My first brush with AIDS was in 1998 when I attended a Health, Interaction and Values (HIV) seminar along with 25 other young people sponsored by non-government health group. That Saturday afternoon, we were made to form a circle for an activity called Wildfire. What I initially thought was just an ordinary learning module turned out to be an unexpected reality check that hurt some of us really deeply and even made the most burly of us meek and rueful crybabies.
Wildfire illustrates the swiftness and betrayal of HIV transmission. The ten of us in my group were made to sit forming a circle. I was seated between a friend's partner to my right and a new friend to my left. The facilitator began the session by asking us to be mindful of our sexual history for any behavior or practice which might have put us in danger or in extreme risk. To cap the activity, he said, he would covertly infect one of us through a secret touch and then we were asked to mingle with everyone in the group with a handshake to simulate sexual contact. We were sternly instructed to be extra sensitive for that distinct kind of touch or handshake from any one we came in contact with. That signals we got the virus. Once infected, we can then decide to stop and get settled in our seats or go on connecting with more people.
The ensuing discussion was heartbreaking as it was enlightening. More than half in the group openly cried as they related their reactions upon getting infected. R. cried the most. He cried some more when he shared his life story and longings. He admits being a drug dependent and living in a condition where easy and careless sex has practically surrounded him. The sight of him shrinking in shame and regret crushed most of us. I'm normally the crybaby, but that afternoon, I ended up playing the mother earth role with two people resting their heavy heads on my two shoulders while I comforted them as they cried. The need to comfort somebody was just too immense that time so I completely became unmindful of my tears.
The next time I encountered AIDS was for real this time. I personally knew J. and, at some point, I even grew up seeing him every now and then.
As the eldest in a brood of probably eight or nine siblings, J. took on the responbilities as head of the family at such a young age of 16 when his father died of cancer many years ago. I knew him by name. That was not surprising. It turns out everyone in our place became familiar with his name and their family's tragic story. The old women in the village would weep with the mere sight of J. They would say, "But how frail are his shoulders. How can he endure all these?" And they would weep some more.
But my memories of J. will always be bright and cheery like himself. I have known J. to be a feared pitcher in the softball team. He would sometimes anchor his school's relay team in the annual athletic meet in the province. He was friendly and responsible. He left his town after high school to pursue college and find work in the city afterwards.
I don't know the life he lived during these times. He died around three years ago of AIDS. Although painful, some voice tells me it's reality Wildfire by itself. So his life becomes a living reminder for us. Let us be pragmatic. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking you're invincible when it comes to AIDS. The truth is, in its face, we are as naked as we first came into being in this world.
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Postscript: December 1 is World Aids Day. Hope you did your part today!
11.30.2003
11.27.2003
First meetings
I don't profess to be a dating expert and I know I don't come anywhere near it, but I would always end up getting asked for my opinion on when or how or where should my friends meet their dates. Initially, I sort of got excited about playing Oprah but over time, it made me think if my friends are asking for advice because I was just a phone call away or was it because I speak my mind pretty much.
Just so you would know, I have never wavered. I would always tell my friends the same thing regardless of the season. There's a reason why I would insist that first dates should be met over lunch as much as possible.
I think it's the safest. Both of you know exactly that you only have one hour window to spare. If it turns out you need a quick rescue and it doesn't come right away, at least you only suffered for an hour. Which is fairly tolerable. Suffering wouldn't really lead you to ponder suicide just yet. If you want to appear really gentlemanly and refined, and opt to give your full attention, at least it's within the realm of earthly possibilities to work on extending your attention span to about 45 minutes maximum. The rest you can spend to either engage the waiter in a prolonged conversation as you choose what to order or excusing yourself to go to the restroom to practice smiling, not smirking. You should be very cautious on this otherwise bad karma will come haunting you back in no time.
But here's the sweet sweet side of things. If your date turns out to be some manna from heaven, the one-hour meeting will obviously be so unbelievably quick that it's possible you're still up there on cloud nine by the time the waiter comes to give you back your change. You'll likely end up not being able to work the rest of the afternoon and also more likely to discover that you have this talent for weaving romances in your dreams with the two of you in them.
This time and age of quickies and online dating should make all of us educated on the right ways of meeting and going out with people. Not for anything else, but to make sure that we end up being friends with everyone and we invite only good vibes. That, I think, should be the wisest way to start off a romance. Besides, the community is soooo small beyond belief. You cannot afford to offend other people without them being connected, like Friendster or Ringo, to some of your friends.
Any other tips on first dates you might want to share?
Just so you would know, I have never wavered. I would always tell my friends the same thing regardless of the season. There's a reason why I would insist that first dates should be met over lunch as much as possible.
I think it's the safest. Both of you know exactly that you only have one hour window to spare. If it turns out you need a quick rescue and it doesn't come right away, at least you only suffered for an hour. Which is fairly tolerable. Suffering wouldn't really lead you to ponder suicide just yet. If you want to appear really gentlemanly and refined, and opt to give your full attention, at least it's within the realm of earthly possibilities to work on extending your attention span to about 45 minutes maximum. The rest you can spend to either engage the waiter in a prolonged conversation as you choose what to order or excusing yourself to go to the restroom to practice smiling, not smirking. You should be very cautious on this otherwise bad karma will come haunting you back in no time.
But here's the sweet sweet side of things. If your date turns out to be some manna from heaven, the one-hour meeting will obviously be so unbelievably quick that it's possible you're still up there on cloud nine by the time the waiter comes to give you back your change. You'll likely end up not being able to work the rest of the afternoon and also more likely to discover that you have this talent for weaving romances in your dreams with the two of you in them.
This time and age of quickies and online dating should make all of us educated on the right ways of meeting and going out with people. Not for anything else, but to make sure that we end up being friends with everyone and we invite only good vibes. That, I think, should be the wisest way to start off a romance. Besides, the community is soooo small beyond belief. You cannot afford to offend other people without them being connected, like Friendster or Ringo, to some of your friends.
Any other tips on first dates you might want to share?
11.26.2003
Sex for pay
I had been asked to be paid for sex only once in my entire life. I don't know if this is a good batting average, but it's nonetheless a good conversation piece when nothing else seems to be interesting to accompany bottles of light beer or cruiser vodka.
I was probably 23 or 24 that time and has been single only for a a few weeks after a ten-month serious relationship. My friends brought me to this swanky bar at around midnight one weekend to check on what I have been missing since my recluse. They practically dragged me to this place saying it's where I'm supposed to be, to see and be seen. Giraffe Bar, my friends said, was the hangout to be on weekend nights if you enjoy hobnobbing with the beautiful and perfumed Manila crowd or at least not be in a place where both people and music are lousy. I trusted my friends since they are permanent fixtures on Manila's trendiest nightspots.
Two burly men greeted us as we entered. We went passed the main door and stationed ourselves in an area close to the bar near the ledge. From our spot, we can see those who are coming in and people from as far as the other end of the bar. From midnight until early in the morning when it closes, Giraffe is transformed into an interesting kaleidoscope of different people whose sexual preferences are as diverse as the drinks they order. Some are naturally preppy, others try hard to fit in; some are obviously still in school, others have had their share of class reunions; some come is stylish hairstyles, others in bizarre-looking toupees. However, there seemed to be an unwritten placement rule in the house even when people are squeezed in the place, the right side as you enter is mostly occupied by straight people while the left area is predominantly gay.
I headed to the bar for Kurant. As I was standing there waiting for my drink, this guy in black ensemble came right beside me. It was sudden, it was quick, it was smooth.
"Hi! My name is X. and I've been looking at you since you came in," he said while extending his right hand.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes, and I wanted to ask if you want to come with me."
"Ha? Go with you where?"
"My place. I'll give you 1,000 bucks for it."
"Is that all I'm worth?" I quipped trying to find out how adamant he can get.
"I'll double it then. Let's go to the comfort room now. I'll give you the first 1,000. And give you the rest afterwards."
I froze. I had mixed feelings. I didn't know if there was something wrong with how I looked or combed my hair or my perfume that made the guy think I was a hustler. I swear I'll never ever wear RL again if that makes one look a hooker. Or Eternity.
Very calmly, I pointed to him where my friends were. I said, I was with them for the night after my sensational escape from the seminary. Then I said thanks and left.
Looking back now, there's nothing flattering about having someone offer to take out a wad of money just to have you on their bed and moisten their sheets. How can one's being be measured by a few paper bills? Maybe I'm just old-fashioned or worse, I should have been a religion teacher that's why I think so oddly about Mr. X's offer.
I wanted to know, how do the experts do it? How do they manage to do quickies, on one hand, and, on the other hand, still triumph to build a strong sense of self? I wanted to know, if I took on the challenge, what would that have brought me?
I was probably 23 or 24 that time and has been single only for a a few weeks after a ten-month serious relationship. My friends brought me to this swanky bar at around midnight one weekend to check on what I have been missing since my recluse. They practically dragged me to this place saying it's where I'm supposed to be, to see and be seen. Giraffe Bar, my friends said, was the hangout to be on weekend nights if you enjoy hobnobbing with the beautiful and perfumed Manila crowd or at least not be in a place where both people and music are lousy. I trusted my friends since they are permanent fixtures on Manila's trendiest nightspots.
Two burly men greeted us as we entered. We went passed the main door and stationed ourselves in an area close to the bar near the ledge. From our spot, we can see those who are coming in and people from as far as the other end of the bar. From midnight until early in the morning when it closes, Giraffe is transformed into an interesting kaleidoscope of different people whose sexual preferences are as diverse as the drinks they order. Some are naturally preppy, others try hard to fit in; some are obviously still in school, others have had their share of class reunions; some come is stylish hairstyles, others in bizarre-looking toupees. However, there seemed to be an unwritten placement rule in the house even when people are squeezed in the place, the right side as you enter is mostly occupied by straight people while the left area is predominantly gay.
I headed to the bar for Kurant. As I was standing there waiting for my drink, this guy in black ensemble came right beside me. It was sudden, it was quick, it was smooth.
"Hi! My name is X. and I've been looking at you since you came in," he said while extending his right hand.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes, and I wanted to ask if you want to come with me."
"Ha? Go with you where?"
"My place. I'll give you 1,000 bucks for it."
"Is that all I'm worth?" I quipped trying to find out how adamant he can get.
"I'll double it then. Let's go to the comfort room now. I'll give you the first 1,000. And give you the rest afterwards."
I froze. I had mixed feelings. I didn't know if there was something wrong with how I looked or combed my hair or my perfume that made the guy think I was a hustler. I swear I'll never ever wear RL again if that makes one look a hooker. Or Eternity.
Very calmly, I pointed to him where my friends were. I said, I was with them for the night after my sensational escape from the seminary. Then I said thanks and left.
Looking back now, there's nothing flattering about having someone offer to take out a wad of money just to have you on their bed and moisten their sheets. How can one's being be measured by a few paper bills? Maybe I'm just old-fashioned or worse, I should have been a religion teacher that's why I think so oddly about Mr. X's offer.
I wanted to know, how do the experts do it? How do they manage to do quickies, on one hand, and, on the other hand, still triumph to build a strong sense of self? I wanted to know, if I took on the challenge, what would that have brought me?
11.24.2003
No more dark years
Most people will describe their college years as fun, funny, and funky. These were energetic years spent in celebration of youth and adventure, sometimes inside and at times outside the bedroom. What makes this period really memorable are the countless records of firsts that will remain incontestable for the years to come, where all succeeding experiences will be judged upon. First boyfriend, first torrid kiss, first motel stay, first drug overdose, and to some, first-born child.
In my case, I never fail to make a tsk-tsk sound when people ask me about how I spent college. I raise my eyebrows in exasperation and describe them as my dark years. When pressed some more for details, I just say I wish I didn't grow up with so much twisted ideas on love, life, and most especially, acceptance.
No, it's not what you think. I finished college on time, I never had a failing mark, I was done with my thesis one semester ahead, I was your Mom's typical ideal student. More than this, I lived alone and I was adept at budgeting money to doing laundry to self-massage.
The trouble starts ten years later after graduation when you start reminiscing. Some friends will marvel you about their sexual escapades you never thought were possible in those years. Some will regale you about nights spent boozing and cruising. Everyone seemed to have grand stories to tell. Except me. I'm then forced to lend my ears to all of these while trying so hard not to beat myself in reproach.
On one end, I'm glad I delivered what was expected of me by my parents. That was the least I can do. But the good feeling ends there. The other end of the story chides me no end for falling into the trap of trying to fit in the mold, to please everybody, to allow stereotype to camouflage what was the real me. Putting it bluntly, I was practically living up to other people's expectations at the expense of self-discovery and the joy that comes from it. How I lived, how I behaved, how I reacted to the world, unfortunately, were dictated by what most people would consider ideal or good or perfect. I was living at the mercy of other people's perception of good and evil.
Those were dark years I'm glad are over now. I have since held a good grip on life and lived one that's genuinely me. I feel strongly on many things and have my opinion heard on certain things. I am no push-over, I am independent, I am pragmatic, I'm no longer defined by anyone's standards. I am proud of myself now, I feel good, I feel light, and, the best part of it all, they know.
In my case, I never fail to make a tsk-tsk sound when people ask me about how I spent college. I raise my eyebrows in exasperation and describe them as my dark years. When pressed some more for details, I just say I wish I didn't grow up with so much twisted ideas on love, life, and most especially, acceptance.
No, it's not what you think. I finished college on time, I never had a failing mark, I was done with my thesis one semester ahead, I was your Mom's typical ideal student. More than this, I lived alone and I was adept at budgeting money to doing laundry to self-massage.
The trouble starts ten years later after graduation when you start reminiscing. Some friends will marvel you about their sexual escapades you never thought were possible in those years. Some will regale you about nights spent boozing and cruising. Everyone seemed to have grand stories to tell. Except me. I'm then forced to lend my ears to all of these while trying so hard not to beat myself in reproach.
On one end, I'm glad I delivered what was expected of me by my parents. That was the least I can do. But the good feeling ends there. The other end of the story chides me no end for falling into the trap of trying to fit in the mold, to please everybody, to allow stereotype to camouflage what was the real me. Putting it bluntly, I was practically living up to other people's expectations at the expense of self-discovery and the joy that comes from it. How I lived, how I behaved, how I reacted to the world, unfortunately, were dictated by what most people would consider ideal or good or perfect. I was living at the mercy of other people's perception of good and evil.
Those were dark years I'm glad are over now. I have since held a good grip on life and lived one that's genuinely me. I feel strongly on many things and have my opinion heard on certain things. I am no push-over, I am independent, I am pragmatic, I'm no longer defined by anyone's standards. I am proud of myself now, I feel good, I feel light, and, the best part of it all, they know.
11.23.2003
A little help from Friendster
Today's papers all carried a piece on Alex Santiago's burial. And I read all of them with mixed emotions. On one hand, I couldn't understand why somebody so young at 22 like him would take his life with a gun so I wanted to understand or at least take on morsels of personal details that come far and in between. On another hand, there's a noble voice behind my back that tells me I should always make myself available for my friends in case they needed help.Or even when they don't ask for it, I should cultivate a heart that feels things with them.
If you were like me who got so intrigued with Alex's death, you know that there's nothing new about him to find in the papers other than what was written about him before: 22, single male, youngest son of an ex-senator, in law school. No article featured him more than these basic descriptions. This drove some people to even think that he was probably gay and had a hard time dealing with it. I didn't like how this sounded because it makes me rage in deep frustration personally knowing the hurt of going through something so depressing and there's no one to even share this.
I think my detective-researcher instinct suddenly reminded me that one of the hottest in-things these days might just offer help. Friendster gave me a refreshing find. Like all of the young people in Manila, Alex too was on Friendster.
I'm still catching my breath with some new details I learned about him: That his last login was on 19 November 2003, a day before his suicide. Police said he was likely dead midnight of the 20th, which made me think he was likely doing Friendster up until the last minute. Doing what? I don't know, but there's something unnerving about certain entries he had. For instance,
Occupation: Attempted Law Student, Dead Man Walking
Interests: Goodbyes
Who I Want To Meet: Let's hope it's Saint Peter on the other side.
Urrggghhh. It's creepy!!
If you were like me who got so intrigued with Alex's death, you know that there's nothing new about him to find in the papers other than what was written about him before: 22, single male, youngest son of an ex-senator, in law school. No article featured him more than these basic descriptions. This drove some people to even think that he was probably gay and had a hard time dealing with it. I didn't like how this sounded because it makes me rage in deep frustration personally knowing the hurt of going through something so depressing and there's no one to even share this.
I think my detective-researcher instinct suddenly reminded me that one of the hottest in-things these days might just offer help. Friendster gave me a refreshing find. Like all of the young people in Manila, Alex too was on Friendster.
I'm still catching my breath with some new details I learned about him: That his last login was on 19 November 2003, a day before his suicide. Police said he was likely dead midnight of the 20th, which made me think he was likely doing Friendster up until the last minute. Doing what? I don't know, but there's something unnerving about certain entries he had. For instance,
Occupation: Attempted Law Student, Dead Man Walking
Interests: Goodbyes
Who I Want To Meet: Let's hope it's Saint Peter on the other side.
Urrggghhh. It's creepy!!
11.20.2003
Red flags
I have yet to find somebody who genuinely hates dating. I think even my friends who vehemently say they're up in arms against the idea may actually be thrilled deep in their hearts. That's my fearless forecast. They're just too shy to admit. I don't know why they have to exert so much effort trying to put up a mighty image, one that will put China's Great Wall in shame.
They're missing a lot. There is so much about dating that gets one lightened up and excited and bubbly like everyone else. At least for me, I relish at the thought that it's actually a convenient opportunity to dress a little more than usual, to be more refined than usual, to look better than usual, to smell better than usual, and to feel better than usual. I especially adore the last one. I think this is the reason that drives most people nuts and decide to go out there and meet people regardless of whether there have been awful moments before. Every date is a step towards ending the chase and finding relief. Every date represents a glimmer of hope that our lifelong wish for a fairytale romance finally comes true.
But not all dates are made in the heavens. In my case, there have few instances in my dating past when I wanted to run home as fast as I can no later than half an hour into the date. Call me rude, call me prude, but I just can't help it. There are only three possible reasons that make me do this.
In no time, I found out that M just came from a three-year relationship just weeks before we met. Right there and then, I backed off. It has always been a non-negotiable for me to date people who have just been from broken relationship. And my reasoning I think is as scientific as it is practical. I think I'm giving the guy more favor by giving more time for himself to enjoy his newly-found status and to reflect on things. That's my RedFlag #1.
I think it's also scary to date somebody who calls his ex's names. I don't care if he has had 20 people who came before me. What matters to me is how he relates to them. If I find him in talking terms with all of them or at least be civil when they meet, I'm floored. I think it reflects so much about his character. But if I hear him call any one of them an asshole or stupid, then I run for cover. RedFlag#2.
My last red flag should hold true for all. I always tell myself and all my friends that it's never worth the risk to date somebody who does drugs. I don't care if he makes Queen Elizabeth drool. It's just not wise.
They're missing a lot. There is so much about dating that gets one lightened up and excited and bubbly like everyone else. At least for me, I relish at the thought that it's actually a convenient opportunity to dress a little more than usual, to be more refined than usual, to look better than usual, to smell better than usual, and to feel better than usual. I especially adore the last one. I think this is the reason that drives most people nuts and decide to go out there and meet people regardless of whether there have been awful moments before. Every date is a step towards ending the chase and finding relief. Every date represents a glimmer of hope that our lifelong wish for a fairytale romance finally comes true.
But not all dates are made in the heavens. In my case, there have few instances in my dating past when I wanted to run home as fast as I can no later than half an hour into the date. Call me rude, call me prude, but I just can't help it. There are only three possible reasons that make me do this.
In no time, I found out that M just came from a three-year relationship just weeks before we met. Right there and then, I backed off. It has always been a non-negotiable for me to date people who have just been from broken relationship. And my reasoning I think is as scientific as it is practical. I think I'm giving the guy more favor by giving more time for himself to enjoy his newly-found status and to reflect on things. That's my RedFlag #1.
I think it's also scary to date somebody who calls his ex's names. I don't care if he has had 20 people who came before me. What matters to me is how he relates to them. If I find him in talking terms with all of them or at least be civil when they meet, I'm floored. I think it reflects so much about his character. But if I hear him call any one of them an asshole or stupid, then I run for cover. RedFlag#2.
My last red flag should hold true for all. I always tell myself and all my friends that it's never worth the risk to date somebody who does drugs. I don't care if he makes Queen Elizabeth drool. It's just not wise.
11.19.2003
Negative/Positive
There are times when waiting is a such a sweet pleasure. There are occasions when it's a little infuriating. And there are moments when it becomes like death. I am used to the first two having been through them several times already. But for the last one, however, I am not sure if even a thousand journeys will ever make a difference.
I was sweating profusely while I was seated and waiting for my name to be called outside the doctor's third floor-office. It felt so hot the airconditioning seemed useless. I would stand and walk a few steps to the window looking outside how Manila skyline was on early summer afternoon. I whistled a few times hoping some fresh air would squeeze their way through the window panels and comfort me. Up until that time, I never imagined that waiting to get your HIV test results would be so paralyzing. If the attending doctor's not my friend, I would have dashed outside the building not to be seen ever again.
Dr. F. then called me in. He probably saw my nervous look he led to a chair across his desk. I was facing him so there was no way I can hide how agitated I was. I tried to be calm as I watched his every move and observed all his facial expression hoping I'd get a clue on what the results would be like. It didn't work. As a standard procedure, we went through the highlights of the pre-test counseling I underwent a few days back. He made sure I was emotionally ready to face the verdict. Soon after, he took out something from the drawer and handed me a small envelop containing my test results. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I wanted to die.
No amount of prayers can ever make you ready for the time when you finally tear the envelop and find out the results. If it were possible, I would want to buy some more time. For a moment, I started berating myself for ever deciding to undergo the tests. But the doctor friend was there waiting for me to disclose the results so he knows exactly how to intervene.
I skipped breathing for a while when I saw the word negative. I was extremely relieved and thankful. I literally wanted to shout and kiss the heavens. Had my doctor friend asked me to perform Annie as in the musical play Annie, I wouldn't have any problem doing it.
But as I walked out the building, I was consumed by faint feelings of guilt and grief. I thought, I can never imagine how it would be like for those whose results were different from mine. And I can never understand the anguish of having to live knowing that, sooner or later, the end is near. It's so weird how just one word would carry so much meaning at one time that it practically dictates how you would run your life until life itself melts away.
The question is, will you let that happen?
I was sweating profusely while I was seated and waiting for my name to be called outside the doctor's third floor-office. It felt so hot the airconditioning seemed useless. I would stand and walk a few steps to the window looking outside how Manila skyline was on early summer afternoon. I whistled a few times hoping some fresh air would squeeze their way through the window panels and comfort me. Up until that time, I never imagined that waiting to get your HIV test results would be so paralyzing. If the attending doctor's not my friend, I would have dashed outside the building not to be seen ever again.
Dr. F. then called me in. He probably saw my nervous look he led to a chair across his desk. I was facing him so there was no way I can hide how agitated I was. I tried to be calm as I watched his every move and observed all his facial expression hoping I'd get a clue on what the results would be like. It didn't work. As a standard procedure, we went through the highlights of the pre-test counseling I underwent a few days back. He made sure I was emotionally ready to face the verdict. Soon after, he took out something from the drawer and handed me a small envelop containing my test results. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I wanted to die.
No amount of prayers can ever make you ready for the time when you finally tear the envelop and find out the results. If it were possible, I would want to buy some more time. For a moment, I started berating myself for ever deciding to undergo the tests. But the doctor friend was there waiting for me to disclose the results so he knows exactly how to intervene.
I skipped breathing for a while when I saw the word negative. I was extremely relieved and thankful. I literally wanted to shout and kiss the heavens. Had my doctor friend asked me to perform Annie as in the musical play Annie, I wouldn't have any problem doing it.
But as I walked out the building, I was consumed by faint feelings of guilt and grief. I thought, I can never imagine how it would be like for those whose results were different from mine. And I can never understand the anguish of having to live knowing that, sooner or later, the end is near. It's so weird how just one word would carry so much meaning at one time that it practically dictates how you would run your life until life itself melts away.
The question is, will you let that happen?
11.17.2003
Demystifying basketball
I remember only two occasions in my entire life that I ever played basketball. And on both occasions, I was forced.
The first one was in fourth grade. There was an upcoming athletic meet that time and I was dragged to the try-outs for the school team. I had a feeling my mother asked the coach, who was my grandfather’s friend, to look for me and have me checked over if they have a use for me. I knew something was off that morning when the coach came by our classroom and called out my name. My classmates were jeering at me since they have never seen me play basketball before. And because peer pressure was too much, there was no escaping. I proceeded to the court where the other boys were. All eyes were on me and I got so annoyed and conscious. Like what the others did, I dribbled the ball three times and aimed for the ring. Of course I missed. I never heard from the coach.
Six years later, I played my second and my last basketball game. My friends Mao, Doc, Jimboy and I were playing in the rain one stormy afternoon. We were just moving around town on our bicycles when we passed by the court in the town center. They wanted to play two-on-two basketball and, sensing that they needed one more guy and there was no one else there, turned their peering eyes on me. They pushed and shoved me to the court until Mao passed me the ball and I had no choice but to play along. They ended up having a really hilariously entertaining game that afternoon, one that I’m sure they will always remember since they spent more time clutching their sides as they laughed so hard.
I have always known that basketball will never succeed to tame me and I can never learn to love it. For one, the seemingly endless and senseless action of running back and forth trying to chase the ball just doesn’t appeal to me. I see more challenge in bait fishing or trekking tricky mountains or in perfecting a pasta sauce.
Having said all that, I’d like to confess that I really intended not to learn to play basketball as a form of protest. I never understood why it should become a tool to discriminate people -- that you’re definitely straight if you master the rhythm of dribbling and shooting and likely to be gay if you’re completely oblivious of it.
Since when basketball rightfully depicted one’s personhood?
The first one was in fourth grade. There was an upcoming athletic meet that time and I was dragged to the try-outs for the school team. I had a feeling my mother asked the coach, who was my grandfather’s friend, to look for me and have me checked over if they have a use for me. I knew something was off that morning when the coach came by our classroom and called out my name. My classmates were jeering at me since they have never seen me play basketball before. And because peer pressure was too much, there was no escaping. I proceeded to the court where the other boys were. All eyes were on me and I got so annoyed and conscious. Like what the others did, I dribbled the ball three times and aimed for the ring. Of course I missed. I never heard from the coach.
Six years later, I played my second and my last basketball game. My friends Mao, Doc, Jimboy and I were playing in the rain one stormy afternoon. We were just moving around town on our bicycles when we passed by the court in the town center. They wanted to play two-on-two basketball and, sensing that they needed one more guy and there was no one else there, turned their peering eyes on me. They pushed and shoved me to the court until Mao passed me the ball and I had no choice but to play along. They ended up having a really hilariously entertaining game that afternoon, one that I’m sure they will always remember since they spent more time clutching their sides as they laughed so hard.
I have always known that basketball will never succeed to tame me and I can never learn to love it. For one, the seemingly endless and senseless action of running back and forth trying to chase the ball just doesn’t appeal to me. I see more challenge in bait fishing or trekking tricky mountains or in perfecting a pasta sauce.
Having said all that, I’d like to confess that I really intended not to learn to play basketball as a form of protest. I never understood why it should become a tool to discriminate people -- that you’re definitely straight if you master the rhythm of dribbling and shooting and likely to be gay if you’re completely oblivious of it.
Since when basketball rightfully depicted one’s personhood?
11.16.2003
Walls
I grew up in the seventies in a small town where streets are narrow and the houses are walled from each other by reeds. These makeshift walls were erected more to mark land properties and guard against loose backyard animals rather than protection from housebreakers. The reeds were commonly used not only because they were widely available, but more for being uncomplicated. They can be easily replaced if they have gotten brittle because of too much sun and become more useful as a stove fuel. They are also used to anchor vegetables and sometimes as an additional clothesline.
In an ironic kind of way, they also give you a glimpse of the everyday lives that your neighbors lived. Like in my case.
For instance, I never knew that one can really grow old and never marry. I've always thought that Uncle Caling and Auntie Yayong (oh yes, in my hometown every elder is called uncle or auntie even if you're not related) were husband and wife. They lived in the east side so they'd normally be the first ones you see as you look out the window in the morning. You seldom see them going to church. They had this only store in the whole town which sells fishing supplies. I remember looking up the shelves that were always full of strings and rods in mesmerizing colors and shapes as my friends and I sit on sacks of rice by the entrance. Their place has sort of become a landmark in town. You know you're in the middle of town when you're in their store.
At the north side of our house lived the Dacles family. They were so close to our house that we often hear the couple argue. We seldom see them face to face but we were nevertheless updated on their personal issues and arguments. When they were not arguing, they were still rowdy because they would be drunk along with some friends. You know they were drunk because you would hear them sing "Paper Roses" till your eardrums blast. One time, I clambered up our roof and tried to look inside their house. I realized I could actually steal their antique waterpot without actually leaving the house. During Christmas, my parents will receive greetings from them on the air, over the reeds.
I never figured out who actually owned the house on the west side. The neighbors changed frequently. But I remember having grown up with the Enfesta's. Ness was my classmate. On the way out to our gate, you would pass by their kitchen so you always know what's being served. You just lose count on the number of times in summer when fish becomes the dish. One time, Auntie Mely was pouring boiled water in the jar when the pot gave way and it drenched her torso. That's where I learned to be serious with anything fresh off the stove.
In a more ironic kind of way, I wish we create walls that give other people glimpse of our lives rather than complete enclosures that isolate us from them and the world. It would be fun to know the stories they will recount about us.
In an ironic kind of way, they also give you a glimpse of the everyday lives that your neighbors lived. Like in my case.
For instance, I never knew that one can really grow old and never marry. I've always thought that Uncle Caling and Auntie Yayong (oh yes, in my hometown every elder is called uncle or auntie even if you're not related) were husband and wife. They lived in the east side so they'd normally be the first ones you see as you look out the window in the morning. You seldom see them going to church. They had this only store in the whole town which sells fishing supplies. I remember looking up the shelves that were always full of strings and rods in mesmerizing colors and shapes as my friends and I sit on sacks of rice by the entrance. Their place has sort of become a landmark in town. You know you're in the middle of town when you're in their store.
At the north side of our house lived the Dacles family. They were so close to our house that we often hear the couple argue. We seldom see them face to face but we were nevertheless updated on their personal issues and arguments. When they were not arguing, they were still rowdy because they would be drunk along with some friends. You know they were drunk because you would hear them sing "Paper Roses" till your eardrums blast. One time, I clambered up our roof and tried to look inside their house. I realized I could actually steal their antique waterpot without actually leaving the house. During Christmas, my parents will receive greetings from them on the air, over the reeds.
I never figured out who actually owned the house on the west side. The neighbors changed frequently. But I remember having grown up with the Enfesta's. Ness was my classmate. On the way out to our gate, you would pass by their kitchen so you always know what's being served. You just lose count on the number of times in summer when fish becomes the dish. One time, Auntie Mely was pouring boiled water in the jar when the pot gave way and it drenched her torso. That's where I learned to be serious with anything fresh off the stove.
In a more ironic kind of way, I wish we create walls that give other people glimpse of our lives rather than complete enclosures that isolate us from them and the world. It would be fun to know the stories they will recount about us.
11.13.2003
Rainy thoughts
For the rest of the day, I have a strong feeling the sun won't ever show up in Manila. A storm is currently blasting provinces south of Manila and the dark rain clouds have formed their way up everywhere along with rushes of cold wind and cool weather. It's the perfect time to just stay on bed and catch up on sleep.
I should have done that. I should have called in sick and played doctor-doctor at home. And then when I'm tired and bored, I could switch on the TV and drown myself in the stupid yet undeniably popular morning soap operas which probably the whole of Manila has grown accustomed to (except me!), while trying to figure out how in the world can one even enjoy a show that features awkwardly dubbed dialogues in the local language on actors whose face and appearance is everything but local. I just can't get it!
And when I get tired and bored again, I can choose to be pensive like the weather and open some vintage tin boxes I keep on top of my closet. I'll brew coffee and then, with Tyrell/Connick Jr./Buble in the background, I will relive the good old days by reading old loveletters and cards. As sure as some of my neighbors would be humping and pumping in the stillness of the morning, I will whimper shortly and shed some tears. Which hopefully will lead me back to deep slumber.
When I wake up and it'll be surely afternoon by then, I may opt to order in pizza as I attempt to strike a balance of satisfying a long-standing craving with my trainer's strict diet plan. Of course, I'd be a miss, a terrible one which will leave me feeling so dumb that the next thing I want to do is put on my workout clothes and head out to the gym.
I just hope there'd be rain by that time so I will be where I'm really supposed to be -- indoors, on my bed. Even without the human blanket. It doesn't matter.
I should have done that. I should have called in sick and played doctor-doctor at home. And then when I'm tired and bored, I could switch on the TV and drown myself in the stupid yet undeniably popular morning soap operas which probably the whole of Manila has grown accustomed to (except me!), while trying to figure out how in the world can one even enjoy a show that features awkwardly dubbed dialogues in the local language on actors whose face and appearance is everything but local. I just can't get it!
And when I get tired and bored again, I can choose to be pensive like the weather and open some vintage tin boxes I keep on top of my closet. I'll brew coffee and then, with Tyrell/Connick Jr./Buble in the background, I will relive the good old days by reading old loveletters and cards. As sure as some of my neighbors would be humping and pumping in the stillness of the morning, I will whimper shortly and shed some tears. Which hopefully will lead me back to deep slumber.
When I wake up and it'll be surely afternoon by then, I may opt to order in pizza as I attempt to strike a balance of satisfying a long-standing craving with my trainer's strict diet plan. Of course, I'd be a miss, a terrible one which will leave me feeling so dumb that the next thing I want to do is put on my workout clothes and head out to the gym.
I just hope there'd be rain by that time so I will be where I'm really supposed to be -- indoors, on my bed. Even without the human blanket. It doesn't matter.
11.12.2003
The inevitable
No matter how much I try to put it off, I know one day I'll come down to this: choosing a memorial plan.
It's not something easy. My friend's reactions are as varied as the number of personalities they keep. In fact, most of them look at it as something eerie, one that normally doesn't find its way in our conversations over coffee and zero-calorie drinks. There are even a few who completely don't understand why on earth would somebody even think of locking horns with Death himself for even just a moment. Others look at it with prying eyes. They suspect I'm up to something or some strange disease has decided to drop by and make myself its home.
They find it hard to understand that, for people like me who live alone and far from family, it's the least that I can do to make things easier for whomever I'm going to leave behind. It's the least that I make sure will go right lest I be nefariously remembered as an agony and bother up to the last minute. Which is not very glamorous.
And so today, I went over some memorial plans offered by one local company. I don't know what came to me, but it was enough to pull me through several pages of documents. First, you choose the type of plan you plan to avail. Depending on your preference, you either opt for cremation or the traditional memorial service package. But for either plans, you soon find yourself besieged with several choices coming one after another --- what's the preferred wood type for the casket, or will it be metal or bronze instead, will the urn be first class marble, a high-gloss or high-luster finish for the casket, sealer-type or not, full or half-viewing, rich silk interiors or just quilted silk, full-length handles or just supports at the corners? So whoever said dying is easy should be shot!
In the end, you're consumed by a certain kind of peace and calmness knowing how everything is taken cared of so your family will no longer be troubled. They can then spend the rest of the time talking about how nice you were as a kid, how you almost got that girl pregnant, why you loved Madonna and Cher, the number of times you failed math in college, where you love to show off your biceps, the colorful friends you keep, and the many love you won and lost.
And everybody will have a grand time during the wake.
It's not something easy. My friend's reactions are as varied as the number of personalities they keep. In fact, most of them look at it as something eerie, one that normally doesn't find its way in our conversations over coffee and zero-calorie drinks. There are even a few who completely don't understand why on earth would somebody even think of locking horns with Death himself for even just a moment. Others look at it with prying eyes. They suspect I'm up to something or some strange disease has decided to drop by and make myself its home.
They find it hard to understand that, for people like me who live alone and far from family, it's the least that I can do to make things easier for whomever I'm going to leave behind. It's the least that I make sure will go right lest I be nefariously remembered as an agony and bother up to the last minute. Which is not very glamorous.
And so today, I went over some memorial plans offered by one local company. I don't know what came to me, but it was enough to pull me through several pages of documents. First, you choose the type of plan you plan to avail. Depending on your preference, you either opt for cremation or the traditional memorial service package. But for either plans, you soon find yourself besieged with several choices coming one after another --- what's the preferred wood type for the casket, or will it be metal or bronze instead, will the urn be first class marble, a high-gloss or high-luster finish for the casket, sealer-type or not, full or half-viewing, rich silk interiors or just quilted silk, full-length handles or just supports at the corners? So whoever said dying is easy should be shot!
In the end, you're consumed by a certain kind of peace and calmness knowing how everything is taken cared of so your family will no longer be troubled. They can then spend the rest of the time talking about how nice you were as a kid, how you almost got that girl pregnant, why you loved Madonna and Cher, the number of times you failed math in college, where you love to show off your biceps, the colorful friends you keep, and the many love you won and lost.
And everybody will have a grand time during the wake.
11.11.2003
X-date's question
When an ex date and a friend out of nowhere asks you if dating him before, albeit brief, taught you anything, what are you supposed to say? How do you exactly respond? Do you choose to be amiable? Or simply disregard it in humor?
F.'s text message came as a surprise. Reading one of my previous entries got him to think if I learned something from the "super short time" that we went out before. I found it strange that he would ask something like that. But I found it more strange that I was struggling with a response. I wanted to be serious and offer a serious reply, but I couldn't come up with the correct answer. I wanted to spend some more time recalling what happened about seven years ago before replying, but I thought he wanted to hear from me right away. I had to be quick and sharp.
What flashed before me then was one thing unmatched to this day. I don't know with him since his travels may have spelled more interesting encounters, but what happened along that avenue was one that remained my proud bragging right up to recently.
We were both guests in that party. One friend tagged me along. Funny, but I personally don't know whose party was it. I was just told it was supposed one where friends can bring along their friends and friend's friends. That explained the heat of that night.
F. and I left together after a few hours later. It was way past midnight that time and I think I said I have to be sleeping then. But it was more like I was getting suffocated being surrounded by a thousand and one different hairstyles, cologne scents, bicep sizes, and nasal tones. On the drive home, the wine started kicking in. He suddenly swerved and parked right along a busy main avenue in Makati where furious tongues lashed and got thrashed.
And so, while laughing, I replied to F. that he taught me passion, which of course he took with a grain of salt. But I guess that answer left me with more questions than answers.
Is passion something that can be learned?
F.'s text message came as a surprise. Reading one of my previous entries got him to think if I learned something from the "super short time" that we went out before. I found it strange that he would ask something like that. But I found it more strange that I was struggling with a response. I wanted to be serious and offer a serious reply, but I couldn't come up with the correct answer. I wanted to spend some more time recalling what happened about seven years ago before replying, but I thought he wanted to hear from me right away. I had to be quick and sharp.
What flashed before me then was one thing unmatched to this day. I don't know with him since his travels may have spelled more interesting encounters, but what happened along that avenue was one that remained my proud bragging right up to recently.
We were both guests in that party. One friend tagged me along. Funny, but I personally don't know whose party was it. I was just told it was supposed one where friends can bring along their friends and friend's friends. That explained the heat of that night.
F. and I left together after a few hours later. It was way past midnight that time and I think I said I have to be sleeping then. But it was more like I was getting suffocated being surrounded by a thousand and one different hairstyles, cologne scents, bicep sizes, and nasal tones. On the drive home, the wine started kicking in. He suddenly swerved and parked right along a busy main avenue in Makati where furious tongues lashed and got thrashed.
And so, while laughing, I replied to F. that he taught me passion, which of course he took with a grain of salt. But I guess that answer left me with more questions than answers.
Is passion something that can be learned?
11.09.2003
Getting through it
While we're at it, we might as well find out all we can about the topic. Thanks to Oprah, coping becomes slightly easier because of tips coming from real people in real stories.
My friends, here are some of Dr. Phil's insights that may be helpful for us, especially those of us getting past the pain of break up or those who are helping friends cope with it. Let's always take care of each other.
===============
1. DO watch your vocabulary.
We all have an internal conversation with ourselves. Since it shapes our outlook, be careful about the language you choose. Words like "nightmare," "terrible" and "horrible" are catastrophic terms. If you use them, you're bound to spend time dwelling on the negative. Spend more time focusing on what you can do.
2. DO define your real intentions.
Are you trying to move past the break-up, or are you hoping to get back with your ex? Define the emotional goal. You won't move on until you've truly accepted that the relationship is over.
3. DO allow yourself to own your feelings.
You can't get over being hurt until you know you've been heard. Give yourself permission to express your anger, your sadness—whatever emotions you may be experiencing. It's better to be angry with someone else than to blame yourself.
4. DO learn to trust again.
Whenever you get involved in a relationship, you know there's risk. Don't let a bad experience keep you from living your life to the fullest.
1. DON'T lose sight of what's important.
Sometimes the relationship you need to rescue is the one with yourself. Moving past a breakup is all about you, not your ex. Don't worry about becoming friends right away—if ever. You have to be your own friend first.
2. DON'T get stuck.
Grief is a process to go through, not a destination in which to wallow. In a process, you keep putting one foot in front of the other. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months... each little step is part of the process of healing your heart.
3. DON'T embarrass yourself.
Driving past your ex's house, making dozens of phone calls, e-mailing non-stop…that's not the way to let go of the past. Don't get in a situation where you'll look back someday and feel humiliated.
===============
My friends, here are some of Dr. Phil's insights that may be helpful for us, especially those of us getting past the pain of break up or those who are helping friends cope with it. Let's always take care of each other.
===============
Do's
1. DO watch your vocabulary.
We all have an internal conversation with ourselves. Since it shapes our outlook, be careful about the language you choose. Words like "nightmare," "terrible" and "horrible" are catastrophic terms. If you use them, you're bound to spend time dwelling on the negative. Spend more time focusing on what you can do.
2. DO define your real intentions.
Are you trying to move past the break-up, or are you hoping to get back with your ex? Define the emotional goal. You won't move on until you've truly accepted that the relationship is over.
3. DO allow yourself to own your feelings.
You can't get over being hurt until you know you've been heard. Give yourself permission to express your anger, your sadness—whatever emotions you may be experiencing. It's better to be angry with someone else than to blame yourself.
4. DO learn to trust again.
Whenever you get involved in a relationship, you know there's risk. Don't let a bad experience keep you from living your life to the fullest.
Don'ts
1. DON'T lose sight of what's important.
Sometimes the relationship you need to rescue is the one with yourself. Moving past a breakup is all about you, not your ex. Don't worry about becoming friends right away—if ever. You have to be your own friend first.
2. DON'T get stuck.
Grief is a process to go through, not a destination in which to wallow. In a process, you keep putting one foot in front of the other. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months... each little step is part of the process of healing your heart.
3. DON'T embarrass yourself.
Driving past your ex's house, making dozens of phone calls, e-mailing non-stop…that's not the way to let go of the past. Don't get in a situation where you'll look back someday and feel humiliated.
===============
Unexpected places
In between sobs, he mustered the faintest voice he can gather and thanked me for making him happy since we got together several months back. I was overwhelmed the words pierced deeply. I can only heave a deep sigh and, in muffled voice, exclaimed "Oh God!" as I asked myself to be excused. I put the phone down and rushed to somewhere private where no one can see me drift to crying land.
And there, for a few minutes, I was lost in tears and running nose. I can only look out the window and amuse myself with the unexciting scenery of tall glass buildings mixed the shorter ones in painted concrete. It was good I was at work that time so at least I was forced to be composed and calm. Otherwise, I would have sobbed so heavily the whole building where I live would be jolted and shaken thinking some newly-married wife was suddenly left widowed. To some extent, this was the case for us.
How we met is a magical story of joy and thankfulness better relived in memories where it rightfully receives justice. It is one story that has never failed to tickle even our most boorish friends. It is one story, they say, that should be repeated over and over to keep love alive. Love truly comes in the most unexpected places and times. We were at the same place at the same time but we did different things. He danced, I played. He was in tap dancing shoes, I was swinging my racket. We were having fun doing our separate activities but, somewhere along the way, love came and showed itself to us.
And that's how life became more inspiring, living more meaningful, loving more enduring, and lusting more profound for us --- even if it passed so quickly. Truly, the sense of love lies not in how long it stayed, but on how deep we felt its magic, meaning and madness.
And there, for a few minutes, I was lost in tears and running nose. I can only look out the window and amuse myself with the unexciting scenery of tall glass buildings mixed the shorter ones in painted concrete. It was good I was at work that time so at least I was forced to be composed and calm. Otherwise, I would have sobbed so heavily the whole building where I live would be jolted and shaken thinking some newly-married wife was suddenly left widowed. To some extent, this was the case for us.
How we met is a magical story of joy and thankfulness better relived in memories where it rightfully receives justice. It is one story that has never failed to tickle even our most boorish friends. It is one story, they say, that should be repeated over and over to keep love alive. Love truly comes in the most unexpected places and times. We were at the same place at the same time but we did different things. He danced, I played. He was in tap dancing shoes, I was swinging my racket. We were having fun doing our separate activities but, somewhere along the way, love came and showed itself to us.
And that's how life became more inspiring, living more meaningful, loving more enduring, and lusting more profound for us --- even if it passed so quickly. Truly, the sense of love lies not in how long it stayed, but on how deep we felt its magic, meaning and madness.
11.06.2003
An Egyptian?
A psychologist friend kindly researched about my pastlife. I don't know where exactly, but this was the result.
===========================
My pastlife:
Male.
Born in Egypt in 700.
Profession was builder of houses, temples, cathedrals.
Has a ruthless character.
Weighs decisions in critical situations.
Has self-control and strong will
Generally liked by people.
Lesson from the past is to study and use wisdom that lies in psychological sciences.
===========================
===========================
My pastlife:
Male.
Born in Egypt in 700.
Profession was builder of houses, temples, cathedrals.
Has a ruthless character.
Weighs decisions in critical situations.
Has self-control and strong will
Generally liked by people.
Lesson from the past is to study and use wisdom that lies in psychological sciences.
===========================
11.05.2003
Ninth of September, Last
A lot of times when I relive my birthstory, I become melancholic. I couldn't believe how God can be so wise and kind. Oftentimes I say it's a story that silences me in deep humility knowing that I couldn't have enjoyed life as it is now without those people whose names I still remember and some of whom will remain faceless to me forever.
After a few days, my mother was released from the hospital to recover at home. It was likely my father learned how to dress the wound since it would be too difficult for them to walk more than a kilometer to the hospital from the house where they lived everytime the wound needs dressing. It's good my father didn't have a problem tending the cut that ran across most of my mother's lower abdomen, more or less six to seven inches in length.
My mother recalls me giving them a hard time as an infant. I would cry so loud and frequently that it made them worry. No amount of amusement would make me stop. Even in the middle of the quietest night, my tiny voice and the parent's worried conversations would fill the neighborhood. There would be times when my grandparents who lived nearby would come over to comfort my mother and help in hushing me to sleep. My wailing gave them many sleepless nights.
But what disturbed my mother so much were the helpless cries of two babies nearby. These were those of the twins whom Mrs. Fitero gave birth who were a few houses away from where my parents lived. My mother says they were probably hungry but their widowed father couldn't provide anything. We were poor but they were more hardened up. One time, my mother asked my father to go and check on the kids. My father came back teary-eyed and with a cracking voice, he said he found the father mashing some pulpy camote and mixed it with evaporated milk to be fed on the babies. My mother almost fainted as she cried.
From then on, the twins Eduardo and Editha and I would share my mother's breastmilk. She would ask the twins to be brought to the house several times during the day and would feed them alternately. I am crying as I write this, I couldn't imagine what more kindness can match this.
I grew up as a kid knowing this story. My mother would always ask me to befriend the twins since the three of us shared the same breast and breastmilk. I am not sure if the twin's father told them our shared past and I don't even know if they ever wondered why I would always smile at them. One day soon, I will find a way to see them and find out what they know about September 9, 1972.
After a few days, my mother was released from the hospital to recover at home. It was likely my father learned how to dress the wound since it would be too difficult for them to walk more than a kilometer to the hospital from the house where they lived everytime the wound needs dressing. It's good my father didn't have a problem tending the cut that ran across most of my mother's lower abdomen, more or less six to seven inches in length.
My mother recalls me giving them a hard time as an infant. I would cry so loud and frequently that it made them worry. No amount of amusement would make me stop. Even in the middle of the quietest night, my tiny voice and the parent's worried conversations would fill the neighborhood. There would be times when my grandparents who lived nearby would come over to comfort my mother and help in hushing me to sleep. My wailing gave them many sleepless nights.
But what disturbed my mother so much were the helpless cries of two babies nearby. These were those of the twins whom Mrs. Fitero gave birth who were a few houses away from where my parents lived. My mother says they were probably hungry but their widowed father couldn't provide anything. We were poor but they were more hardened up. One time, my mother asked my father to go and check on the kids. My father came back teary-eyed and with a cracking voice, he said he found the father mashing some pulpy camote and mixed it with evaporated milk to be fed on the babies. My mother almost fainted as she cried.
From then on, the twins Eduardo and Editha and I would share my mother's breastmilk. She would ask the twins to be brought to the house several times during the day and would feed them alternately. I am crying as I write this, I couldn't imagine what more kindness can match this.
I grew up as a kid knowing this story. My mother would always ask me to befriend the twins since the three of us shared the same breast and breastmilk. I am not sure if the twin's father told them our shared past and I don't even know if they ever wondered why I would always smile at them. One day soon, I will find a way to see them and find out what they know about September 9, 1972.
11.03.2003
Ninth of September, II
Long before the operation ever started, my parent's entire families were in the parish priest's residence across the street. They trooped there so the parish priest, who was a family friend, can lead them in prayer and to be near my mother in case something happens.
My mother knew very well getting under the knife that morning was actually like kissing life goodbye. But she had no choice. At 29 years old that time and standing at a diminutive four feet 11 inches, there was no way I can be delivered normally. She's been on labor since the day before and, sooner or later, she knew she had to face the inevitable. The only way for the two of us to be safe was for her to endure a caesarian operation without the relief from any form of anesthetics.
It was likely that my mother's audacity inspired the medical team. Dr. Viola, who took comfort from a few shots of gin before the operation, was assisted by a team of nurses and midwives: one senior nurse served as assistant, two midwives were holding each of my mother's arms which were tied to the delivery table so she doesn't move so much. In order to at least console my mother, they opted to make use of the last vials of local anethesia remaining in one of the medicine cabinets. This is the type used by dentists to numb specific areas in the mouth when they do extraction.
So the doctor would inject the local anesthesia and make an incision afterwards, inject and incise, inject and incise, inject and incise, until enough cut was made for safe delivery. From the time the first incision was made, my mother's screaming voice was heard in the hospital hallways and across the street to the priest's house where my relatives were praying that time. Her cry and screams became so disturbingly loud and deafening as the doctor moved to cut the uterus to take me out. It became frightful at times. My father couldn't even finish a prayer.
When finally my baby cries were heard, everything stopped. Prayers ended, breaths were held, jaws dropped, and eyes were shut. All wanted to rejoice but everyone knew they could not. My mother had to endure some more as the doctors started to sew the cut back in.
But God is good. He made sure that the mother and baby were safe. Other than my mother, the only other persons who got physically hurt during the operation were the two midwives who held her. My mother's nails got buried in their forearms as she held them tightly to bear the pain. They bled.
When my mother was wheeled back to the recovery room, she asked to pass by Mrs. Fitero's bed. With the faintest voice she can muster, she wished her well because it was going to be Mrs. Fitero's turn soon after. My mother then slept and rested. When she woke up, she didn't know if she was going to be cheer because she had me or whether she was going to weep louder because Mrs. Fitero wasn't as lucky. She lost so much blood and succumbed, but left a set of twins.
(to be continued)
My mother knew very well getting under the knife that morning was actually like kissing life goodbye. But she had no choice. At 29 years old that time and standing at a diminutive four feet 11 inches, there was no way I can be delivered normally. She's been on labor since the day before and, sooner or later, she knew she had to face the inevitable. The only way for the two of us to be safe was for her to endure a caesarian operation without the relief from any form of anesthetics.
It was likely that my mother's audacity inspired the medical team. Dr. Viola, who took comfort from a few shots of gin before the operation, was assisted by a team of nurses and midwives: one senior nurse served as assistant, two midwives were holding each of my mother's arms which were tied to the delivery table so she doesn't move so much. In order to at least console my mother, they opted to make use of the last vials of local anethesia remaining in one of the medicine cabinets. This is the type used by dentists to numb specific areas in the mouth when they do extraction.
So the doctor would inject the local anesthesia and make an incision afterwards, inject and incise, inject and incise, inject and incise, until enough cut was made for safe delivery. From the time the first incision was made, my mother's screaming voice was heard in the hospital hallways and across the street to the priest's house where my relatives were praying that time. Her cry and screams became so disturbingly loud and deafening as the doctor moved to cut the uterus to take me out. It became frightful at times. My father couldn't even finish a prayer.
When finally my baby cries were heard, everything stopped. Prayers ended, breaths were held, jaws dropped, and eyes were shut. All wanted to rejoice but everyone knew they could not. My mother had to endure some more as the doctors started to sew the cut back in.
But God is good. He made sure that the mother and baby were safe. Other than my mother, the only other persons who got physically hurt during the operation were the two midwives who held her. My mother's nails got buried in their forearms as she held them tightly to bear the pain. They bled.
When my mother was wheeled back to the recovery room, she asked to pass by Mrs. Fitero's bed. With the faintest voice she can muster, she wished her well because it was going to be Mrs. Fitero's turn soon after. My mother then slept and rested. When she woke up, she didn't know if she was going to be cheer because she had me or whether she was going to weep louder because Mrs. Fitero wasn't as lucky. She lost so much blood and succumbed, but left a set of twins.
(to be continued)
11.02.2003
Ninth of September
When people say I've been brought up really well, I close my eyes and give all the praises and credit to God and my parents. But when some probe deeper and wonder why I have never gone astray, I close my eyes and think about a scar.
It's true, it's true. Much of how I have managed to grow up without ever figuring in a fight, doing drugs, abusing alcohol, mistreating other people, or harming any life I attribute to my mother's scar when she gave birth to me. It's probably the only image I have carried from my childhood, one that, wittingly or unwittingly, has turned to be my meaningful shepherd.
I was born about 12 days before Martial Law was declared in the Philippines in 1972. That time, I was told, then President Marcos was unusually strict and didn't allow any military or commercial aircraft to fly out of the capital Manila. Because of this, my birth place was likely one of the countless rural places in the Philippines which perished in undeserved lack of attention in the form of basic services like hospital care. While my mother was brought to the main town where the biggest hospital is located in my province, it wasn't a really soothing idea since it was devoid of most medical supplies anyway. The only pleasant thing about it was I would be born in an actual hospital delivery room and not in some old and wornout mattress at home. There really was no other option left for my parents and my grandparents. The hospital was their best shot. They wouldn't settle for a midwife to deliver a first child.
That day in the labor room, there was another pregnant woman set to give birth. She was in the other bed and has been there since the day before. My mother knew Mrs. Fitero because they lived just a few houses away from where my parents lived that time. Apparently, Mrs. Fitero was actually scheduled for delivery much earlier on but had problems with her blood pressure because she was really nervous and tensed. Everytime she's wheeled into the delivery room, something happens and they would decide to bring her back in the waiting room. My mother, sensing possible harm for the babies, spent time comforting Mrs. Fitero to ease her anxieties, and formed a pact with her. In order to prove that the pain is bearable and no cause for worry, my mother agreed to give birth ahead of her, something she would have gladly given second thoughts had she known better what she would endure.
It took a while for the nurses to actually find the doctor on duty that time. When he showed up, he smelled of liquor but the nurses didn't mind. They knew he needed some means to generate extraordinary gallantry in performing a simple caesarian operation, but in extraordinary circumstances.
(to be continued)
It's true, it's true. Much of how I have managed to grow up without ever figuring in a fight, doing drugs, abusing alcohol, mistreating other people, or harming any life I attribute to my mother's scar when she gave birth to me. It's probably the only image I have carried from my childhood, one that, wittingly or unwittingly, has turned to be my meaningful shepherd.
I was born about 12 days before Martial Law was declared in the Philippines in 1972. That time, I was told, then President Marcos was unusually strict and didn't allow any military or commercial aircraft to fly out of the capital Manila. Because of this, my birth place was likely one of the countless rural places in the Philippines which perished in undeserved lack of attention in the form of basic services like hospital care. While my mother was brought to the main town where the biggest hospital is located in my province, it wasn't a really soothing idea since it was devoid of most medical supplies anyway. The only pleasant thing about it was I would be born in an actual hospital delivery room and not in some old and wornout mattress at home. There really was no other option left for my parents and my grandparents. The hospital was their best shot. They wouldn't settle for a midwife to deliver a first child.
That day in the labor room, there was another pregnant woman set to give birth. She was in the other bed and has been there since the day before. My mother knew Mrs. Fitero because they lived just a few houses away from where my parents lived that time. Apparently, Mrs. Fitero was actually scheduled for delivery much earlier on but had problems with her blood pressure because she was really nervous and tensed. Everytime she's wheeled into the delivery room, something happens and they would decide to bring her back in the waiting room. My mother, sensing possible harm for the babies, spent time comforting Mrs. Fitero to ease her anxieties, and formed a pact with her. In order to prove that the pain is bearable and no cause for worry, my mother agreed to give birth ahead of her, something she would have gladly given second thoughts had she known better what she would endure.
It took a while for the nurses to actually find the doctor on duty that time. When he showed up, he smelled of liquor but the nurses didn't mind. They knew he needed some means to generate extraordinary gallantry in performing a simple caesarian operation, but in extraordinary circumstances.
(to be continued)
Conversations
Three brief conversations I had with three different people in the last 24 hours.
One.
After putting the phone down, I immediately sent a text message to G. apologizing for saying a mouthful to him. He casually mentioned about getting his nose done next week, not for anything else but to look better. I took it plainly. I wasn't annoyed and honestly didn't feel disgusted when I heard it. I had a friend who underwent the same popular procedure last year and it actually made people take a second look at her. I am normally distant when discussing topics like this. While I may have my own strong belief and position, I don't impose them on other people because I think it's not right to do that. On the contrary, I listen to them.
This gift of listening has favored me well. I'm glad some friends think of me first when they want to discuss something serious, one that asks for making a stand be it painful or otherwise. I'm even gladder that friends usually ask for my position on things after everyone has said their piece. It's heartwarming to get this affirmation from your friends.
But I'm digressing. In G.'s case, I wanted to pick on his brain and find out exactly his reasons for undergoing the operation. I feigned annoyance and tried to sound convincing while saying it's tantamount to rebuking God's creation. He created everyone perfectly so there should be nothing wrong with him. Doing the nose thing is like saying God did a mistake and didn't do it rightly. It's just taking out a facial mole, he said. It will enhance your looks and, who knows, it will land you places, he added. I just shot back, I hope the needle won't be so huge.
Two.
I saw him from afar and decided to walk up to his table and said hi. After all, I haven't seen him in like two years. H., a Chinese classmate in my MBA class, was having a late afternoon snacks in a popular fastfood near the school. The usual questions came running one after another. So how are you? Where are you connected? So you're still single? Why are you here? What have you been up to lately?
Afterwards, I almost fell in my chair with his query if I was Catholic. It's like, where did that come from? I decided to be patient and explained briefly my religious journey. We spent the rest of the time talking about his recent pressing thoughts about God's fairness and reasons. He has started to become more open about looking into this recently. And that should be celebrated considering he's an atheist. He confessed to be one.
Three.
B. and I met in 1996 when APEC was held here in Manila. He was about my age and, aside from his government work, was also the Chinese Vice Premier's interpreter that time.
We chanced upon each other on Yahoo Messenger finally. We talked about life lost and lived, and love that lived and got lost in no time.
One.
After putting the phone down, I immediately sent a text message to G. apologizing for saying a mouthful to him. He casually mentioned about getting his nose done next week, not for anything else but to look better. I took it plainly. I wasn't annoyed and honestly didn't feel disgusted when I heard it. I had a friend who underwent the same popular procedure last year and it actually made people take a second look at her. I am normally distant when discussing topics like this. While I may have my own strong belief and position, I don't impose them on other people because I think it's not right to do that. On the contrary, I listen to them.
This gift of listening has favored me well. I'm glad some friends think of me first when they want to discuss something serious, one that asks for making a stand be it painful or otherwise. I'm even gladder that friends usually ask for my position on things after everyone has said their piece. It's heartwarming to get this affirmation from your friends.
But I'm digressing. In G.'s case, I wanted to pick on his brain and find out exactly his reasons for undergoing the operation. I feigned annoyance and tried to sound convincing while saying it's tantamount to rebuking God's creation. He created everyone perfectly so there should be nothing wrong with him. Doing the nose thing is like saying God did a mistake and didn't do it rightly. It's just taking out a facial mole, he said. It will enhance your looks and, who knows, it will land you places, he added. I just shot back, I hope the needle won't be so huge.
Two.
I saw him from afar and decided to walk up to his table and said hi. After all, I haven't seen him in like two years. H., a Chinese classmate in my MBA class, was having a late afternoon snacks in a popular fastfood near the school. The usual questions came running one after another. So how are you? Where are you connected? So you're still single? Why are you here? What have you been up to lately?
Afterwards, I almost fell in my chair with his query if I was Catholic. It's like, where did that come from? I decided to be patient and explained briefly my religious journey. We spent the rest of the time talking about his recent pressing thoughts about God's fairness and reasons. He has started to become more open about looking into this recently. And that should be celebrated considering he's an atheist. He confessed to be one.
Three.
B. and I met in 1996 when APEC was held here in Manila. He was about my age and, aside from his government work, was also the Chinese Vice Premier's interpreter that time.
We chanced upon each other on Yahoo Messenger finally. We talked about life lost and lived, and love that lived and got lost in no time.
10.30.2003
Dogs, cats, and romance
They were few, but there have been times in the past when I became resentful of romantic things, romantic songs, romantic settings, romantic images, anything romantic. Even the most touching sight of romantic dinners by the window overlooking an endless sky isn't enough to make me stretch my lips and smile a bit. For me, they are a cause for alarm as they make me draw my hanky ready to wipe the remains of an ominous and voluminous puke. My eyebrows, in fact, meet tightly in the middle and rejoice instead.
There just isn't anything romantic about that, I would insist. Sooner or later, one leaves the other in tremendous sorrow and they would forever live making each other's name synonymous to a curse. Honey will then be Stupid. Darling will change to Asshole. Buttercup will now be Loser. Cupcake, a Liar. The revolting feeling doesn't end there. It goes even more abysmal, more earthy, more animalistic. So you laugh to the heavens as you decide to name your ugly dog from your ex and your neighbor's uglier cat from your ex's new partner. You do this while praying that it will make things a lot easier for you and you recover soon.
I couldn't place exactly where those intense resentment originated. It couldn't be autumn, since Manila only has dry and wet weathers. It certainly couldn't be anything related to deprivation because I would have friends with me and I have a good time when I'm with them. It can never be dietary because I'm fed well. Hormonal? I don't know.
But then at the back of my mind I knew maybe where it rightfully comes from. I was just too embarrassed to acknowledge it because it wasn't one that's uplifting. I am glad those times are over now. Something's really improved with age. I can now tirelessly watch loving couples pass me by and I all wish them well while I smile. I am now happy with news of friends finding partners finally as well as partners finding their formers partners and decide to be together again. I can join hundreds of couples at the Promenade looking out to the sea while waiting for the sunset and I wouldn't feel awkward. I smile when I see flowers and cakes and chocolates and rings. I pray when I attend weddings.
And I can soundly sleep now.
There just isn't anything romantic about that, I would insist. Sooner or later, one leaves the other in tremendous sorrow and they would forever live making each other's name synonymous to a curse. Honey will then be Stupid. Darling will change to Asshole. Buttercup will now be Loser. Cupcake, a Liar. The revolting feeling doesn't end there. It goes even more abysmal, more earthy, more animalistic. So you laugh to the heavens as you decide to name your ugly dog from your ex and your neighbor's uglier cat from your ex's new partner. You do this while praying that it will make things a lot easier for you and you recover soon.
I couldn't place exactly where those intense resentment originated. It couldn't be autumn, since Manila only has dry and wet weathers. It certainly couldn't be anything related to deprivation because I would have friends with me and I have a good time when I'm with them. It can never be dietary because I'm fed well. Hormonal? I don't know.
But then at the back of my mind I knew maybe where it rightfully comes from. I was just too embarrassed to acknowledge it because it wasn't one that's uplifting. I am glad those times are over now. Something's really improved with age. I can now tirelessly watch loving couples pass me by and I all wish them well while I smile. I am now happy with news of friends finding partners finally as well as partners finding their formers partners and decide to be together again. I can join hundreds of couples at the Promenade looking out to the sea while waiting for the sunset and I wouldn't feel awkward. I smile when I see flowers and cakes and chocolates and rings. I pray when I attend weddings.
And I can soundly sleep now.
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