Pieces

The impermanence of us

2008-04-28T11:44:00.000-07:00

It’s because it’s my life.

For months now I’ve been trying to get myself engrossed in novels after a reading list of purely non-fiction — memoirs and biographies. I tried reading fiction that won awards, books that take me to alternate universe, even thrillers, crime novels and guaranteed page-turners. But I lose interest after a few pages or a few chapters. They’re not bad or boring. I just can’t sustain my interest in them.

This one though never warmed my shelf. I read it as soon as I bought it. Unlike some of the novels I haven’t finished reading. Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris is the story of the work place, of the corporate world. Whereas other novels would mention work in passing, much like an afterthought, this one details what transpires in those cubicles. The office gossip and lunch breaks, the dead hours and deadlines, and most accurately, a validation of why we do what we do. Why our grandiose dreams of helping the poor, striving for world peace and saving the world remain to be dreams we have when we retire for the night. We hope for a better world, yes we do. We dream to be the superhero web-slinging in skyscrapers rescuing old ladies and shrieking damsels in distress. But as the book succinctly puts it, we don’t have the luxury of going off with a Himalayan trek in search of emeralds and gurus. We have bills to pay and our limitations to consider; we have our families to support and our weekends to distract us.

“We suffered failures of imagination just like everyone else, our daring was wanting, and our daily contentment too nearly adequate for us to give it up.”

During office breaks we talk of giving 10 percent of our salary to the Church or charity, of going back to school or taking up nursing, but no one acts on these impulses. Instead we have meetings to discuss business matters and business needs. We bitch and we bicker, we smoke and we drink. Our officemates are the people we spend most of the time with, yet know so little of their individual lives.

We may know them by their cubicle numbers or phone extensions or by their proximity to us or their hierarchy in the corporate ladder, their office nicknames or reputation, but when office layoffs come during recession, as in this novel, or when they resign, they merely become part of the statistics, the turnover or unemployment rate.

Inasmuch as we want to establish ourselves in the corporate world, make ourselves indispensable to the company we work in, the harsh reality is this: we are replaceable. No matter how many overtimes we file or late hours we clock in for work, when business needs dictate that we should go or take a pay cut, there’s nothing we can do. The corporate world is very transient and liquid and can survive without you or me, thank you. In this dog-eat-dog world, there’s always someone waiting to bite us or cut us off and take our place. Cutthroat, yes.

Then we reach the point when we consider what we could be missing if we’re doing something else. Like the big boss in this novel who learns she has breast cancer. She goes on a wild goose chase of finding the right place to be the night before her scheduled operation. She ends up in her office, late at night, working. That’s the right place to be. Sad, true. For some of us, work is our life.

This is what becomes of us in the work place. It’s all about the money, of making a living and missing out on life. We take hobbies, when we can; have hubbies, when there’s one. We work hard, party harder. So much of the modern world is cruel and lonely. Connections are fleeting, and relationships never last for long. Conversations are reduced to hallway greetings or small talks or pickup lines.

This is the tragedy of the modern life. We measure success by how high we are in the corporate ladder, by how fat our bank accounts are, by the properties we own and what our money can afford us. We measure the quality of life by the quantity of what we have. We post pictures of ourselves in our Friendster, Facebook or Multiply account of the places we’ve been to and the company we keep. We become cam-whores in order to capture the good times and the happy moments. Because we are aware of the impermanence of all things, of us, especially of our stability and our happiness. Thus, we struggle to establish and hold on to the things that can never be owned and measured. We take stock of what we’ve lost for what we’ve gained. Sometimes we question if they’re worth it. But we rarely seek the answer. Because where we are is comfortable; where we are affords us our lifestyle.

It is cold and, perhaps, dehumanizing. And we are often mocked and derided for being corporate slaves. Maybe someday we will get out of it for good, take a trek to the Himalayas, or like Warren Buffet give all our money to worthwhile causes. Maybe then I’ll pick up a novel where work is nothing but an afterthought and life happens elsewhere. But for now, I have bills to pay, limitations to consider, and my weekends to distract me.

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Published April 27, 2008. Philippine Star, Sunday Lifestyle Section.

A life in fiction

2007-02-18T02:41:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, I stumbled on Narnia. It was a long time ago, the summer between first and second year high school, when life was all about playing and wandering through streams and hills and rice fields.

I burst through our backdoor after an afternoon’s play, slipped across the newly waxed floor and did an astonishing somersault that started with a loud oops! and ended with an even louder thud! followed by a crack! and the rest of the summer was spent in a cast.

Reduced to loitering in the house like an ailing member of royalty, like the Pevensie children during that rainy day, I rummaged around the house looking for interesting things that wouldn’t involve the use of my hands. It was in one of the cabinets (not a wardrobe) that I discovered two VHS tapes (gosh, I sound old!) that read: The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. I asked someone to remove the Betamax player (I am old!), hooked the VHS player up to our TV, lay on the bed, and entered the world of Narnia. It was a BBC-TV production, though I had no idea what that was, and it announced itself as "Book 2." So it follows that there must be a "Book 1," I thought.

Just before summer ended, with hands fully functional, I set off for the city and went to all the stores that had the slightest possibility of selling books that were not textbooks. Being in the province meant that my choices were limited. Fortunately, I found Book 1: The Magician’s Nephew. Unfortunately, when I read the back cover, it enumerated seven books in all and that was the only book I found even after I turned the entire Bicol region upside down again and again.

I spent the next summer with my uncle and his family in Manila, which meant only one thing to me — bookstores! I read the seven books every summer till I finished high school and set off to Manila for college like…

The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (by C.S. Lewis)

Like the book, there was no major villain to triumph over, no Queen Jadis to defeat. College was more of an interplay between light and dark; discovering the good and bad and the gray areas of life. There was the world with its blazing neon lights at night and the bottles of beer the day after. There were the people who can be as corrupt as the governor on Lone Island, or who can be as scared and foolish as the Dufflepuds. And through all this, there was the self, wanting to find meaning and redemption in the daily flux of living. Like Eustace, who became this huge, fiery dragon, I felt the need to shed my old skin. And I did. Pound by pound I shed it off till I lost around 50 pounds of flesh in a year.

The college years flew by, I got my heart and knees bruised, drank some more, was in and out of a seminary, drank some more, showed up in classes once in a while, drank some more, until finally, after six long years of extended college education, I went down the hill and plunged head first to…

The Odd Sea (by Frederick Reiken)

One fine day, Philip’s older brother Ethan stepped out of the door and disappeared. He had told Philip if he wanted to, he could join him outside, but Philip was reminded by his sister that he had a bird class to attend.

One fine day, my younger brother, Bryan, stepped out of the door and died. I had told him to hear Mass at a later time, but he refused since he had to study later.

News spread about Ethan’s disappearance. The days turned into weeks and Ethan became another case of a missing child leaving his entire family devastated and distraught.

Word spread of Bryan’s death from relatives to classmates and friends to acquaintances halfway across the globe that had seen his lifeless body flashed on the news. The days turned into weeks and Bryan became another case of hit-and-run, leaving our entire family devastated and distraught.

Philip discovered his brother’s journal, reliving his brother’s voice as he read through the pages, and wondered whether Ethan had run off somewhere or if maybe he had found a rabbit’s hole to a whole alternate reality like Alice in Wonderland.

I discovered my brother’s journal, reliving my brother’s voice as I read through the pages, and wondered, just like Philip wondered towards the end of the book, what I would give to see the other side of everything. The other side where my brother is not dead and life is not…

A Series of Unfortunate Events (by Lemony Snicket)

After Bryan’s tragic death, I resigned from work. Two months later, my parents migrated to the US. Two months later again, just one day before I reported to my new job, the youngest sister of my mom (I can’t call her an "aunt"), in true Count Olaf fashion, stormed through our house hurling stones and pebbles and wooden planks and, when she ran out of things to throw, leaves, while demanding that she had the right to all my parents’ property, from the soiled tissue paper in the toilet to the house and the rice field and the trees and the air we breathed. She declared them all under Her Majesty’s Dominion, or Olaf-Land.

Being in Manila, my only recourse was to write her a letter warning her that if she didn’t stop with her mad theatrics, I would see her in court. But then again, like the Baudelaire orphans, I didn’t have much faith in the justice system. Especially when she threatened to counter-sue me for defamation, which, in Count Olaf’s case, had been anything but good.

Two months later, "Milenyo" came, toppling trees and electric posts, cutting off electricity in our house until the first week of November. By the end of November, "Reming" unleashed her fury, upstaging Milenyo, flooding our house, destroying the dike, creating a river beside our place and other things you may have read about in the papers or seen on TV.

Fortunately, none of my relatives and no one I knew perished. But with some parts of our gate destroyed, we were vulnerable to robbers. One minute you had a potted plant, the next minute it was gone. One day you had a dog, the next you’d see the tambays drinking with a pulutan that tasted like chicken… but not.

Lemony Snicket wrote in Book 13, The End: "Sooner or later, everyone’s story has an unfortunate event or two — a schism or a death, a fire or a mutiny, the loss of a home or the destruction of a tea set. The only solution, of course, is to… lead a safe, simple life."

Indeed, there is nobility in the ordinary life, in living the right way in a world full of wrongs. In surviving the rigors of the everyday, for what it takes, simply…

To Live (by Yu Hua)

Set in communist China, Fugui loses, one by one, his family and almost everything to tragic, sometimes ironic endings until all he has left is an ox, which he calls by the name of all he has lost. The book, initially banned in China, is an unflinching look at an ordinary man trying to live simply, enjoying the joys and small pleasures — like his handicapped daughter being married off to a nice family or his wife’s loyalty through the years or a nice meal — despite the hardships of everyday life. It portrays, quite vividly, the sheer resilience of a human being — what it feels like to lose someone, to have your property taken, and to discover that whatever life throws at you, you find a way to move on, to live.

Set in a fading democracy, my life doesn’t have what it takes to make an epic story. It portrays, quite simply, the resilience of a human being. How it is to live through the loss, the threats, and the bills; and still appreciate and be grateful for the company of good friends, canned goods, good books, a cup of hot coffee and a starlit night. It chronicles one man’s voyage over odd seas and unfortunate events. What it is to grow up, to laugh, to cry, to love, and to live. To have that moment, a long summertime ago, when life was just about playing and wandering through streams and hills and rice fields.

And to hope that one day, like the Narnians, my brother and I would say, "Further up, further in!" To have the life in this world just be the cover of the Great Story, which goes on forever, in which every chapter is better than the one before. Thus we could say that we all lived happily ever after.

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Published February 18, 2007. Philippine Star, Sunday Lifestyle Section.

The year 2006

2007-01-08T15:55:00.000-08:00

EVERY ONE of us has moments that we can do without. Moments we wish we could skip and delete, not because we regret having them but because, big picture or not, they just don't make sense. These are the moments that are so grotesquely out of place that we spend a lifetime looking back at them.

For me that moment, the time I wish I never had to go through, was 2006. Many others would share this sentiment with me, especially those from the place I come from, Bicol. For us, there's only one way to remember 2006. It starts at the end and goes back to the beginning when fireworks lighted the sky and 2006 was just a promise waiting to be broken.

December. Much of Albay is in darkness, a fitting and symbolic end to the year. The few fireworks are just a spark in the darkness that engulfs the place, the lone silver lining behind a massive amount of dark clouds. While the rest of the world offers their prayers and sympathies, how much of their charity will trickle down to the victims? A million dollars of charity or unused pork-barrel funds will find their way slowly through layers and layers of thick-skinned politicians until all that's left for the victims are a few relief goods and some measly cash that will last for a week or maybe a month at most. Once the cameras shift to the next crisis, the politicians will be there and it will be up to the victims themselves to restore what has been washed away.

You can't expect much from the members of the House of Representatives because they live in a world of their own. They don't represent their constituents; they are more interested in pushing and rushing a parliamentary form of government. They're pushing for Charter change because it's the only way they can have their pork and eat it, too. If only they would listen to the voice of the people and stop being schizophrenic, they would hear that it's not the presidential system they want abolished, it's the trapos in Congress that they want to do away with. How ironic that in this season when God humbly became man, they're doing everything to become gods--pork-bellied gods.

November. On the last day of November, I called home after getting a frantic text pleading with me to pray, pray, pray. Apparently, our house was flooded, its window glasses shattered, and everything wet and damaged. Some parts of the roof had been ripped off. On a clear night, my family can count the stars; on a rainy day, they get free baths.

My cousin's house became a flying house although it never got as far as Oz. My aunts stayed inside their wardrobe, hoping they would find Narnia at the other side. Mango trees, pili trees, coconut trees, bamboos and anything that once stood erect were laid low by "Reming" (international codename: Durian). The dike, a few hundred meters behind our compound, broke. Everything that was not on high ground was washed away by rocks, mud and water.

When the storm abated, everything was down or gone, including electric posts, wires, refrigerators and entire living rooms--claimed either by the storm or the flood or by robbers who took what was left of your house.

We have finally become the country's most depressed--and depressing--region. Who would have thought that the tourist attraction that is the Cagsawa Ruins could be ruined again? That's like burying dead bodies with dead bodies.
There were 400, 500 or 1,000 dead (the reports vary) but the glaring truth remains that lives have been lost and maybe millions of other lives have been eternally altered. One can estimate the damage wrought by the supertyphoon in economic terms, but a father lost, a breadwinner washed away, a suddenly-orphaned girl send shock waves well into the future when all this has just become a grim memory.

September. After two months in my new job, I went back to Bicol, not to unwind but to sort things out. That same month, my only brother Bryan would have turned 18. I gathered some of his playmates and some relatives, bought a cake and some pasta, and waited for him. He never came.

July. One day before I reported for work, my mother's youngest sister stormed our house, hurling stones, wooden planks and leaves and proclaiming she had the rightful claim to all my parents' properties because she's the favorite sister and I was just a kid. I would have brought her to court, if only I wasn't in Manila and I had the funds. But four months of being unemployed, independent, and being on my own, left me with no more piggy banks to smash.

May. I was at the airport seeing my parents off. They were leaving for the United States and I was being left to deal with the eccentricities of a menopausal, middle-aged relative with the emotional quotient of a four-year-old brat.

March. My Dad was supposed to come home for good from Saudi Arabia on the 8th. He rushed home a few days earlier. I was supposed to have dinner with friends before they flew to Saudi, but instead they were with me, too stunned to say anything that could comfort me. Bryan was supposed to hear Ash Wednesday Mass, instead he was lying a few feet away from me inside a coffin. Enough said.

January. Bryan and I watched the fireworks display outside our house as 2006 ticked in. The fireworks gloriously lighted the clear midnight sky. We went back inside our house with my Mom and some relatives, took pictures, ate and laughed the night away. Tomorrow's a new day and everything's going to be all right.

They year 2006 looked promising until tragedy struck, everybody left, and one storm came after another. To say I have survived is to hide the reality that I have lost almost everything. I have grown tired of hearing that such things happen for a reason. I don't have too much faith on a strength I don't possess. Indeed, what doesn't kill you makes you cynical.

Here's looking forward to 2007, and its promises and disappointing returns.

Published January 2, 2007. Philippine Daily Inquirer, Youngblood

A series, a brother, an unfortunate event

2006-10-05T05:45:00.000-07:00

That’s one thing about reading a series of books: what it means to you changes as time and the series progress, and you cope with the revelations and tragedies happening both in the books and in your own life. Who would’ve thought that Professor Dumbledore would die or that Gandalf, for that matter, would be resurrected much in the same way that Aslan was? You pick up a book and you’re off to a different world, a life you could only imagine, and yet upon reaching the end you know that it has changed you, it has become a part of you, embedded as it was, in an inexplicable yet primal way.

A friend of mine told me about Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events as a series of books that could tide me over until the next installment of Harry Potter came out. I was in college then, and there had been five books of A Series out already when I bought them. This grim series begins with a warning from the author to go read something else. It would be the same warning that would ignite my brother’s curiosity over the book. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Forewarned, Lemony Snicket begins his account of the lives of the Baudelaire children – Violet, Klaus, and Sunny – with the tragic death of their parents, burnt crisp inside their house. But the Baudelaires are no ordinary orphans – they are rich orphans! Their parents have left them an enormous fortune, which their first guardian, Count Olaf, wants so badly and thus a series of deaths, tragedies, imprisonments and lucky escapes ensue as the books advance to their penultimate peril. I devoured each new book that came out, reading it in one day or one sleepless night. At first, the series was nothing more than a dark, sarcastic book littered with deaths and tragedies.

It’s fun reading how the Baudelaires would escape Count Olaf; how bookworm Klaus would come up with an idea which the inventive and resourceful Violet would use, with a lot of biting help from the innocent-looking baby Sunny. The series is an adventure – a children’s adventure – where in the end, after a series of unfortunate events, they would escape the clutches of the evil Count Olaf. It poses no existential questions to ponder on, no subtleties to think about, and no connection to my life then as a college student.

A Brother
The greatest lesson, perhaps, that can be derived from the series would be what my brother Bryan told me: unfortunate events are blessings in disguise. I have always known that there is an upside to everything, a silver lining behind a dark cloud. What I didn’t know was how hard it would be to see the upside of certain things. Especially when it suddenly happens. By the time book 11 came out, I was on my way to graduating from college, and my brother from high school. By then, he had eclipsed me by thousands of light years as the greatest Lemony Snicket fan. Our room in Bicol was filled with all kinds of Lemony Snicket stuff, info, pictures, and of course, the books. I even gave him a whole set of pictures of the Jim Carrey-movie for Christmas along with some puzzles, notations, trivia games and a DVD copy of A Series of Unfortunate Events.

To say that he was obsessed is an understatement. The upside of it was it got Bryan to reading books. Without Lemony Snicket, he wouldn’t be interested in Harry Potter, Eragon, The Spiderwick Chronicles or even Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven. Between book 11 and book 12, Bryan decided to study in Manila. We became book buddies, spending hours in bookstores and going around the whole Greater Manila Area hunting for books.

When book 12 came out, I was reviewing for the board exam and Bryan was in Bicol for the sem break. Naturally, I had been made to promise that I would send him a copy the moment it came out, which I did. Book 12, The Penultimate Peril, proved to be an intriguing plot. There had been suspicions even in the previous books that the Baudelaires’ parents were alive, which excited me and my brother no end.

Of course, Bryan, being a more rabid fan than I was, had already scoured the Internet for any information or clues about the last and 13th installment, which would come out this year on the 13th of October, a Friday. The significance of the date was not lost on Bryan. He e-mailed Lemony Snicket (or Daniel Handler) for further information. Bryan wanted to know several things. Could the Baudelaire parents really be alive? How could they have survived the fire? How would book 13 end? What would its title be? What would happen to Count Olaf that would mark the end of the book? These things he wanted to find out.

Alas, he never did.

An Unfortunate Event
Last March, my brother Bryan died from a hit-and-run accident. He was 17. And my own version of unfortunate events began to unfold. The world, for me, came to a screeching halt. I resigned from work; got excluded from my parents’ US immigration because I was, of all things, overage; and finally, my parents migrated to the US leaving one dead son behind, and another barely living.

That’s a lot to take in a span of two months. But I had to. The world didn’t end when my brother died, only his life did. Suddenly, it’s hard to see the upside of a tragic death. No positive thinking could counter the fact that my brother is dead. One minute he was alive, then bam! Dead.

Rereading the series didn’t offer me new insights into life and death, but it did offer me an avenue to relive the memories when my brother would excitedly turn the pages rabidly. It offered me a connection to my past, now suddenly rendered unreal and dreamlike and lost.

The series is a testament to my brother’s passion about books and the connection that binds us even now when he’s gone and I am still painstakingly turning the pages of my own life. They’re no longer just books to tide me over the next Harry Potter, the series has become more than that. I pick up a book from the series, and I’m off into a different world, a life I can now only imagine. And when I will finally read the last installment, the series will have become a part of me, embedded in an inexplicable yet primal way. It harkens back to the time of growing up with my brother, of books bought and read, and of a memory of him telling me, "Kuya, unfortunate events are blessings in disguise."

Published June 18, 2006. Philippine Star, Sunday Lifestyle section

Lent

2006-10-05T05:41:00.000-07:00

I SAW my younger -- and only -- brother die twice.

The first time was when he was four, and I was 10. After convulsing madly, with black ants coming out of his nails, he went into a coma. He was given 24 hours to get out of it or he never would. After all my hysterics inside the hospital room -- jumping, wailing, puking -- I was sent out. He was left alone inside to recover or die. That was on March 5, 1993.

Our years together had been typical of brothers, punctuated by fighting, punching and kicking each other. I had asked for him, wished for him, prayed to the Almighty that I would have a sibling. But I never was appreciative of him during our early years together. I cared for him, but I did not know how to show it. So he was being taken away from me. That quickly, that suddenly.

Out of the hospital room, with a glass window between us, I promised God that if He would let Bryan Nathaniel live, I would care for him the best way I could -- perhaps even more than I could. I'd do anything and everything just so he'd live. It was a prayer, a bargain. And God heard and granted it.

Twelve years later, last year, Bryan was a freshman in college and I was fresh out of college. I decided not to work immediately so I could have the time to ease Bryan into the fast-paced life in Metro Manila. He seemed so precocious but at the same time so innocent, even child-like, although he was turning 17 that September. We bonded really well. We shared the same passion for books and movies. We went on book-shopping sprees, watched movies and DVDs, ate pizzas and pastas and bought Christmas gifts together for our family and relatives in the Bicol region.
That was what I wanted: to be with my brother and see him grow.

Last Feb. 28, we were together -- me, him and Mom -- for an event at which I was being awarded a prize. I treated them to coffee and pasta and shared part of my prize with them.
Mom went back to Bicol that same night. The next morning, Bryan left early to hear Ash Wednesday Mass.

He never reached the church. He was hit by a passenger jeepney while he was on the way there. And the driver and his passengers didn't care at all. People who witnessed the accident simply stood there and looked, and then just walked away, as if it were a cat that had been hit. It took some time before someone picked him up from the street, bloodied and hardly breathing, and took him to the nearest hospital.

I got the call while I was on my way to work. I saw Bryan in the emergency room with doctors and nurses around him. Just two nights earlier, we were making plans for the weekend. Just that morning, we said goodbye to each other. Now he was there, in the emergency room, unconscious. And I was trying to control my shaking.

I had to call mother who had just arrived in Bicol. I had to inform a father in Saudi Arabia who was still asleep, perhaps dreaming that one week later he'd be home for good and we'd all be together, finally.

My eyes were focused on my brother. The doctors' words and everyone else's faded into the background. I was alone. The only familiar face in that room, in that hospital, was dying. I held his feet. I looked at the monitor, which was showing his heartbeat growing weaker. At 7:50 a.m., Bryan was pronounced dead.

There seemed to be a rift, a rupture in time, between Feb. 28 and March 1. It seemed that the only continuity was time itself and that the events were disparate and disjointed. How does one go from being alive one second and dead the next?

I remembered March 1993, the pleas, the prayers that he would live and that I would have another chance to take care of him.

I had that chance. In my imperfect and flawed way, I had loved and cared for Bryan. And God saw that I had fulfilled my promise. He took Bryan at a most difficult time, when he was battling the demons of youth. But He took him also at an opportune moment, when he had made the decision, an affirmation of faith, to hear early Mass on Ash Wednesday. He was taken in the most painful way, and yet God, in doing so, preserved Bryan's child-like and happy nature.

It was physically painful for Bryan and it was emotionally gut-wrenching and shocking for us whom he left behind. But there is that hope, that faith that Bryan is in better hands now. In the loving arms of Mama Mary, as my Mom keeps telling me.

It has been a long and surreal Lent for us and a different and melancholic future lies ahead. There are the happy memories to summon and then there are the images at the hospital, at the morgue, at the funeral house. There are those he left behind: the children to whom he was teaching Catechism in Bicol, his family, his relatives and his friends. His death has to mean something, although what it is isn't clear to me yet. Eyes blurred by tears and hearts filled by sorrow cannot have a clear vision of what lies ahead. We just limp forward to some unknown future. We look back and we look forward. We look outward and we look inward.
Where do we find the strength to move on? In God. In Mary.

I look forward to Black Saturday and to Easter Sunday, when this Lenten season will end. I look forward to the new light after this utter darkness because I believe not only in the Suffering Christ, but more so in the Resurrected Christ.

Published April 13, 2006. Philippine Daily Inquirer, Youngblood.

Snatched!

2006-10-04T15:02:00.000-07:00

IT WAS funny -- in a way. It reminded me of those slapstick comedies where the bad guy gets whacked in the end.

It happened a few afternoons ago. I was killing time in a shop of one of the coffee chains, reading a good book. At the table in front of me were two women who came with a foreigner. They had placed their valuables on the vacant chairs. Two unremarkable guys entered and stood between my table and their table, acting as if they were waiting for one to be vacated. Then one of the guys let slip a P20 bill, and when the women stooped down to pick it up, in a split-second, the guys snatched their bags.

The women sprang to their feet, shouting: "Hoy, mama! Bag namin!" ["Hey! Our bag!"] One of the women grabbed one of the snatchers as the foreigner struggled to his feet to go after them. Fortunately, the women's voices were so loud that everyone, including the guard, heard them, and so one of the snatchers was caught with a bag, now placed inside an even bigger bag, in
his hands.

What followed next was like a typical scene in sitcoms where the bad guys apologize profusely and the hero whacks them. One of the women said, "Lahat ng tao dito nagpapakahirap maghanapbuhay tapos ikaw nanakawin mo lang." ["Everyone here is having a hard time trying to earn a living, and you rob us just like that."] She followed this up with a whack on the snatcher's shoulder.

When the guard asked the women if they would be pressing charges, the woman said, "Of course! He should be jailed, otherwise what's going to stop him from doing it again?"
Seeing that he was in deep trouble, the snatcher began to apologize again. "Ma'am, sorry na po," he pleaded. "Sorry, talaga po. Nagkamali lang ako ng kuha. Hindi ko po sinasadya." ["I'm truly sorry. I grabbed the wrong item. I didn't mean to do it."]

A lapse in judgment? Haven't I heard that before? Haven't I seen somebody with a forlorn face apologizing for a lapse in judgment on national TV lately? But up to now, she has gotten away with her "mistake."

The sad truth is, Filipinos can be forgiving and we forgive the wrong people. Sometimes we quickly forgive so we can get on with our lives. We forgive and we justify our action by saying it is only natural for human beings to commit sin. And we forgive most easily the rich and the influential. We especially let people with money and power get away with their sins and accept their simple, insincere apologies, believing their crimes to be a lapse in judgment, as if all their lives they've lived immaculately and this lapse in judgment is an isolated aberration in their very moral lives.

But the words of the woman on national TV betrayed her. It wasn't something like an accidental, stupid mistake that she did. Judgment presupposes thinking, and shows she intended to rob the Filipino people of their real choice. Perhaps if she said, "Oops! I did it again!" and went to Mars, instead of saying that she had committed a lapse in judgment, she could have been forgiven her stupid mistake, even if that would make her -- a US-educated economist -- look dumb. But in an attempt to demonstrate that she was in control of the situation, she owned up to her mistake and thus, admitted that she wanted to make sure she would keep her lead of one million votes over her nearest rival.

No one will know for sure how many politicians said "Hello, Garci" on the phone. And even if Virgilio Garcillano had given all the names of the politicians who called him, we can't expect everyone to apologize unless each of them had been wiretapped talking to the election official. Indeed, no one will apologize for a lapse in judgment that no one knows about unless he is dying and has nothing more to lose (except, perhaps, a crack at eternal happiness) or he is writing a tell-all, you're-all-going-down-with-me memoir.

It seems we need more people, and not just those whose personal interests were directly affected, to say: "Lahat ng tao dito nagpapakahirap maghanapbuhay tapos kayo nanakawin niyo lang!" These cheaters, these snatchers got away because we have become complacent. Maybe if some physical evidence would turn up to prove that we have been robbed, like a bag or an unopened envelope, we could get our act together. Or maybe if we get whacked in the head, we'd wake up and do something to fix this country.

Published March 4, 2006. Philippine Daily Inquirer, Youngblood.

Exodus

2006-10-04T14:59:00.000-07:00

IT WAS just a simple night out. Dinner at Bellini's, Starbucks after that. No alcohol, although passionately singing "I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing" while walking from the Marikina Shoe Expo commercial complex to the Araneta Coliseum, in the Cubao area of Quezon City, might have given others the impression that we were under the influence. Over pasta, pizza and, later, tea and frappuccino, conversation flowed easily, accompanied by occasional laughter. There were no dramas, no startling revelations, no deciphering of life, love or the lack thereof. There were just stories, both funny and mundane, and simple, unbelievable declarations, like "I lost three pounds" or "My family's visa has been approved."

Bernz, Mich and I have been friends long before cell phones became common and when video iPods were still the stuff of sci-fi. Even if we went to different universities, we somehow managed to stay in touch. Back then, a P10 bill (it was not a coin then; see how ancient we are?) from Katipunan Avenue to the University of the Philippines campus would cover the fare of three students and still yield some change. And the telecom companies were still giving a lot of free text messaging. Throughout college and thereafter, through countless "inuman" [drinking bouts], curfew-busting movie marathons, bowling and book-swapping, we always found time to update each other on our separate lives. In between were a few dramas, some falling out with other friends and crazy birthday gifts, like red thongs and funny caricatures.

We were held together by our shared dream of becoming a gangster in our native Bicol region, with Bernz, with her kingpin-like physique, as our leader, and Mich and me as her minions. Equipped with guns and wearing cool shades, we would dispense justice wherever it was denied. (Of course, we were kidding.)

At first, it was just what movies to watch, where to go bowling or the latest John Grisham or Sidney Sheldon books. Then it was whether we should have beer or gin, clean or on the rocks. And then book conversations ranging from Terry Pratchett to Neil Gaiman to J.K. Rowling to Michael Cunningham to Jhumpa Lahiri or to whoever won the Pulitzer or Booker recently, or even the Nobel for Literature.

Then, our conversations revolved around whether to resign from work or not, about electric and phone bills, and the tragicomic absurdity of the country's political landscape. Buying books became rare. Bowling was dropped. And we were making do with "bilog" [round-bottle gin].

Clean.

We would wake up with a hangover and suddenly there were huge bills to pay and we cursed the government for raising taxes when the streets we walked on our way home remained unlit, unpaved and unsafe. Time hurled us forward and we were no longer the future. We are part of the disgruntled present, still being chided by our elders for having wasted our youth even as we can see clearly from the way the country is being run how wisdom is wasted on the old.

But we go on with our lives. There are deadlines to meet and board exams to pass. There's pressure to succeed. To prove our own worth. To build and make something of ourselves.

Dreams have become concrete and unreachable. I want my own pad. I want my own house. My own car. These are wishes that will soon turn to necessity when age and our entire clan pressure me to start breeding mini versions of myself. There's just no sweet transition from worrying about your academics to fretting about where to get money for bills to pay. It just happens. You search for answers. And then you realize that it is there for you to see. So you go pack your bags and leave, seeking a more decent income.

But before you go, you look back and you see many reasons to stay. And they're not the politicians who trumpet a 28-percent increase in overseas Filipino workers' money remittances or the political has-beens who are pushing for Charter change. No, not the politicians who are more than happy to see you leave so that they will have more money to pocket. Not them. Just thinking of them makes you think of razing this country to the ground so that you can rebuild it from its ashes. When you look at the country you'd be leaving, you see the journey you've made. And because of that, you are willing to stick it out in this place of high crime rates and astronomical taxes.

Those memories littered with laughter, cigarette butts, and alcohol? You know when you reminisce that it's not about being sentimental. It's wondering how you got here. You see how national issues can affect you. And sometimes you wonder whether making a stand during the Edsa People Power II revolt was a good idea, considering the replacement, who is demanding that you get off the streets when it was the streets that put her in power. Ironic, isn't it?

You look back at the decisions you've made. And then you steel yourself, zip your bags and book a flight. You say your goodbyes, slowly and tenderly. You have dinner with your friends. You talk about books, film festivals and those DVDs in Manila's Quiapo area that you'll miss, and you plan the next "inuman." You relive all the good things that made this country bearable for you.

It was like that for us. We left Starbucks at around 10 p.m. Mich took the Metro Rail Transit, Bernz took a bus, and I a jeepney. We live in different zip codes. And soon, we'll have different country codes.

Published November 26, 2005. Philippine Daily Inquirer, Youngblood.

Escaping with Neil Gaiman

2006-10-04T14:51:00.000-07:00

Books, especially fantasy literature, can take me to places so far removed from mine. Though similar emotions or struggles may imitate life, the realm of fantasy remains escapist fare. When I was young, I was amazed by fairy tales and mythologies. Heck, I even found Bible stories quite fascinating because of all the magic and show of might involved! Throughout high school I was obsessed with only one series of books – The Chronicles of Narnia. Add to that a few helpings of Marvel comics, some fantasy short stories, a few more fairy tales and the dreaded required readings in school and that summed up my reading list in high school.

All that changed when I went to college and I was surrounded with a lot of bookstores. With my very limited allowance, I would sacrifice a day’s meal (or two or three) to buy a good book. As my reading interest soared, my weight plummeted. I was suspiciously branded an addict, anorexic, bulimic, or just plain sick at one point or another. But I’m digressing. Part of my exponentially increasing interest in the written word, I would read books recommended to me by friends or even those whose covers I just happened to like! With the burning passion to read, it was inevitable that my reading list would still include fantasy literature. Aside from the different editions of The Chronicles of Narnia, I read the Wheel of Time (until it got ho-hum), The Sword of Truth, and The Lord of the Rings, among others. Nothing really deep or profound as they were all bestsellers and epic by nature.

So when a great friend thrust upon me the novel American Gods, she thought that there would be an instant recognition. Instead I looked at her quizzically and said, "Who’s he?" upon seeing the author. Defying the forces of gravity, I saw blood surge to her face at such an alarming rate as to approach the speed of light. Then she boomed, in a voice that was trying to control an impending burst of anger, "THE AUTHOR OF THE SANDMAN?"

Blank stares.
Blink, blink.
More blank stares.

With great restraint, she hit my head with the book. I lost my balance and crashed to the floor. She was simply incapable of being gentle. After some kind strangers brought me to my feet, she blared at me again, "Don’t tell me you don’t know who Neil Gaiman is, you, Mr. Book Person!" At the time, a good five years ago, I simply had no idea who Neil Gaiman was. "The Sandman? Graphic novels?" she said while knocking at my head. This must be how trees feel when pecked by woodpeckers, I thought to myself. I tried to hide the terror in my voice and told her in the calmest way that I didn’t know who Neil Gaiman was. I asked her in a soft, fading, quivering voice what American Gods was about and silently implored the high heavens that my precious life be spared. She was (and is) the BIGGEST Neil Gaiman fan, after all. "American Gods is about this guy named Shadow and also Wednesday…" Since then Neil Gaiman has become one of my staple authors.

American Gods
Some would argue that American Gods is not a good starting point to develop an interest in Gaiman’s works. Rabid, salivating, die-hard fans (read: my great friend) would, more often than not, usually recommend the usual suspects: The Sandman or Smoke and Mirrors, or even Neverwhere. But I got hooked on Gaiman because of American Gods.

For me, American Gods is a biting social commentary on the fickleness and ungratefulness of America towards its cultural heritage. Borrowing characters from different mythologies, Gaiman was able to craft a dark, shadowy story on the battle for beliefs between the traditional gods and the more recent ones people are prostrating themselves before, namely the Internet, credit cards, technology. It also expresses how much of America is derived or borrowed. The immigrants who moved to America brought, along with their hopes for a better life, their cultures and beliefs, thus the title. But with the advent of technology, these gods are being driven to extinction. They have now become obsolete, old, and impractical.

This more universal theme of displacement of religion and tradition rings true for all nations. In the face of technology, everything is analyzed and deconstructed. Science seeks a rational explanation for all things and with it goes the demystification of life. In the quest for truth, old notions are displaced and forgotten. Life becomes mechanical, practical… mundane. There’s no more mystery, no more magic. That makes life oh-so-tragic. And people who believe that oh-so pathetic. And I’m ranting coz I’m rhyming. Oh stop me, somebody… please.

Good Omens
If one finds American Gods dark and heavy, Good Omens is anything but. As light as a South Beach Diet, it details, in the funniest way, how Gaiman and Pratchett hope to bring down Armageddon. With funny characters (and even funnier names) racing against time to put a screech, delay, and halt the end of the world, the authors have created a book that pokes fun and marvels at the fallibility of human beings.

In one of the more classic scenes, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Famine, has invented a classic dish (calorie-counting people! Get your books now and write this down!): a string bean, a pea, and a sliver of chicken breast aesthetically arranged on a china plate. Of course, with such scrumptious, mouth-watering, low-calorie cuisine it’s only available in the most exclusive of restaurants. And it’s expensive. Surely, the study of aesthetically arranging the cuisine involves higher education and PhDs. God knows how difficult it is to prepare that food. That alone is worth a dissertation! And with just a small china plate? Gosh! The possibilities of arranging those ingredients are infinite! Quite unsurprisingly, the moneyed are worshipping it. As Famine said, "I’ve never seen so many rich people so hungry." While more than half of Africa and Asia are starving, the more affluent ones are also starving. Such a delightfully twisted world!

One might wonder, then, why an angel and a demon would join forces to delay Armageddon considering the dreariness and despondency of the world. Why, despite the malevolent behavior and unscrupulousness of some people, ethereal beings on both ends of the moral spectrum would set aside their obvious differences to salvage humanity. What makes humans so unique, so special that they could bring the most bitter of enemies together? Well, immortals as they are, spending their whole ethereal existence in this world since creation, they’ve grown to love people.

And indeed, modesty aside, we are amazing creatures! There’s no one but us who can inflict such amazing things on ourselves like the Inquisition, genocide, terrorism, value-added tax, the Congress, the Senate! Ain’t life just grand? Crowley, the demon, even thought of sending a nice e-mail (they’re up to the times, you know!) to Hell to just pack up and come here to Earth because there’s nothing they can do that we haven’t done yet to ourselves and there are things that we’ve done that are beyond the wildest imaginations of Hell’s think tank. I mean, c’mon, the House of Representatives? Government officials? Hell wouldn’t think that we would be that dumb as to yield ourselves to such arrogance and incompetence. We are built into a world that’s against us in a hundred little ways (think of floods, tsunamis, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions) and yet we spend most of our energies making it worse (think of the people we elect in the government and value-added taxes). Hasn’t it been written that hell is empty and all the devils are here?

But, and here’s the big BUT (no, not J. Lo’s behind), just as we can be more malignant than Hell could ever be, we could occasionally show more grace than Heaven ever dreamed of. And I’m not talking about politicians giving election money or their pork barrel. No, they don’t have grace or finesse. They’re as crude as unrefined oil. I’m talking about the few bright spots in the world — those who would donate their time and money without the press releases and publicity shots; those who would fight poverty and corruption; and those who live their lives, no matter how ordinary, as noble and as dignified as possible.

Can’t you see now how eclectic the mix of human beings is? Just as we have PGMA and Bush, we’ve also had Mother Teresa and Pope John Paul II and countless other unsung heroes who try to make life just a (teeny-weeny) bit better. We are a puzzlement, a question needing to be answered, a source of amusement to otherworldly beings (that is, if they do exist). From an objective point of view, literally lift yourself up (go to a very tall building or wherever) and (don’t jump!) see the world below. Life is so much more than what we see or what we go through. There’s more to life than our own misery. It is a fascinating, involving and evolving mystery. No matter how much you deconstruct life, tear it to pieces, analyze it, you’ll never get closer to the core of it unless you’ve lived it fully.

But lest you think that Good Omens is just an irreverent take on life, it’s not. It is, first and foremost, an encyclopedia of lost and trivial information. Did you know that the Earth’s a Libra? Or that the Devil has the best tunes but Heaven has the best choreographers? Or that some of the little pigs in that nursery rhyme went to Hades and feasted on human flesh? Bet you didn’t know those life-changing, more-controversial-than-Kris-Aquino’s-national-TV confessions until now!

Well, there’s more in the book. After all, the complete title of the book is Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. Again, I’m digressing. This is the closest I can get to telling you to read this book. And upon reading this book, perhaps you’ll realize that, despite the spectacular ordinariness of life, it is still beyond our grasp, our understanding, and our imagination.

The Drive To Escape
It has often been said that life is stranger than fiction. No matter how strange or fantastical fiction can get, life is still stranger. Just read the memoirs of ordinary mortals like The Kiss, The Glass House, My Life in Orange, and Running with Scissors, among others and you’ll see how strange life is. Despite the enormous efforts to rob life of its mystery, it is still sublimely fascinating as it is deliriously heartbreaking.

So when life overwhelms me, I pick up Good Omens (again) or any fantasy literature and immerse myself in those strange places inhabited by Four Horsemen, wizards, dragons, and witches, among other creatures. As I’ve said earlier, reading a fantasy book, whether as dark as American Gods, as funny as Good Omens, or as epic as Lord of the Rings, remains an escapist fare.

If books can send you far from your miserable life and into another one that, perhaps, you can relate to; fantasy can blast you out of life’s orbit. They may not be that deep or that serious, and what you will get may not be an in-your-face lecture of human struggle. But to a thinking reader, fantasy may as well be the best representative of literature. Why? I’ll let Neil Gaiman answer that. In his short story (with a very loooong title) "Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Nameless House of the Night of Dread Desire" (Whew!), Gaiman wrote: "Fantasy is escapism, true. But is not the highest impulse in mankind the urge towards freedom, the drive to escape?"

Published May 29, 2005. Philippine Star, Sunday Lifestyle section.