cutting deals. As long as our form of government continues to be an aristocracy masquerading as a democracy, the masses will remain mired in poverty.
If you're an ordinary Filipino, the best way—or, it seems to be the only way—to secure a better future for yourself is by finding work overseas. If you can't leave, then you must get used to sleeping on an empty stomach and put all your hopes in treasure hunting. You dream not just once but for the rest of your life about finding that hidden chest filled with gold and jewelry so you can go to the States and leave your wretched existence.
Silent Night
I'm reserving this space for my fourth essay published in the Youngblood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. I'm still looking for a soft copy of it.
Smiles
Published in the Youngblood section of the April 5, 2007 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
I took my place near the altar. After glancing around inside the small chapel, my mouth formed what must have been my biggest smile ever.
Twenty or so married women were smiling at me. They were seated on long slabs of wood that served as pews. Half of them were cradling their very young children in their arms. They gave me courage to start with my task, which was to speak about the law on violence against women and children, not so much with words as with their smiles and the interest that I saw on their faces.
Clutching a copy of RA 9262, I suddenly felt unworthy of their warm welcome. I had no intention of going to that remote sitio of Lamkot in Banga, South Cotabato. I went there with my five classmates only because we were required in our Religious Education class to conduct a pastoral integration activity.
I never had a good impression of outreach activities. For me, they encourage and even breed mendicancy. They remind me of our politicians’ habit of giving doles during campaign periods.
It does not help that many students’ idea (and practice) of a community service is an activity that involves distribution of noodles and canned goods to indigenous people, picture-taking and frolicking in a nearby waterfall or cave for the rest of the day. Also, outreach activities can be a form of discrimination, especially when the beneficiaries are pictured as people who cannot fend for themselves.
I was glad that my group mates decided that we conduct something like a seminar instead. But still, I wasn’t so enthusiastic about the trip to the far-flung place. Riding in a motorcycle over rugged hills and farms for 30 minutes may seem like an adventure for others, but not for me. I spent my childhood in the hinterlands of Sultan Kudarat, where riding in a “skylab” (a motorcycle remodeled to carry up to four passengers) was the most convenient mode of transportation. I had enough experiences of landing in mud and having a sore butt to last me a lifetime. So when my group mates informed me that all was set for our outreach activities in Sitio Lamtok, I thought, OK, let’s get over it quickly.
With bloodshot eyes and stringy hair from the dust and wind during the trip, I began introducing the law to the women. The topic was serious but there was never a dull moment in our discussion. Some of the mothers kept cracking jokes that sent everyone laughing. The babies wailed one after the other, and their mothers would hurry to rock them back to sleep, change their diapers, or breastfeed them.
The reactions of the women to RA 9262 were somewhat of a surprise to me. I expected them to nod in agreement with every provision that I read, but instead they would mutter: “May ara gali sina (You mean, there’s something in the law about that)?” or “Waay gid na sadto ba. (That was never practiced before)” or “Pwede gali na (Is that really allowed)?”
It struck me that this was the first time they were hearing about women’s and children’s rights. Judging by their comments, I could say that they even thought some of the provisions were a bit absurd and too favorable for them.
I sat on one side as my companions continued explaining the law. Looking around, I wished I had come in jogging pants and slippers. For although I was dressed simply—in white shirt, jeans and sneakers—I felt like I was overdressed amid the bucolic surroundings. The women were wearing everyday clothes and well-worn flip-flops. The chapel, which also serves as a day care center and a place for occasional gatherings such as the one the Women’s Association was having that day, was devoid of embellishments. The hardwood-and-bamboo walls had nothing on them, except for cheap copies of paintings depicting the Stations of the Cross. A miniature crucifix hung from a ceiling beam, its figure of Jesus Christ made of plastic. The afternoon sun was shining bright, but fresh and clean air never stopped blowing. For miles, the only source of the noise was the humble structure we were in.
I could not remember the last time I saw a group of people giving me cheerful and encouraging smiles. Perhaps it never happened before. Whenever I speak in front of people, be it in class or during seminars, I would usually be greeted by looks that seem to say, “I don’t really care” or “You better make sense.”
We stayed in the sitio for no more than an hour. When we rode the scooters that would carry us back to the highway, the women bade us goodbye with thank you’s, and the same sweet, heartwarming smiles appeared in their faces.
As the sitio receded from our sight, I was thinking that my classmates and I had probably accomplished our mission: to bring Christ to the women of Sitio Lamkot. Through our visit and the knowledge we shared with them, they might have felt that Jesus Christ is good, that He sometimes uses strangers to make His presence felt.
I thought of my schoolmates who are seminarians or social work majors. When they finish studying, they’ll always get to see the warm smiles of barrio folks. I wonder if it was envy that I felt, but I told myself that it would not be the last time that I would share my time with the people in the countryside.
I want to see those smiles again. And again.
I took my place near the altar. After glancing around inside the small chapel, my mouth formed what must have been my biggest smile ever.
Twenty or so married women were smiling at me. They were seated on long slabs of wood that served as pews. Half of them were cradling their very young children in their arms. They gave me courage to start with my task, which was to speak about the law on violence against women and children, not so much with words as with their smiles and the interest that I saw on their faces.
Clutching a copy of RA 9262, I suddenly felt unworthy of their warm welcome. I had no intention of going to that remote sitio of Lamkot in Banga, South Cotabato. I went there with my five classmates only because we were required in our Religious Education class to conduct a pastoral integration activity.
I never had a good impression of outreach activities. For me, they encourage and even breed mendicancy. They remind me of our politicians’ habit of giving doles during campaign periods.
It does not help that many students’ idea (and practice) of a community service is an activity that involves distribution of noodles and canned goods to indigenous people, picture-taking and frolicking in a nearby waterfall or cave for the rest of the day. Also, outreach activities can be a form of discrimination, especially when the beneficiaries are pictured as people who cannot fend for themselves.
I was glad that my group mates decided that we conduct something like a seminar instead. But still, I wasn’t so enthusiastic about the trip to the far-flung place. Riding in a motorcycle over rugged hills and farms for 30 minutes may seem like an adventure for others, but not for me. I spent my childhood in the hinterlands of Sultan Kudarat, where riding in a “skylab” (a motorcycle remodeled to carry up to four passengers) was the most convenient mode of transportation. I had enough experiences of landing in mud and having a sore butt to last me a lifetime. So when my group mates informed me that all was set for our outreach activities in Sitio Lamtok, I thought, OK, let’s get over it quickly.
With bloodshot eyes and stringy hair from the dust and wind during the trip, I began introducing the law to the women. The topic was serious but there was never a dull moment in our discussion. Some of the mothers kept cracking jokes that sent everyone laughing. The babies wailed one after the other, and their mothers would hurry to rock them back to sleep, change their diapers, or breastfeed them.
The reactions of the women to RA 9262 were somewhat of a surprise to me. I expected them to nod in agreement with every provision that I read, but instead they would mutter: “May ara gali sina (You mean, there’s something in the law about that)?” or “Waay gid na sadto ba. (That was never practiced before)” or “Pwede gali na (Is that really allowed)?”
It struck me that this was the first time they were hearing about women’s and children’s rights. Judging by their comments, I could say that they even thought some of the provisions were a bit absurd and too favorable for them.
I sat on one side as my companions continued explaining the law. Looking around, I wished I had come in jogging pants and slippers. For although I was dressed simply—in white shirt, jeans and sneakers—I felt like I was overdressed amid the bucolic surroundings. The women were wearing everyday clothes and well-worn flip-flops. The chapel, which also serves as a day care center and a place for occasional gatherings such as the one the Women’s Association was having that day, was devoid of embellishments. The hardwood-and-bamboo walls had nothing on them, except for cheap copies of paintings depicting the Stations of the Cross. A miniature crucifix hung from a ceiling beam, its figure of Jesus Christ made of plastic. The afternoon sun was shining bright, but fresh and clean air never stopped blowing. For miles, the only source of the noise was the humble structure we were in.
I could not remember the last time I saw a group of people giving me cheerful and encouraging smiles. Perhaps it never happened before. Whenever I speak in front of people, be it in class or during seminars, I would usually be greeted by looks that seem to say, “I don’t really care” or “You better make sense.”
We stayed in the sitio for no more than an hour. When we rode the scooters that would carry us back to the highway, the women bade us goodbye with thank you’s, and the same sweet, heartwarming smiles appeared in their faces.
As the sitio receded from our sight, I was thinking that my classmates and I had probably accomplished our mission: to bring Christ to the women of Sitio Lamkot. Through our visit and the knowledge we shared with them, they might have felt that Jesus Christ is good, that He sometimes uses strangers to make His presence felt.
I thought of my schoolmates who are seminarians or social work majors. When they finish studying, they’ll always get to see the warm smiles of barrio folks. I wonder if it was envy that I felt, but I told myself that it would not be the last time that I would share my time with the people in the countryside.
I want to see those smiles again. And again.
Blogging Myths
Published in the Youngblood section of the March 29, 2008 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
I’ve been into this thing called blogging for several months now. And like millions of people in the planet who are hooked into it, I’ve been unabashedly chronicling my life. I’ve been updating my friends online about great moments in history—like where I went for coffee last night and how I fell into a fishpond last week.
You’re probably into it also, obsessively posting cute pictures of your cute pet dog or your esteemed opinion of Britney Spears’ travails. Search engine Technorati claims it tracks 112.8 million blogs on the World Wide Web. It also says that over 175,000 new blogs are created every day. The influential Time magazine hailed “You” (contributors to Wikipedia, YouTube, MySpace, etc.) as 2006 Person of the Year. If you don’t have a blog, where have you been? I bet not to the boondocks, for I grew up there and I have a blog!
If by any chance you’re not yet a blogger, I suggest you hurry and sit in front the nearest PC, and start building the ultimate shrine for your self—but not before heeding a few words I have to say here.
Now, don’t mistake me for some Internet marketing guru. I’m not doing this to get a commission from you (although there’s something like that in my blog, he, he.) I’m not going to parrot all those hypes about blogging. In fact, I’d like to warn you that the blogosphere sometimes, if not oftentimes, sucks.
Since people from different countries populate the world of blogs, you might have the idea that it’s so wonderful and colorful. Truth is, blog-hopping isn’t much different from trekking Smokey Mountain; you have to rummage through heaps of trash before stumbling on something of worth. I once checked out blogs in random. Of the more than 30 sites I visited, one made me say “Wow!” The rest made me say “Aww!”
Fed up with lifestyle columnists writing about their selves and the parties they’ve been to? Don’t go to Blogger or WordPress for a breath of fresh air. They’re the perfect place to look for countless sentences that begin with “I.” Bloggers, not excluding me, are a bunch of narcissists. (Columnists can, at least, turn a foot spa experience into a long, seemingly relevant essay, and their urban slang vocabulary is impeccable.)
Many an advertisement projects blogging as a lucrative hobby. It is lucrative indeed, if you don’t take it as a hobby. For advertisers to give you much moolah, you have to drive heavy traffic to your site. The Pay-Per-Click program, for example, requires that visitors of your site click on an advertisement before you earn a few cents. And just how many of your visitors would actually click on ads, which are usually considered pesky?
The Pay-Per-Play, meanwhile, airs a five-second audio commercial every time someone opens your homepage. So you have to continually promote your blog, the common way of doing which is by asking other bloggers to put a link to your blog in theirs. More often than not, this means coming across an awful site and leaving a comment that goes this way: “Nice blog! Exchange links tayo ha (smiley).”
Another way of earning money is through the Pay-Per-Post arrangement, in which advertisers pay you when you review (read: praise) their product. This requires a stretch of imagination, as you have to connect your ordinary day with, say, the hotels in Orange County. You may devote an entire blog entry to the product alone, but doing this often may result to a drawback in the number of your loyal visitors. You know, people surf the Net for free information. They’d feel robbed once they discover you’re cashing in on their loyalty.
I personally know some bloggers who rake in hundreds of dollars almost monthly. With technical and social savvy, they spend hours on their blog, trying to reach as many people as possible. I make an effort to follow them, but I always find myself burning time online re-reading my posts, looking for typos and engrossed with the thought of art for art’s sake. I haven’t earned anything yet, but I learned one thing: Looking for money is never easy; it always involves toiling, no matter what those darn ads say.
Lastly, you might think of blogging as a socially rewarding experience. Sorry to burst your bubble, but when it comes to gaining friends and building relationships, nothing beats the analog way: conversing face-to-face, helping each other, and going out for beer. Sure, you’ll receive some sympathetic reactions as you reveal your innermost fears or rant about that ill-mannered shop assistant who didn’t recognize you’re Prince Harry. Most of your friends in blogging, however, could really care less, for they are likely busy blogging about their friends in real life. Worse, the Web is home also to people who would say vicious words against you, and it’s all the more frustrating because they usually do it anonymously.
Blogging isn’t purely fun. But despite the setbacks, I still maintain my blog—blogs, actually. I have one blog that serves as a reservoir of my angst and anger. I could write there everything, including things I choose not to say to others, because I’d be burning bridges if I did. Of course, I don’t name names and places, and nobody knows it’s my blog.
The blog keeps me sane. Pouring out my thoughts into it has the same cathartic effect as that of talking to an old, trusted friend. This reason alone is enough for me to keep on blogging.
I’ve been into this thing called blogging for several months now. And like millions of people in the planet who are hooked into it, I’ve been unabashedly chronicling my life. I’ve been updating my friends online about great moments in history—like where I went for coffee last night and how I fell into a fishpond last week.
You’re probably into it also, obsessively posting cute pictures of your cute pet dog or your esteemed opinion of Britney Spears’ travails. Search engine Technorati claims it tracks 112.8 million blogs on the World Wide Web. It also says that over 175,000 new blogs are created every day. The influential Time magazine hailed “You” (contributors to Wikipedia, YouTube, MySpace, etc.) as 2006 Person of the Year. If you don’t have a blog, where have you been? I bet not to the boondocks, for I grew up there and I have a blog!
If by any chance you’re not yet a blogger, I suggest you hurry and sit in front the nearest PC, and start building the ultimate shrine for your self—but not before heeding a few words I have to say here.
Now, don’t mistake me for some Internet marketing guru. I’m not doing this to get a commission from you (although there’s something like that in my blog, he, he.) I’m not going to parrot all those hypes about blogging. In fact, I’d like to warn you that the blogosphere sometimes, if not oftentimes, sucks.
Since people from different countries populate the world of blogs, you might have the idea that it’s so wonderful and colorful. Truth is, blog-hopping isn’t much different from trekking Smokey Mountain; you have to rummage through heaps of trash before stumbling on something of worth. I once checked out blogs in random. Of the more than 30 sites I visited, one made me say “Wow!” The rest made me say “Aww!”
Fed up with lifestyle columnists writing about their selves and the parties they’ve been to? Don’t go to Blogger or WordPress for a breath of fresh air. They’re the perfect place to look for countless sentences that begin with “I.” Bloggers, not excluding me, are a bunch of narcissists. (Columnists can, at least, turn a foot spa experience into a long, seemingly relevant essay, and their urban slang vocabulary is impeccable.)
Many an advertisement projects blogging as a lucrative hobby. It is lucrative indeed, if you don’t take it as a hobby. For advertisers to give you much moolah, you have to drive heavy traffic to your site. The Pay-Per-Click program, for example, requires that visitors of your site click on an advertisement before you earn a few cents. And just how many of your visitors would actually click on ads, which are usually considered pesky?
The Pay-Per-Play, meanwhile, airs a five-second audio commercial every time someone opens your homepage. So you have to continually promote your blog, the common way of doing which is by asking other bloggers to put a link to your blog in theirs. More often than not, this means coming across an awful site and leaving a comment that goes this way: “Nice blog! Exchange links tayo ha (smiley).”
Another way of earning money is through the Pay-Per-Post arrangement, in which advertisers pay you when you review (read: praise) their product. This requires a stretch of imagination, as you have to connect your ordinary day with, say, the hotels in Orange County. You may devote an entire blog entry to the product alone, but doing this often may result to a drawback in the number of your loyal visitors. You know, people surf the Net for free information. They’d feel robbed once they discover you’re cashing in on their loyalty.
I personally know some bloggers who rake in hundreds of dollars almost monthly. With technical and social savvy, they spend hours on their blog, trying to reach as many people as possible. I make an effort to follow them, but I always find myself burning time online re-reading my posts, looking for typos and engrossed with the thought of art for art’s sake. I haven’t earned anything yet, but I learned one thing: Looking for money is never easy; it always involves toiling, no matter what those darn ads say.
Lastly, you might think of blogging as a socially rewarding experience. Sorry to burst your bubble, but when it comes to gaining friends and building relationships, nothing beats the analog way: conversing face-to-face, helping each other, and going out for beer. Sure, you’ll receive some sympathetic reactions as you reveal your innermost fears or rant about that ill-mannered shop assistant who didn’t recognize you’re Prince Harry. Most of your friends in blogging, however, could really care less, for they are likely busy blogging about their friends in real life. Worse, the Web is home also to people who would say vicious words against you, and it’s all the more frustrating because they usually do it anonymously.
Blogging isn’t purely fun. But despite the setbacks, I still maintain my blog—blogs, actually. I have one blog that serves as a reservoir of my angst and anger. I could write there everything, including things I choose not to say to others, because I’d be burning bridges if I did. Of course, I don’t name names and places, and nobody knows it’s my blog.
The blog keeps me sane. Pouring out my thoughts into it has the same cathartic effect as that of talking to an old, trusted friend. This reason alone is enough for me to keep on blogging.
Worth a Million
Published in the Youngblood section of the December 27, 2008 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
Lately I have been playing Ebenezer Scrooge, the miserly man in “A Christmas Carol.” I let the kids sing without giving them anything. When I hear the little carolers coming, I stay inside my room, bury myself in a book, and pretend nobody’s home. After a short song or two, they would clang the gate and shout, “Namamasko po! Namamasko po!” A hush would come over them as not even a mouse seems to stir inside our house. I’d feel guilty, but the feeling would soon vanish, because as they leave, the little imps would sing, “Thank you, thank you, ang babarat ninyo [you are so stingy].”
I don’t like the kids much because they are rowdy. They sing at the rate of 120 kph. When they threaten you with “Namamasko po!” they put to shame highway robbers declaring, “Holdap ito!” [This is a holdup!]
I also suspect they are into some lucrative racket. It is the same group that keeps coming back every night, and when they know a certain house gives only P2 or P3, they divide themselves and go to the house by pairs.
They never fail to entertain me, however. For one, they are so good at inventing lyrics. I recently heard them singing, “Jimball bells, jimball jells, jimball all the way!” The words in the next lines then sounded like the names of the vegetables in “Bahay Kubo.”
Another funny thing about these carolers is that when you hand them coins, the volume of their singing would abruptly dip, as they strain their necks trying to see how many or how much they’re getting. And as soon as the collector pockets the clinking booty, they all stop singing, even if they are in the middle of a song or they have just begun it. They will then proceed to sing, “Thank you, thank you, ang babait ninyo [you’re so kind]” and run to the next house.
Despite my stinginess, however, I don’t have the heart to shoo the kids away. I know they are just having fun.
When I was younger, I also enjoyed caroling. We were then still living in a farming village in another town, and I was in Grade 6. I was with my fellow poker-faced altar boys. To the amusement of onlookers, the guitar looked bigger than our guitarist. A teacher and an Indian missionary nun had us in tow, so our mini-choir was never turned away. With respect and diffident smiles, people welcomed us to their yards.
We went around the barangay [village] for several afternoons, earning about P20 to P30 per session. Most homes gave us coins. At that time, P5 and P10 were still printed in bills. Only teachers and sari-sari store owners could afford to give such amounts.
One afternoon, our eyeballs popped when a well-to-do businessman gave us a P100 bill. The peso then still had a much bigger value. Losing P100 would make you want to cry, so giving it away seemed like a crazy idea.
Through that caroling, I was able to go to parts of our barangay I had never visited before. I got to know the residents better and also their economic condition. I knew they didn’t have much money, but I would still feel surprised and a bit sad when a family would give us no more than P2. There was even one family that gave us eggs.
I could never forget those eggs. We were halfway through the second song when the mother of the house handed them. The three eggs, wrapped in clear cellophane, were clean and gleaming, a sharp contrast to the woman’s frail, dark fingers. I guessed the eggs were plucked fresh from a chicken’s nest somewhere in their backyard.
I was the one nearest the door, and I was staring at the woman’s hands, waiting to be given coins. The teacher who accompanied us whispered, “Take it.” Only then did I reach for the eggs.
Looking back at it now, I realize the caroling wasn’t just a holiday experience. It was my first community immersion, my first bite of social reality, my first real look at poverty.
I also learned a great lesson from it, a lesson in generosity. The eggs were not of much use to us since we needed money to buy prizes for our Christmas party. But it was the best that the family had. Obviously, they didn’t have a single peso in their house, which meant they needed the eggs for their meal. And yet they gave them to us.
I am reminded of a similar story that appears in the Bible. When Jesus was in the temple, he observed rich people dropping big sums of money into the collection basket. When a widow came in, she dropped only two cents. Jesus then gathered his disciples and said, “This poor woman gave more than anyone else. The others gave because they have too much wealth, but the widow, though she’s destitute, gave everything she earned.”
For the other residents of our barangay, P5, P10 or P100 was a small amount. The eggs therefore were the most valuable gift we received. They were worth more than P100. They were worth more than a million, because for the family that offered them, they were priceless.
Somewhere along the way, though, I forgot this lesson. I actually have a lot of coins in the drawer. I won’t run out of money, even if the kids divide themselves into three groups and come every night until Epiphany.
After I ignored them twice, the kids have been skipping our house. Now, I am left hoping that they will give it another try. I am beginning to miss the unintelligible, raucous singing. Indeed, ’tis the season for merry-making. ’Tis also the season to ponder how generous we are.
Lately I have been playing Ebenezer Scrooge, the miserly man in “A Christmas Carol.” I let the kids sing without giving them anything. When I hear the little carolers coming, I stay inside my room, bury myself in a book, and pretend nobody’s home. After a short song or two, they would clang the gate and shout, “Namamasko po! Namamasko po!” A hush would come over them as not even a mouse seems to stir inside our house. I’d feel guilty, but the feeling would soon vanish, because as they leave, the little imps would sing, “Thank you, thank you, ang babarat ninyo [you are so stingy].”
I don’t like the kids much because they are rowdy. They sing at the rate of 120 kph. When they threaten you with “Namamasko po!” they put to shame highway robbers declaring, “Holdap ito!” [This is a holdup!]
I also suspect they are into some lucrative racket. It is the same group that keeps coming back every night, and when they know a certain house gives only P2 or P3, they divide themselves and go to the house by pairs.
They never fail to entertain me, however. For one, they are so good at inventing lyrics. I recently heard them singing, “Jimball bells, jimball jells, jimball all the way!” The words in the next lines then sounded like the names of the vegetables in “Bahay Kubo.”
Another funny thing about these carolers is that when you hand them coins, the volume of their singing would abruptly dip, as they strain their necks trying to see how many or how much they’re getting. And as soon as the collector pockets the clinking booty, they all stop singing, even if they are in the middle of a song or they have just begun it. They will then proceed to sing, “Thank you, thank you, ang babait ninyo [you’re so kind]” and run to the next house.
Despite my stinginess, however, I don’t have the heart to shoo the kids away. I know they are just having fun.
When I was younger, I also enjoyed caroling. We were then still living in a farming village in another town, and I was in Grade 6. I was with my fellow poker-faced altar boys. To the amusement of onlookers, the guitar looked bigger than our guitarist. A teacher and an Indian missionary nun had us in tow, so our mini-choir was never turned away. With respect and diffident smiles, people welcomed us to their yards.
We went around the barangay [village] for several afternoons, earning about P20 to P30 per session. Most homes gave us coins. At that time, P5 and P10 were still printed in bills. Only teachers and sari-sari store owners could afford to give such amounts.
One afternoon, our eyeballs popped when a well-to-do businessman gave us a P100 bill. The peso then still had a much bigger value. Losing P100 would make you want to cry, so giving it away seemed like a crazy idea.
Through that caroling, I was able to go to parts of our barangay I had never visited before. I got to know the residents better and also their economic condition. I knew they didn’t have much money, but I would still feel surprised and a bit sad when a family would give us no more than P2. There was even one family that gave us eggs.
I could never forget those eggs. We were halfway through the second song when the mother of the house handed them. The three eggs, wrapped in clear cellophane, were clean and gleaming, a sharp contrast to the woman’s frail, dark fingers. I guessed the eggs were plucked fresh from a chicken’s nest somewhere in their backyard.
I was the one nearest the door, and I was staring at the woman’s hands, waiting to be given coins. The teacher who accompanied us whispered, “Take it.” Only then did I reach for the eggs.
Looking back at it now, I realize the caroling wasn’t just a holiday experience. It was my first community immersion, my first bite of social reality, my first real look at poverty.
I also learned a great lesson from it, a lesson in generosity. The eggs were not of much use to us since we needed money to buy prizes for our Christmas party. But it was the best that the family had. Obviously, they didn’t have a single peso in their house, which meant they needed the eggs for their meal. And yet they gave them to us.
I am reminded of a similar story that appears in the Bible. When Jesus was in the temple, he observed rich people dropping big sums of money into the collection basket. When a widow came in, she dropped only two cents. Jesus then gathered his disciples and said, “This poor woman gave more than anyone else. The others gave because they have too much wealth, but the widow, though she’s destitute, gave everything she earned.”
For the other residents of our barangay, P5, P10 or P100 was a small amount. The eggs therefore were the most valuable gift we received. They were worth more than P100. They were worth more than a million, because for the family that offered them, they were priceless.
Somewhere along the way, though, I forgot this lesson. I actually have a lot of coins in the drawer. I won’t run out of money, even if the kids divide themselves into three groups and come every night until Epiphany.
After I ignored them twice, the kids have been skipping our house. Now, I am left hoping that they will give it another try. I am beginning to miss the unintelligible, raucous singing. Indeed, ’tis the season for merry-making. ’Tis also the season to ponder how generous we are.
Walang Kupas
Published in the Youngblood section of the Nov. 12, 2009 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
For five straight weeks, I have been wearing the same jeans to work. And when I say the same, I mean one and only, at least eight hours a day, five times a week. On Mondays, with my pants fresh from the laundry, I am Will Devaughn on a billboard. On Wednesdays, when they have become sweaty and stained, I’m Jack Kerouac on the road. On Fridays, when they feel like a mop with gazillions of germs, I am . . . me.
I am not sure if my officemates have noticed (or smelled) it, but so far, no one has made a remark on my sartorial impoverishment. Not that it would matter: Even if others frowned at me, made fun of me, or nailed me to Magellan’s Cross, I would still keep my stocky legs tucked inside my tacky pants.
Blame it on my ignorance. I came here to the big city thinking everyone went to work in their funeral best. From our obscure province in Mindanao, I had packed my bags with my black leather shoes, black slacks, and short-sleeved polo shirts—all my “teacher clothes” as I call them. I only brought a pair of blue jeans as an afterthought. “I might need a trip to the mall,” I told myself.
Then I was informed we had to wear slippers in the office. “Slippers?” I asked the human resources staff in my mind. “You mean slippers, as in flip-flops, tsinelas, ismagol? Great, no matter what they are called, they would never constitute my teacher clothes.”
Until now, I have not found out why the company has this unusual policy. Some of my officemates said our workplace is Japanese-style, as evident in the minimalist architecture of our building and the bamboos and fish pond in our lobby. We are supposedly embracing the tenets of Zen. (Sounds like hara-kiri to me.) Some said the higher-ups didn’t want the carpet to get soiled. (Sounds low-brow, but logical.) Whatever. I did not bother to confirm which theory was correct, for I was more keen on finding a way not to look like a scarecrow or a mascot.
I guess I succeeded in not looking like a scarecrow or a mascot, for I ended up somewhere in between. Though I did away with my shoes and slacks, I decided against ditching my button-downs, since I could not afford to buy new shirts. So with my teacher tops, I started donning my denim pants day in and day out (so much for a trip to the mall), pretending to be an avant-garde fashionista instead of a stone-broke hillbilly.
More than two weeks later, when I received my first paycheck, I could have bought a new pair of pants. But I found myself inside a bookstore and got possessed; no straitjacket or exorcism could have prevented me from hoarding Booker Prize winners. My newfound purchasing power overwhelmed me because before I could only drool in front of bookshelves, open my wallet, and go home like a jilted lover.
Books were the number one item in my budget, then food, then room rental, then jeepney and tricycle fare, then clothes. Of course, nary a cent trickled to the bottom of the list, but I wasn’t worried much. There was no pressure for me to be preppy in the office; it looks more like a cafeteria in UP than an office. Most of the ladies strut their stuff in their latest ukay-ukay find, and the guys are just as proud of their well-worn shirts and their goatees. Besides, with the nature of my job, what matters most is not the brand and style of pants—or what’s inside those pants (oh well, this is another story).
After five weeks, however, it looks as though it is time for a real trip to the mall. It is time to say goodbye to my sense of style (or lack of it). I just had my first Saturday overtime, and the laundry shop is closed on Sundays. Even if I could wash my pants myself, without a dryer and with the heavy rains coming, they might still be clammy by Monday.
There is no moral to this story. Certainly, my dress code is not for everyone, especially to those whose work requires them to deal with clients face-to-face.
There is no moral to this story, only celebration. It is fun to be in a place where you can look poor, be poor, or both, yet have a healthy self-esteem. It is fun to have a work that most people find boring, but which you feel you can do for a long, long time. It is fun to be in the company of people who wear glasses or need glasses but don’t wear one for fear of being labeled nerds (which they are, just the same). It is fun to look like a scarecrow/mascot and still be treated like a human being. It is fun when you are not judged by the fabric covering your skin.
For five straight weeks, I have been wearing the same jeans to work. And when I say the same, I mean one and only, at least eight hours a day, five times a week. On Mondays, with my pants fresh from the laundry, I am Will Devaughn on a billboard. On Wednesdays, when they have become sweaty and stained, I’m Jack Kerouac on the road. On Fridays, when they feel like a mop with gazillions of germs, I am . . . me.
I am not sure if my officemates have noticed (or smelled) it, but so far, no one has made a remark on my sartorial impoverishment. Not that it would matter: Even if others frowned at me, made fun of me, or nailed me to Magellan’s Cross, I would still keep my stocky legs tucked inside my tacky pants.
Blame it on my ignorance. I came here to the big city thinking everyone went to work in their funeral best. From our obscure province in Mindanao, I had packed my bags with my black leather shoes, black slacks, and short-sleeved polo shirts—all my “teacher clothes” as I call them. I only brought a pair of blue jeans as an afterthought. “I might need a trip to the mall,” I told myself.
Then I was informed we had to wear slippers in the office. “Slippers?” I asked the human resources staff in my mind. “You mean slippers, as in flip-flops, tsinelas, ismagol? Great, no matter what they are called, they would never constitute my teacher clothes.”
Until now, I have not found out why the company has this unusual policy. Some of my officemates said our workplace is Japanese-style, as evident in the minimalist architecture of our building and the bamboos and fish pond in our lobby. We are supposedly embracing the tenets of Zen. (Sounds like hara-kiri to me.) Some said the higher-ups didn’t want the carpet to get soiled. (Sounds low-brow, but logical.) Whatever. I did not bother to confirm which theory was correct, for I was more keen on finding a way not to look like a scarecrow or a mascot.
I guess I succeeded in not looking like a scarecrow or a mascot, for I ended up somewhere in between. Though I did away with my shoes and slacks, I decided against ditching my button-downs, since I could not afford to buy new shirts. So with my teacher tops, I started donning my denim pants day in and day out (so much for a trip to the mall), pretending to be an avant-garde fashionista instead of a stone-broke hillbilly.
More than two weeks later, when I received my first paycheck, I could have bought a new pair of pants. But I found myself inside a bookstore and got possessed; no straitjacket or exorcism could have prevented me from hoarding Booker Prize winners. My newfound purchasing power overwhelmed me because before I could only drool in front of bookshelves, open my wallet, and go home like a jilted lover.
Books were the number one item in my budget, then food, then room rental, then jeepney and tricycle fare, then clothes. Of course, nary a cent trickled to the bottom of the list, but I wasn’t worried much. There was no pressure for me to be preppy in the office; it looks more like a cafeteria in UP than an office. Most of the ladies strut their stuff in their latest ukay-ukay find, and the guys are just as proud of their well-worn shirts and their goatees. Besides, with the nature of my job, what matters most is not the brand and style of pants—or what’s inside those pants (oh well, this is another story).
After five weeks, however, it looks as though it is time for a real trip to the mall. It is time to say goodbye to my sense of style (or lack of it). I just had my first Saturday overtime, and the laundry shop is closed on Sundays. Even if I could wash my pants myself, without a dryer and with the heavy rains coming, they might still be clammy by Monday.
There is no moral to this story. Certainly, my dress code is not for everyone, especially to those whose work requires them to deal with clients face-to-face.
There is no moral to this story, only celebration. It is fun to be in a place where you can look poor, be poor, or both, yet have a healthy self-esteem. It is fun to have a work that most people find boring, but which you feel you can do for a long, long time. It is fun to be in the company of people who wear glasses or need glasses but don’t wear one for fear of being labeled nerds (which they are, just the same). It is fun to look like a scarecrow/mascot and still be treated like a human being. It is fun when you are not judged by the fabric covering your skin.
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