Pink Idiocy

Favorite Words

2009-10-03T01:16:46Z

Favorite Words

(Dedicated to my friends Kevin and Nadia)

Where I grew up in the Philippines, second is an adjective that means, well, next to first, say, the first and second commandments. Occasionally, it is a noun as in, a poor second: also, the beyond disputing two minutes and one second. It is very rarely used as a verb (stress at the second syllable: \si-‘känd\), which means to support or assist. The only time it is ever used as a verb is during classroom elections when the motion for nominations is being closed and one voter is apt to rise ceremoniously in declaring, “I second the motion.” I remember one of my childhood friends whose mission in life it was to solemnize that part of the electoral process. She would raise her hand, stand up to her full height, inhale a lungful of air, and with all the pageantry that she could muster, pronounce, “I second the emotion.” Yes, putting unregulated emphasis on the e. I swear that was how she uttered it at the time.

I am saying this because my present boss is an Australian and is, understandably, given to use second as an action word all the time: “government to second community physiotherapists”; “the congregation seconded the plea . . .” It is his favorite. For how long it will be, I shall not pretend to know. I do know that all of us have a favorite word or phrase at one time or another, and many of us are bound not to part with it soon, discarding the habit only when one of our friends has pointed out the idiosyncrasy. Indeed, isn’t it that when we are mimicked, we realize the monkey in us and promptly put the mannerism inside the dustbin? Just today my superior accosted me in the hall and reiterated his “determination to second your forthcoming village councils.” It was the thirteenth time the dear fellow had spoken the word in a notoriously short span of forty minutes, and I was about the shoot him down when prudence took the better part of the whippersnapper. I let him get away with it today, but I don’t know about tomorrow or the next day. Maybe I will, still. Why not, he is the boss.

The last boss I had had his own collection of favorite tongue oilers, the most prominent of which was even as we speak. Yes, you heard it right—that ominous line foreboding action or inaction, or harm, or good tidings, whichever moved his fancy at the supreme moment. At partners’ meetings, my former chief galvanized the conventions with a litany of responses for corporate productivity “even as we speak,” which conjured images of fireworks going off just behind the opaque walls signaling our imminent successes, or a multitude of angels singing the hallelujah chorus blessing our diverse plans of action. Behold the titanic hand of good fortune . . . even as we speak. Predictably, my cohorts and I grew weary of his harangues and valiantly tried to suppress a yawn even as he spoke.

Way back at the university, I had this female classmate, whom we shall call Sally, who was not particularly into the subtleties of the English language but who one day discovered what coolness it was to say “It defeats the purpose” in her moments of agitation, ecstasy, or plain opposition to the status quo. When asked, for instance, why she was snubbing the spiritual retreat, Sally would answer without batting an eyelash, “It defeats the purpose . . .” I never did find out what she said later in the sentence because she had me in thrall every time she uttered it: “It defeats the purpose.” Such absolute persuasion in what you believe in, eh? Who can contest that? Sally, who was a good-looking skeptic, said the same exact thing when asked about her refusal to participate in other campus formalities, such as the prom and the student body elections: “It defeats the purpose . . .”

A wicked friend of mine—let’s call him Dan—who has the same vice as I do of identifying peculiarities in people’s speeches, has reported to me that our skeptic friend had jettisoned the purpose-defeating rejoinder and graduated into “part and parcel.” At the most recent class reunion, Dan said, Sally lugubriously began and ended many of her sentences with part and parcel. Example: “Part and parcel of our alumni gatherings is the memory of those who are no longer with us in this world . . . always they shall be part and par . . .”

What Dan does not know is that I have always wanted to throttle him for saying basically at the beginning, end, and middle of everything he says: “Basically, what Sally said basically was . . . she was boring us to tears . . . basically.”

Yes, I, Ryan, am a faultfinder, and I am diabolical, and you shall all now unite to second one another in pulverizing me into parts and parcels to defeat my basic purpose even as I speak.

Wheelchairs and Nation Building

2008-08-11T11:58:03Z

Wheelchairs and Nation Building

One sublime paradox in rehabilitation medicine is the international symbol of access. The symbol depicts a person with disability (PWD) seated on a wheelchair. It is ironic because doctors and therapists have conventionally prescribed wheelchairs as a last resort (walking being the highest ethical goal), recommending hospital-type one-size-fits-all models that usually end up useless at best and unsafe at worst.

The resolution of this irony does not lie in altering the symbol but in improving reality. And the reality encompasses this: Even the best-intentioned rehab practitioners are hard put prescribing safe, functional, and well-fitting wheelchairs simply because in this country hardly anyone manufactures them. The main problem is not the lack of knowledgeable prescribers but the scarcity of the suitable product.

Reality is further muddled because government has not carried out distribution parameters, leading to indiscriminate donations by otherwise magnanimous organizations who apparently believe any wheelchair is beneficial for any paraplegic. Such misplaced generosity is unwittingly shown on TV when some foundation goes on a charity binge. The footage would feature, say, children with cerebral palsy slouching on wheelchairs four times as wide as their bodies, their heads lower than the armrests, their knees unbent.

Such incongruity contravenes a tenet in wheelchair design: the chair must be as unobtrusive looking as possible. This way, people meeting the PWD for the first time shall notice the rider first, not the wheelchair.

Paraplegics can contribute to the national economy. This has been proved so often it no longer admits of argument. If they could drive wheelchairs appropriate to their size, disability, and environment, many paraplegics can directly contribute by becoming gainfully employed. Some can indirectly contribute by increasing their independence in self-care (eating, dressing, personal hygiene, indoor mobility), courtesy of certain wheelchair accessories such as lap trays, one-hand drive, headrests; thus, allowing their carers to pursue a modest livelihood.

It is specious and condescending to conceive of handicraft as the sole occupation wheelchair riders can be good at. History does not lack for great men and women paraplegics who have made a mark in the arts, politics, sports, the sciences. And yet many NGOS are apt to view wheelchair users as nothing more than potential weavers of rattan, abaca, or bamboo.

Education is the key with which paraplegics can attain their highest potential in their particular inclinations. Paraplegics studying at universities and joining the professions is a slow but continuing process in the Philippines. Thanks to certain legislations, notably the Magna Carta for Persons with Disability and the Accessibility Law. These two laws may inherently lack teeth in the aspect of implementation, but they have definitely whittled down discrimination in schools by leaps and bounds; hence, enabling a growing number of wheelchair riders to obtain college degrees in their fields of interest as well as participate in sports and socialize along the way.

Still, the eradication of discrimination erases only half of the problem. The other half consists of the provision of the appropriate wheelchair itself. For how good is your undiscriminated paraplegic without a proper wheelchair? He shall have remained isolated, and his immobility shall not cease to sap the economic and moral health of the rest of us.

There are 100,00 Filipinos today who have no wheelchairs. Their chief complaint, in their own words, is not even disability but poverty. Their dilemma is not so much kinesiologic as economic.

The government remains the biggest potential redeemer of these paraplegics. In addition to imposing regulations on wheelchair production and distribution, it can address the issue of provision.

The answer is in the Magna Carta for Persons with Disability, which entreats LGUs to make annual allocations for PWD necessities, such as wheelchairs. Some communities are fortunate to have concerned groups and NGOs in their midst who make it their calling to diligently remind their local officials to annually approve this meaningful apportionment. Needless to say, if such vigilance is duplicated in every town and city, more paraplegics can help themselves and their communities.

Genuine national progress begins with the achievement of individual dignity. For the Filipino paraplegic, it begins with a wheelchair that will set him free.

Communication Y O Y

2008-03-03T03:06:48Z

Communication Y O Y

It’s almost painful to talk about. But not really. In fact, yes, I’m telling you, so it should not be that hurtful. No, I’m not pained, I promise. I am puzzled. I was watching two deaf-mute people, girl and boy, at a pizza restaurant last Valentine’s Day, and they killed me with their super sweet—no, amorous—gesticulations. I studied sign language some years ago, you know, and I could read what the two lovebirds were telling each other right there in the middle of a . . . I can’t remember if the restaurant was full, so maybe I should not say crowd. I hate it when people say crowd when it is not exactly that.

I was engrossed on the two sweethearts: their hands in constant, vigorous, multifarious ejaculations. Yes, ejaculation—almost in its other signification. You see, the woman was actually suggesting what sex positions they’d assume later at the motel. Que horror. There is no hand sign for motel—she had to spell it out. There is a hand sign for every letter in the alphabet. So that was how I learned they were to copulate later in the night.

I was scandalized. All I wanted was brush up on my sign language. But there I was lapping up every salacious sentence of endearment they threw at each other. How human, you may say. I ought to understand. But aren’t they supposed to think others might “hear” them? I mean, sign language is not exclusively taught to the . . . okay, the politically correct term is hearing impaired. They just did not care even as I read them say

Boy: I’ll kiss it. Promise, I’ll kiss it to titillate you.

Girl: You naught boy. That’s funny. (Throws a piece of paper at the guy.)

Boy: I’ll kiss it for hours.

Girl: (Blushes) Hey, you . . . don’t you dare. (Laughs flirtatiously.)

The dunces. Could they not see I was around? They ought to stop, stop.

You know, last January I watched this movie with Matt Damon and Angelina Jolie in it. Not really a popular work. Certainly not Matt’s best. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t really heard of it until I bought a DVD of Matt Damon movies. The film is called The Good Shepherd. I don’t get why it’s called The Good Shepherd. Obviously, I am not that literate in the same sense that I don’t understand why Scent of a Woman is called that despite my loving the movie to bits. Of Scent of a Woman, remember that part where Al Pacino delivers his long speech at the school? I was thrilled to high heavens the first time I watched it on TV—until I saw another Al Pacino movie where he played a coach in some sport, and he gave another oration to rouse his team to victory. I was like, hey, kumita na yan ha. What a waste of a nice concept.

Anyway, The Good Shepherd featured counterintelligence, or how the CIA was supposed to have developed it. Or how the CIA was supposed to have refined it to an academic subject replete with a curriculum. I won’t bore you with the stuff (all right, the movie is fatally boring if you don’t take it seriously or watch it alone, convinced it’s a serious work given that Matt and Angelina are there). I was watching the hearing-impaired couple in the restaurant just a few meters away from where I sat; they were totally enjoying their prurient exchanges, and I went like, What if they are just playing on me? What if somehow they have come to figure I was listening and they were really playing me instead? After all, listening is not the monopoly of the hearing impaired. Remember the old folks when they used to say the bungol or the bingi in town were not infrequently the first to know who was the latest victim of premarital bulging of the bosom? What if these two bingi actually thought I was a hopeless prude dateless on a Valentine’s Day?

So there I was. I got dazed and started for the door. I had gone to the restaurant only because a friend had raved about it. Well, I didn’t like it. I did not have a great time. I walked past the tables of less amorous lovebirds and braced myself for the taxi ride back to my apartment half a million miles away.

The Jonah in Me

2007-11-13T08:26:30Z

The Jonah in Me

My dad once told me he was celebrating mass (Episcopalian) when he learned of my birth. His sacristan had placed a note on the altar whilst Father was raising the chalice, and he read it as soon as his hands were free. It’s a boy, the note read. My father’s heart sank. He had expected another girl, a third one, since he already had two daughters. Why he did not wish for a boy was understandable because the men in his side of the family had been liable to become gamblers, drunkards, and womanizers, a genetic probability devoutly to be shunned. As turned out, the sanctity that encompassed his receipt of my coming must have worked a miracle for I grew to abhor gambling, liquor, and fornication and detested with a messianic rage the debauchery that characterizes these vices.

My parents were career people who both eschewed house work. The most that my mother could manage in a week was cleaning bedrooms in our convent on Saturday mornings, which she did more with fulminations than actual application of the broom, the frightened maids picking after her. They would overturn the beds, haul out boxes of old issues of Reader’s Digest, wipe them clean, and tuck them back neatly. A somewhat superstitious woman, Mother once singled out a copy of the Digest in the seventies that had featured a Filipina nurse who barely survived a mass murder in New York by hiding under her bed. The article explained that the survivor must have hid where she was by instinct because back in the Philippines, her family kept stuff such as old clothes, family albums, shoes, casseroles, books, and sacks of rice under the bed. It was also one of the places where Filipinos were likely to lie fetuslike in a game of hide-and-seek. Why it never crossed the killer’s mind to look under the bed had briefly puzzled my young mind. I mean, where I was, yes, if you were looking for something like your undergarments, the first place to check was under the bed. The maniac either had osteoarthritis of the knee or he suddenly heard the sirens blazing. But now I reckon maybe he simply originated from a place where nothing was supposed to be underneath the bed but thin air, even in times of grave danger. So much for cultural differences.

Now I remember one book that ultimately retired under the bed as I aged was My Picture Story Bible, sent by an aunt from Texas. It was about an inch thick. I read and reread it as a young boy. I grew to immensely rely on that book because, although religious, it did not insult my—or anyone’s, who cared to read—intelligence. Prior to that book, I had classified religious reading materials to be only of two kinds: the picture books for kids that bored me to tears, and the erudite sermon books for adults that eliminated any chance of me reading further. My Picture Story Bible was a mixture of the best of both worlds: it reintroduced to me the biblical titans in flesh and blood, and taught me as well to imitate their faith.

My Picture Story Bible had very few drawings; the pictures were painted by words, not by lines and colors. And so I read on and on and on and again and again. Just one book for more than a year. The only time I deeply read. Whereas before, Jonah had been the prophet swallowed and regurgitated by the fish, My Picture Story Bible now told me Jonah proceeded to preach in Nineveh, as previously commanded, only to fail in the end because of laziness. And whereas before, Solomon was the wisest and richest king, My Picture Story Bible now illustrated that Solomon was not exempt from misfortunes, among them a putsch staged by his handsome favorite son Absalom, a la Gringo Honasan.

I shall turn thirty-two in two days. I don’t know about you, but there are times when I am damn sure all I really need to be happy is kept under the bed. It’s right there. But I am not sure I am inclined to haul it out anytime soon.

Indiana Jones

2007-10-31T08:31:17Z

Indiana Jones

Yes, Doc. Flying is my hobby.

Down with Yahoo Address Books

2007-08-30T09:37:15Z

Down with Yahoo Address Books

Once in a while I receive an update on a Yahoo address book: it consists of names of people who went to my high school. I didn’t start that list—oh no, somebody else did. One of the last things I will ever do in this finite life is make a list of people who attended the same high school as I did. I mean, what’s the point of knowing Miss So-and-so graduated thirty-four years earlier than you did? She probably wiped her booger under a different desk, so what’s the point? (Talking of booger, one popular joke in my youth went like, what’s the difference between booger and rice? The stock answer was that people usually put rice on top of the table, while booger was usually placed beneath it. How I would grimace at the narration of this folly.) The only names I shall ever be interested in are those of loonies who sat in the same graduation rites as I did. Naturalmente, such a list is long, with only my multifarious selves printed all over it.

This is true of Everyman.

But there are, in fact, two names other than mine who have, if not drawn my fascination, impelled me to remember. They are Divina and Joselito. They and I finished high school together, but these two innocent beings studied in the lower sections—maybe in different ones—while I was in special class, a fact I now consider perplexing. While I was convinced that I was special, there was nothing to suggest that my confederates in class were equally so, an observation that should have prompted the school authorities to put me in a class by myself.

Now before I turn into a rank replica of the much-reviled Malu Fernandez, let me asseverate that I could not remember ever exchanging a word or two with Divina and Joselito in the four years that we were high schoolers. No. But we did talk in grade school. That was the only time we interacted verbally, maybe because we were classmates.

I remember now why they stand out in my memory today: once upon a time they happened to smother their seats with their leavings, Divina with her urine, and Joselito his feces. Because I did not know a lot of English words at the time, I referred to their residues as simply ihi and tae, respectively. And respectfully we all reacted. Except the teacher, who was suddenly livid with fury. How she erupted into volcanic rage, jabbing a finger in the air and almost tearing her blouse. Which made me wonder whether real volcanoes were teachers too in the geographical scheme of things, who were capable of lashing out at student volcanoes that were not strong enough to contain their volcanic excretions.

We were in the first grade then. The floor under Divina’s chair was suddenly flooded, which caused Miss Omado to hasten to the area of calamity.

“Divina, nahingi kaw? (Divina, did you pee on your seat?)”

“Wara, ma’am [shaking]. . . Wara takun ( Oh no, ma’am. I didn’t. I DID NOT).”

“Ti, sin-o ang nangihi abi kay ikaw man diya ang nakapungko (Hell, then who you think did it. It’s only you who’s been sitting there). ”

“Basta wara gid takun, ma’am. Wara git takun [sobbing] (I swear. I swear it wasn’t me, ma’am. I swear).”

Joselito’s case was less complicated. When it was abundantly clear to everyone that the intoxicating smell was coming from one of the pupils and not from the adjacent toilet, the teacher approached Joselito and asked him firmly if it was him. Cool as a cucumber, Joselito answered in the affirmative. And the rest was supposed to be history. But many witnesses of that day never managed to forget, and so teased the hapless defecator until sixth grade or even in high school—I am not sure. Joselito is a classic case of “You think you’re through with the past, but the past is not through with you.” It was fortunate that his family moved after graduation. I used to believe that was the only reason they moved.

And so that, my friends, is probably the reason I abhor address lists of people of the past who do not necessarily compute in my estimations—they might force me to recall inappropriately, to sin. There was this other girl named Emma who was the daughter of the butcher. She forgot to flush the toilet bowl in grade school one day, and someone found out about it. Beautiful, voluptuous, and rich Emma is privately referred to to this day as Timbol, the Hinaray-a word for hard, well-formed tae, oftentimes a result of indigestion.

Growing Old

2007-08-22T09:35:26Z

A stolen shot at work, really. An affirmation of my serious side. That's almost funny, you know.

An Eruption of Wheelpower

2007-06-02T03:14:07Z

An Eruption of Wheelpower

One Summer

2007-05-10T09:31:40Z

Fat with hidden riches: The allure of Tinago Falls

Portrait of THE Gago

2007-04-26T09:43:52Z

Portrait of THE Gago

Justice secretary Raul Gonzales should stick his finger to the wall socket.

Seating Therapy

2007-04-13T09:09:08Z

Seating Therapy

I have been honing my craft as a seating therapist for the past seven months. Seating therapy is pretty much a novelty in physical rehabilitation medicine, especially in the Philippines. The wheelchair is a dangerous thing to be on, and our chief mission has been to design seats with accessories that best conform and adapt to a patient’s specific disability, size, lifestyle, goals, and environment.

Most people know only about hospital-type or institutional wheelchairs, which are one-size-fits-all and are, therefore, ill-fitting and inadequate for permanent use. Worse, wheelchairs in third world countries are not prescribed with pressure-relieving cushions, an oversight that can lead to pressure sores in the butt. Pressure sores, of course, are deadly.

Above is Shen, a nine-year-old child in Mindanao born with spinal muscular atrophy. She lives in a cramped and dark room, with a bed that has no mattress. With her new supportive seat, her family can now bring her outside on a whim to breathe the fresh air in the yard, without poor Mama having to carry her in her arms.

The very act of sitting up cleared up Shen’s congested chest. The wheezing stopped, almost like a miracle. Her scoliosis will most likely progress, but I am hoping that the upright, balanced orientation of the trunk, replete with lateral supports, will retard it. In Shen's case the scoliosis is caused by the asymmetric muscle control on the spine, which happens to growing persons with disabilities condemned to a life on bed, their sole interaction only with the ceiling.

There's my countenance, shining with toil. Fitted this kid for an hour in a room that resembled an oven. Man did I sweat. Plus I had to launch into some special education stuff out of the blue. I had a truly wonderful time, though. Sharp kid. Athetoid cerebral palsy cases are smart like that.

Thank You, Conrad de Quiros

2007-04-11T08:07:19Z

Thank You, Conrad de Quiros

Hello, sir. I have just read your piece in the book called Twenty Speeches That Moved a Nation. Your speech was entitled “Tongues on Fire.” I was moved all right. Judging by the date, you wrote that speech at a time when I was not yet an ardent There’s the Rub aficionado, although, in fact, I was already reading you at the time. I think composing a speech like that is an act of bighearted patriotism. I was touched, I suppose, because you wrote of your own poverty-stricken youth in Naga, something I can perfectly relate to. You shine like a pearl every time you describe your simple boyhood in Naga. If poverty could produce such literary brilliance, such height of intellectual honesty, I suppose many people ought to seek earnestly some semblance of long-term self-deprivation every now and then. But of course, poverty does not always end happily.

I wrote because I got to think lately, what more can I get from Conrad de Quiros, after having read three hundred of his columns? Certainly not a change of heart toward Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, whose legitimacy he continues to question. That will probably happen if GMA repents and resigns, which may make her a national hero, going by the brand of forgiveness, or passivity, Filipinos are known for. Still, I doubt if you will do that, sir. Haha. But until GMA atones for her offense, I know I will spend the rest of my days reading Conrad fulminating on every major ailment of the day as being an offshoot of the GMA illegitimacy, such as the Professional Regulation Commission being unqualified to morally punish a licensure exam cheat because the commission itself has turned a blind eye to an illegal president; police being not rightful to arrest criminals because the commander in chief herself is one; military unethical to subdue a rebellion because the militants are rebelling against an illegitimacy or travesty.

A good friend of mine, who became an ex-Dequiros fan after reading your three hundredth excoriation of GMA, asked me one time—albeit I strongly suspect he still reads you—“Hey, don’t you just tire of Conrad de Quiros’s columns?”

Actually, maybe I do, or I would. But it happens that I do not read you every day—I am daily swamped with work as a physical therapist working for the disabled in Mindanao. And I am not even from Mindanao. I read you once in two weeks, sometimes three weeks, in hard computer copy. That is the most obvious reason I am not tired, I told my friend. I print your articles and devour them at home in my study, in the quiet after-dinner hours, or lazy Saturday mornings. And then I get up and sigh, realizing it is once again all but pure literary relish. There is really nothing I can do to remove the fake president. Not while I am in this business of helping out the handicapped, which I think is a noble thing too.

But I would not want you to stop raging at the progress of the great daylight murder. Write on. You’re a literary relish because you speak the truth many of us cannot say, or can say but won’t be heard anyway. We are too busy getting by. She will not quit, but so will you, right? With you around, we can endure her.

De Quiros who? most people would say to me, indicating they don’t read you. Filipinos do not read at this time and age. But that’s another lamentation.

A Tale of Two Orators

2007-01-05T00:58:03Z

Published in the Youngblood column, Philippine Daily Inquirer, June 3, 2003

A Tale of Two Orators

Carlos Peña Romulo and Miriam Defensor-Santiago have one thing in common: they are two of the most prodigious English speakers the Philippines has ever produced. Although they did not become president like Ferdinand Marcos, another Demosthenes in Philippine politics, they did manage to mesmerize audiences and win fame and public adulation that can only be described as spectacular.

Romulo and Santiago also share one fate that they cannot be proud of: they have become victims of national amnesia at best, and excoriation at worst. Historians point out that public disenchantment with Romulo started when he opted to continue serving Marcos during the martial law years. Santiago continues to be reviled by a significant number of Filipinos for asking Joseph Estrada to stand as godfather to her two adopted daughters in 1998 and defending him during his impeachment trial.

How did things go wrong for these two talented Filipinos?

It was Pio Andrade Jr. who formally shattered the Romulo myth in 1990 with his book The Fooling of America: The Untold Story of Carlos P. Romulo. The book claims Romulo was a farce and that he gulled Filipino and American officials alike during his long, multi-awarded career as a diplomat.

Andrade made several damning accusations like: Romulo's grossly inaccurate and highly exaggerated accounts of his wartime exploits in Bataan, which made him a folk hero in America, but which was eventually refuted when the American military released its own version of what transpired there; his subservience to Marcos whom he served as foreign minister for sixteen years, criticizing the dictator only during his dying days in 1985 as the Marcos regime itself was drawing to a close; his conspicuous absence during the funeral of Ninoy Aquino; and his silence during the trial of Fabian Ver.

Andrade says Romulo could have known that Ver was using the foreign ministry as a base to second-guess Ninoy's moves when he came home, but he never presented himself to the Agrava Commission. If Romulo was a man of justice as he had often claimed at the United Nations, Andrade asked, why did he shrink from this momentous responsibility?

I read Andrade's book only recently because in 1990 when it was published, I was still a high school Romulo fan reading something else: Inside the Palace: The Rise and Fall of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. The book was written by Romulo's second wife, the American journalist Beth Day who, I understand, wrote it after the EDSA Revolution and published it in 1987. The following year, in the June issue of the Reader's Digest, Day wrote another tribute to her husband entitled “Unforgettable Carlos P. Romulo,” which I read hundreds of times and shared with friends who had also been taught in grade school to emulate Romulo as a paragon of virtue.

(In college and later on as a professional, I would read more glowing stories about Romulo, until I realized something was quite wrong: all the stories were written by Beth Day. Hardly anybody else was writing about Romulo. Well, I did come across his name in the autobiography of Rafael Salas who almost became UN secretary-general, if not for Romulo's envious manipulation of the contest. But that's another story.)

It is interesting to note that Inside was published three years ahead of The Fooling, but it already contains a lot of justification for Romulo's questionable actions mentioned in Andrade's book. One is tempted to say Inside had been deliberately designed to ward off all accusations against Romulo.

But whether Inside was an attempt at a whitewash or not, we cannot really be sure. What we can be sure of is that, like a goof wife, Beth Day zeroed in on Romulo's Voice of America speeches on Bataan, his critical words against Marcos before he took his last breath, and his visit to Ninoy's wake one evening, which she describes as peaceful and well received, but which, according to Andrade, was marked with shouts from the angry crowd of “Tuta! Tuta!”

If the Romulos dumped the bad president they had once waltzed with for the sake of convenience after EDSA 1, Santiago didn't after EDSA 2. Call it an evil choice, but at least she made a choice. This is the reason she continues to be reviled while Romulo's memory has been merely consigned to the dustbin. They both served bad presidents, but Santiago opted to stay on the sinking ship.

Santiago undoubtedly received a lot of largesse as Erap's most important ally. But she did chastise Erap on several occasions at the height of their alliance, notably when she called his government a “growing kleptocracy” at a major conference in Davao in 1999. It sure was a challenge, and it would not have been the last one had Erap not been overthrown.

I am convinced the Erap-Miriam alliance was doomed because theirs was merely a partnership of convenience. And that was all there was to it. Considering Santiago's unpredictability and impatience, Erap would eventually have gotten on her nerves despite the numerous favors he gave her. But EDSA 2 happened, and they had no choice but to cement their alliance against Ramos. That made Santiago the great has-been that she is today.

It would be beneficial for Filipinos aspiring for public office to study the lives of Romulo and Santiago because they provide rich lessons on politics and survival.

What is a gifted and respected figure to do if an unprincipled president asks for his services? Should he accept the offer, close his eyes, and bite the president's hand later if necessary, like Romulo? Or should he accept the offer, criticize him occasionally and go down in flames with him, like Santiago?

The answer is no. It must have been very hard for Romulo and Santiago, but their answer should have been a resounding no. Wise men exert a better influence on a bad president if they remain in the opposition instead of joining the administration. As oppositionists, they may not succeed in opening the eyes of a blind president, but at least they would not make him more pernicious by sheer acquiescence and sycophancy.

Romulo and Santiago serve as reminders that actions, not words, define one's place in history. If only Romulo persisted in pushing the genuine ideals of democracy and justice. If only Miriam stuck to her fight against graft and corruption. Indeed, if only they had been meeker and truer to their avowed principles, we would have two more individuals in the tiny gallery of Filipino greats.

I'll Break My Chastity Vows for this Girl, No Kidding

2006-05-20T10:33:23Z

Idina Menzel

Tony Award-winning performance in Wicked: "And nobody in all of Oz/
No Wizard that there is or was/Is ever gonna bring me down!"

Ponche

2006-04-25T12:08:28Z

Ponche

The day Ponche Bianco got married was the day I confirmed love was the opposite of logic. For Ponche had hitherto been the embodiment of reason and coherence: feisty high school paper adviser, chair of the Catholic parish council, unapologetic virgin at forty. Ponche was possessed of a certain charm; her fine manners elicited awe and respect from all around her. We greenhorns at the school organ had promptly looked up to her as the classic role model, for the aging miss was likewise reputed as a cerebral rarity in the robust little town where we lived.

One day in the middle of the summer break, a few days after Ponche’s infamous secret wedding to a carpenter fourteen years her junior, I met her in the school yard because Mother had sent me on an errand. “Hey there,” she exultantly called out from a porch. I waved back and tried to smile. I knew about the secret wedding, of course—it was national news in our locality, and much of the populace was feeling betrayed. But she kept on calling, and I feigned delight at our chance meeting. “Hali, bisa kaw kanakon,” she invited. She was asking me to pay her obeisance the old Filipino way: that of pressing an elder’s hand to one’s forehead. I did.

“Ti, ready kaw run mag-editor sa June (Are you all set to be editor in chief this school year)?” she asked.

I probably said yes, but I remember more being singularly shocked at her countenance. It was not the Ponche of yore, it was a ghost. Her skin had turned a murky, sickly brown, like she had been out in the fields all day watching the harvested rice being laid out to dry in the sun, preparatory for milling. Ponche had told us she did that chore as a child. But all of us in Sibalom were doing that, and we were not getting tanned the way Ponche was. Hers was a melancholy tan, something that made her look eight and a half years older and poorer, enough to sow speculation that maybe delayed devirginization posed a dermatological hazard. Or maybe she and Jerry, the lucky hubby who could barely read, had opted to make marital love alfresco for hours in the rice fields, a la Richard Gomez and Maricel Soriano in Ikaw Pa Lang Ang Minahal; hence, the burnt skin. But her eyes belied the bodily gloom—they sparkled.

“Ikumusta mo lang ko kay Mommy mo ah (Give my compliments to your mom),” she said brightly. “I should be talking to her soon.”

I left without saying anything. You don’t say anything when you’re mourning.

Mom and Ponche did talk some weeks later, and I later overheard Mother telling my dad Ponche was moving out of the Bianco family house because her siblings thought her a lunatic.

I accepted the editorship. At the end of the school year, the regional office of the Philippine Information Agency surprised Ponche and me with some special award for developmental communication. I had written a set of essays on reforestation, I think. Jerry was present at the ceremony. Looking at them pose beautifully for a souvenir shot, I marveled at how much a year could do in transforming an ignominy into something wholeheartedly accepted. From a wedding that had to be gossiped about to the boon of everyday marital bliss—what could be sweeter than typical marriage? Ponche and Jerry’s conjugal struggles were from over, as were mine, but I was slowly learning love, indeed, bred goodness, even literacy aside.

Naked in Tambuli

2006-03-06T12:03:15Z

Naked in Tambuli

Well, not exactly in this photo. But I immediately changed to trunks after this shoot. That's me in maong.

My Life As a Faultfinder

2006-02-15T14:01:27Z

My Life As a Faultfinder

I never dreamed or aspired to become a copy editor, let alone in book publishing. But I relish it—never mind the manic depression of a manager. She and I do not interact anyway.

If not for the continued hopelessness of physiotherapy practice in this country, I may be assisting some invalid now with a walker in some home for the aged—perhaps in a placid Manila suburb—as the sun sets. Or else pursuing that much-longed-for master’s degree in bioethics (more of health law, not PT) at the state university. But God disposes; we propose and comply. Or as the Bible puts it, obey. Maybe God did intend me to edit at this juncture. Father, glorify thy name.

Yes, that is thy name, not Thy name. The thing with many theology writers, they have long adapted to uppercasing pronouns referring to deity. Not so, according to The Chicago Manual of Style, the bible of international publishing: “Pronouns referring to God or Jesus are not capitalized. Note that they are lowercased in most English translations of the Bible. Chicago urges a spare, 'down' style in the field of religion as elsewhere. Lowercasing rarely gives offense. Understanding is best served by capitalizing only what are clearly proper nouns and adjectives in the context under discussion.”

Indeed, on capitalization alone, Chicago is stringent and rigorous. Thus, we write Eden, but paradise; the Psalms, but a psalm; the Roman Catholic Church, but the church; the King James Version, but the scriptures, the Lord’s Prayer, but the doxology.

Elsewhere, say, in science and government, the principle is the same: lowercase the generic terms and uppercase the proper ones. Hence, the Illinois River, but the Illinois and Chicago rivers; the Freedom Grandstand, but the grandstand; President Clinton, but the president; Pope John Paul II is dead, but the late pope John Paul II (“John Paul II” being a restrictive appositive in the latter). The manual, nearly a thousand pages long, has its short lists of proper nouns and adjectives, apart from which editors and writers are supposed to observe the down-style habit.

I write this in light of a career talk we recently gave a group of graduating college students who are being lured by my boss to join the marketing services. Just in case someone got interested in editing, our department was invited to the orientation. “Explain your job in less than five minutes,” the manager instructed my sup. “And seduce them.”

Instead of boring the visitors to tears with the technical workflow or dancing naked, as the manager seemed to imply, we elected to challenge them with an innocuous paragraph for us to spot the perfect editorial candidate, if any. The sentence read:

On Valentines Day, I read Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick,” afterwards I went to 7-11 at UP-Diliman to buy band aid. I walked pass a beggar who seemed to have an addled mindset, and he was humming an ‘80s beat.

Maybe the perfect candidate was present, but we failed to spot him. Well, you do not expect a marketing applicant, no matter how brilliant, to argue or assert his punditries on an unexpected editorial issue, no matter how uncomplicated. It has to be somewhere in a more private time. The truly learned are timid that way.

At any rate, the sup proceeded to resolve to answer the riddle, having already succeeded in capturing their attention, at least, if not their academic fascination. That was all, in my wicked heart, I cared about anyway—damn the recruitment. If the students did not get hired, at least they went home knowing that:

1. “Valentines Day” takes an apostrophe: Valentine’s.

2. “Moby Dick” is a book; hence, it is italicized, not enclosed in quotation marks: Moby Dick. (It's the chapter titles, when quoted, that take the quotation marks.) Moreover, the original edition of the book, in fact, took a hyphen (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moby-dick). So we stick to the truth: Moby-Dick.

3. The term “band aid” is a trademark, thus, uppercased: Band Aid. Like Moby-Dick, it too takes a hyphen (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Band-Aid). So correctly, it is “Band-Aid.”

4. It is “7-Eleven,” not “7-11” (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/7_eleven).

5. It is not wrong to say afterwards, but the American/international standard prefers dropping the s: afterward. The same goes with toward, upward, backward, and downward.

6. An en dash (–), not a hyphen (-), is used to link a city/place to the name of a university that has more than one campus. The en dash is obviously longer than a hyphen. In Word, the en dash is generated by simultaneously pressing the Ctrl and minus sign keys. (The em dash [—], in contrast, is generated by pressing the Ctrl, Alt, and minus sign keys.) The answer is “UP–Diliman,” not “UP-Diliman.” The same goes with “the University of Wisconsin–Madison” and “the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee.”

7. The preposition is past, not pass.

8. The acknowledged authority on English spelling is Merriam-Webster. There is no mindset in Merriam; what is listed there is mind-set. Yes, hyphenated.

9. Contractions take an apostrophe (’), not an open singe quotation mark (‘). Exempli gratia: don’t, it’s, can’t. Similarly, it is ’80s , not ‘80s.

10. Lastly, see the comma after “Moby Dick”? It is a comma splice, meaning a comma that joins two independent clauses without the aid of a coordinating conjunction (and, but, or, so, not, yet, for). The way to remedy it is to replace the comma with a semicolon.

The copyedited product would have thus produced:

On Valentine’s Day, I read Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick; afterward I went to 7-Eleven at UP–Diliman to buy Band-Aid. I walked past a beggar who seemed to have an addled mind-set, and he was humming an ’80s beat.

I would not have learned to edit if I were slaving my ass off elsewhere, say, in an orthopedic hospital in Malate, or even in Saudi or Nebraska. Which would have been a good thing too, if that was the will of God. But I copyedit now (yes, we write copyedit [closed, as a verb], but copy editor [open, as noun]), and this has been my occupation for almost two years.

At the end of the day, when I remember that one author had been right in spelling “Ping-Pong” because it is an official trademark for table tennis, I try to savor the little dish of knowledge in my mind and console myself that perhaps God’s will has been in harmony with mine all along. For one thing, you never know when I may mention "Band-Aid" in my own LJ posts or graffiti at the office john.

Once There Was a Better Batter

2006-01-30T12:38:23Z

Once There Was a Better Batter

I was athletic as a child. Seriously. There may be pittance to attest to that now—I realize I don’t have even have photos to ascertain that—but I was active and playful all right, enough to demonstrate I had a normal childhood.

I grew up in a convent and church that directly fronted the town plaza; immediately at the back and right side of the Aglipayan compound—with a tall concrete wall topped by shards of broken glass serving as boundary—was the grade school where I went to. Church, school, plaza—what could be a more constant exposure to the populace? There were always people and gossip, and that usually meant children everywhere frolicking after class, after mass, as well after or even during funerals while a bunch of grief-stricken adults mourned a lifeless loved one away.

One popular sport was bagol, which was played by hopping to and from a couple of tsinelas (rubber slippers, or smagol, as some Visayans call it), placed on the floor, one serving as a starting point, the other a goal. The objective was to touch the goal with a third slipper, a body-borne one. The contest would start innocently enough: the players hopped on one leg, balancing the slipper on the head and bowing slowly to hit the laid-out mark. The ones who missed were disqualified in the next round. The next stages required them to hop with the slipper clipped by a flexed leg, a flexed arm, a flexed elbow, then a flexed neck. I remember one had to dorsiflex the ankle as well in the finals. Bagol excited the young in that it entailed a host of orthopedic hazards, something that flabbergasted me when I studied physical therapy in college. I believe bagol was what occupied my childhood friends predestined to be gymnasts like Bea Lucero. If only there was a proper trainer around in that third-class third world town.

One game boys especially loved was pakyaw. It was played by fashioning out two wooden sticks. The shorter one was placed across a longitudinal hole carved out of the ground. One player would use the long stick to propel the short one into the air. The opponent got the chance to play hitter if he was able to catch the flying rod; if he failed, he had to pick it up from wherever it landed and hit at the long stick, which now would have been positioned by the adversary on top of the longitudinal hole. Pakyaw was unhealthy in that it involved increasingly graver degrees of hitting. Perhaps pakyaw was what occupied my pals who were born sadists and masochists. I hope they outgrew such tendencies—I did.

The all-time favorite was baseball. The modified one. (It had to be modified because we were a public school; I never did see students at the nearby Catholic school sweat it out at the plaza.) Instead of a bat, we used our fists; and instead of a baseball, we used a tennis ball. The whole pack of modified-baseball enthusiasts had a mental stratification of physical prowess, adulating those who were power hitters and runners, and marginalizing the rest who were wimps. It was pure delight when I reached fifth grade because physical education largely meant playing baseball with the boys of section 2 for an hour on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I belonged to section 1, ostensibly the smarter class, and got assigned to second base for the whole year. I ran and ran and always strained to hit a home run; indeed, I always looked forward happily to those biweekly matches. Looking back, it must have been hard for the section 2 boys because, save for one time, they were never able to win. I now think they could have done better had they believed in themselves more strongly. You see, they were not just section 2 boys, they were boys who happened to live in the outlying barrios and had to walk miles to go home at dusk every day, passing by lonely umas (farms) and the formidable cemetery.

In high school, when I joined the Boy Scouts, I tried out for baseball proper but found the gloves cumbersome and the bat heavy. The ball was harder, and I broke two fingers one time trying to practice to catch decently. I quit prematurely, and I never played baseball again or watch it—until now. My grade school self would not have believed it.

In sophomore year, a more serious student now, I considered volleyball for pastime. The bookworm had to use his brawn somehow. I showed up for the tryout but got dismayed at what I witnessed. The senior players were so engrossed with showing off they forgot their grammar. “Mine ball,” the oldest one brashly yelled. And I later heard practically everyone in the bout reciting it as a mantra: “Mine ball.” It killed me. How thoughtless. Someone should have taught them already they were to say “mine” or “my ball.” But “mine ball”—I wanted to throw up in front of the coach, a friend of my parents’. “You’d like it here, RJ,” he said, beaming hopefully.

One player almost got it right that afternoon actually. The ball flew his way, and he announced coolly, “Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy . . .” I was almost relieved until the ball landed on his dexterous hands, and he finished off with “Yyyyyyyyyyine ball.” I ran home screaming vituperation in my heart.

Ah, athletic people. But, yes, once upon a time, for a reason only youth can fathom, I dreamed athletes’ dreams.

Hello, babes

2006-01-27T13:17:04Z

Seeking refuge at Chowking at the end of a long sin-packed week.

Rooting for Lea

2006-01-06T06:39:47Z

Rooting for Lea

When Lea Salonga sang the first notes of "I'd Give My Life for You" during her concert at the Waterfront last month, I knew I had got more than my money's worth for the night. The audience applauded--to Lea's surprise--when she said she was singing that big solo from Miss Saigon next. Lea sang, and a thundering ovation rocked the place after she hit the last note. What a loving audience. It was an appreciative crowd, a disciplined one, if I may add. Well, anyone paying the pricey ticket to watch the Lea Salonga ought to be disciplined in some way.

The audience also gave Lea Salonga a pre-performance ovation when she announced she was singing "On My Own" next, from Les Miserables. ("On My Own," sung by the character Eponine in the play, had been Lea's audition piece for Miss Saigon.) Again, the attentive Waterfront crowd clapped heartily, lustily afterward.

The concert taught me above all else that if an artist must strive to be influential universally, he or she must first strive to be a moral being. Good art comes with morality. The lifestyle of a celebrity is a significant factor in the public estimation. Lea is well loved not just because she sings marvelously but because she lives morally. She was a virgin before she married Robert Chien.

Indeed, most singers only sing beautifully--elsewhere, they foul up. Which explains their ephemeral art.

There are many promising young singers in the Philippines today. Depending on their moral proclivities, they may go the way of Lea Salonga, or they may go the way of Nora Aunor.

Ako Ciempre

2005-12-29T13:35:49Z

Just to Piss You off before I say Adios, Dos Mil Sinco

Ikê Tomboy

2005-12-15T09:23:15Z

Ikê Tomboy

The cleaner of the church in Antique where I grew up, and where Dad was Aglipayan parish priest for fourteen years, was called Ikê. She was then in her early thirties or so. Ikê was a lesbian in the starkest meaning of the word; her menstrual period, assuming she had it, was the only thing female in her. In fact, for me to imagine Ikê putting on Modess in the privacy of the bedroom is akin to imagining Ferdinand Marcos tucking Stayfree in his undies. Just to give you an idea how unladylike Ikê was. Her name may be Ikê, literally meaning small, but it had no relation to reality as she possessed a formidable body more manlike than the sacristans. For she was brawny, indeed, with perennially short hair and a gait that evoked images of James Dean, or Robin Padilla, in the movies. Ikê also smoked habitually and was usually drunk at the end of the day after a presunset visit to Sarah’s, who sold tuba, yes, that locally famous wine made of fermented coconut sap.

“Lingin kaw pa gid (You’re drunk again),” my mother, a teacher, would scold the errant janitor at the kitchen after suppertime.

“Bay-i lang bala, day. Amo lang gid dya kalingawan ta pro (You’ve got to understand this is what little joy I get in life, ma’am).”

They would argue slightly—tuba always made Ikê plucky enough to talk back—until Mother would realize reforming this wayward parishioner was not in her earthly power to accomplish.

“Bahala kaw ah (Well, it’s up to you),” Mother would always say in the end, defeated. “Ang ako ra nga magsakit unya ka (I am just concerned about your health).”

“Man-an ko man ra, day (I know, ma’am).”

Ikê labored diligently in church, especially during Saturday mornings when it was time to polish the floor and wipe the furniture clean after a week of dust and smoke—people came to offer candles all the time during weekdays for funerals, weddings, and baptisms, as well as for personal meditations.

What I remember vividly is that Ikê would make all the pews stand on one side to clear the floor for scrubbing with the aid of a coconut husk, after having applied a cheap brand of floor wax that had been melted in a tin can at the kitchen. Then she would sweep the floor using a soft broom made of tiger grass; and finally, she would place down the pews in their original position and arrange them neatly in rows, to be wiped clean with the assistance of a woman elder later in the afternoon.

It was sheer heaven for me, a carefree grade school boy, to bother Ikê in the middle of this monumental routine and drive her bananas.

“Maano kaw dya? Masabad kaw pa gid (What are you doing here? You’ve come to ruin my work again. Go away),” she would scream in a coarse voice, like we were just in a playground and not in a holy place. In fact, lest I forget, Ikê was in church all the time except during Mass. I never once saw her join the church services.

I would proceed to walk my dirty slippers on the areas Ikê had already polished, leaving dusty footprints all over.

“Baw linti!”

Ikê would pick up the broom and run after me, threatening to throw me to hell prematurely with the stick. I always managed to escape unharmed, of course, for my invasion was strategic: I messed around near the door, which I would lock upon escape, thus, sealing my safety.

In her less fatigued moments, Ikê would talk and talk and talk with the sacristans at the parish tricycle parked at the garage, their favorite rendezvous. One of her favorite subjects was the romantic liaisons of the other known lesbians in town. Ikê sort of derived a certain pleasure dwelling on it. She would enumerate, for instance, the names of the supposed lovers and describe what they did in a graphic way.

“Tuod ka (Really)?” the shocked acolytes would say.

“Pati ti mo kun (Yeah. Believe me).”

“Ti ikaw wara timo ti miga (How about you? Don’t you want to have a girlfriend too)?”

“Wara ta kun bay kara. Sara pa, raw-ay takun . . . kag pobre takun (I’m not interested in such things. Besides, I’m ugly . . . and I’m poor).”

That was all seventeen years ago, for our family left the parish for good to live in another place.

Well, when I visited Antique six years ago, I heard Ikê was no longer cleaning church; she had settled down with a widower in the outskirts of town. An old man for Ikê! por dios por santo. It is beyond imagining, but maybe Ikê did fall for an old man, what can we do? Old man marries James Dean. Maybe she did find love, who knows? I can only hope she had found God too to consummate her peace, however totally absurd her peace may be.

Whose Head?

2005-11-26T03:31:32Z

Whose Head?

Two days ago, Inq7.net posted a photo of the all-female legal team of the young Filipina allegedly raped by U.S. soldiers in Subic. One was a former Miss Philippines; the rest of the crew themselves did not look bad--they were slim enough, tall enough, fair enough, more than plain enough.

The caption read: "Head-turning Counsel."

Of course, that one was not accurate enough.

"Head-turning counsel" implies lawyers with turning heads (as in "no, no, no"). But because the description apparently dwelled on the feisty ladies' physical attributes that caused spectators' heads to turn, the desk could have written "Counsel Who Made Heads Turn," or simply "Head-turner Counsel."

Turning

2005-11-20T15:02:20Z

Turning

One of the inevitabilities of turning thirty is having friends begetting babies. Like in my case, Onnie and Ruth, my friends in Manila. I am proud of you, guys.

Happy Birthday to Me

2005-11-15T14:08:51Z

I turned 30 today.

I shall always be young.