published 13 July 2009, Manila Standard Today
It’s easy to get worked up over the raging war between the Government Service Insurance System and the Philippine office of software giant International Business Machines.
You can take the side of the state pension fund and lament that the crash of the Integrated Loans, membership, Acquired Assets and Account Management System has caused inordinate delays in the processing of loans, benefits and first-time pension claims of lowly government employees who comprise its membership. You can play up emotions and say that while there are millions of pesos involved in the deal and in the lawsuits that have sprouted as a result of the row, the fund members only need a few thousands to pay their children’s tuition, settle hospital bills, buy some medicine, or fix the house.
On the other hand, you can imagine being on the side of the IBM, a company that has built its reputation for decades, doing business in numerous countries all over the world. IBM has been operating in the Philippines for more than 70 years already. Certainly, accusations of supplying “defective” database software to one of its longtime clients, a state agency at that, dents this prized reputation. This, too, should not be taken lightly.
But let’s start from the beginning.
In the past, records of the GSIS concerning a member’s activity were not integrated. There was a different file for government service history, another for contributions made, another for loans and other acquired assets, another for payments made for these. There was no way to get a complete profile immediately. The GSIS thought it was a necessity to do something about this so that all the data pertaining to one member can be viewed at once.
In 2006, an agreement was signed between GSIS and a joint venture led by Questronix Corp. which would be acting as the systems integrator for the system known as ILMAAAMS. Implementation began in 2007. The contract price was P80 million.
According to GSIS chief legal counsel Estrella Elamparo, problems emerged even in the early months of the implementation. Retrieval of the information was slow. A member’s record also sometimes did not reflect information that was supposed to be already in the integrated system. For example, there were some unposted payments. “Nalalaglag,” in the vernacular. The agency believed these glitches were an inevitable result of the introduction of new technology. Since the glitches occurred in pockets, the agency was able to fix these problems on its own even though it reported these to the systems integrator.
Elamparo said that in 2008, Questronix advised GSIS to update the DB2 to its newest version, version 9 (the original software was version 8.1). The agency was told that the new version would be better able to handle the voluminous amount of information. It had a capacity of 512 exabytes. (One exabyte is equal to 1 million terabytes. One terabyte in turn is equal to one thousand gigabytes. Whew. One could get lost in all the zeroes). For the GSIS, this was a good suggestion; the capacity was almost limitless, at least for its purposes. It agreed to the upgrade.
But contrary to expectations, things turned nightmarish after the upgrade. The problem became worse such that on April 2 this year, the system crashed. The GSIS people informed Questronix about it and was advised to “restart” the system. A few days later, there was another crash.
For about 45 days, nobody knew what was going on. Was it the operating system? The hardware? The software? The GSIS could not explain to its members why the system would be up and running for a few days then crash without warning. It was like operating in the dark, Elamaparo said. As a result, the GSIS people put in additional working hours providing more frequent back-up because they did not know when the next crash was going to be, and what would trigger it. In the meantime, GSIS members were becoming impatient and angry. It was peak season for loan applications since the opening of the school year was just around the corner.
On May 11, the agency sent a demand letter to Questronix and to IBM, among other parties. On May 14, Questronix responded and its director for business solutions, Bert Bartolome, reportedly quoted the findings of the IBM Laboratory in Canada.
“There is a problem in the calculation of a new extent in table spaces larger than 2 TB (terabytes) and with 16 K (kilobytes) page size. Under these conditions, the calculation runs into an overflow... the overflow caused DB2 to lose certain information in the leading byte and data may end up in the wrong table, resulting in subsequent page corruptions.”
The same letter said the final solution to the problem should come from IBM, which it said was preparing a “special build” to solve the problem.
“We are currently awaiting the commitment of IBM Labs when the special build [fix] will be available. The fix will make the address of any new extent in such table spaces greater than 2TB with page size of 16K will be calculated correctly, hence not causing page corruption any longer,” Questronix said.
In full-page advertisements in national dailies, the GSIS quoted these portions of the report by way of telling its irate members that the problem was absolutely not of the agency’s doing.
The GSIS system last crashed in May. Elamparo said that further crashes had been prevented because GSIS people were constantly making sure that “each table did not contain more than two terabytes.” It’s not convenient, she said, and it offered no assurance that there would be no further crashes, but it was the only way the agency could continue serving its members while it wages a legal battle with IBM and Questronix.
Indeed the failure of the software damaged the operations of the GSIS big-time, especially for those who were claiming their pensions for the first time or were securing loans. But Elamparo said they were even more shocked at the way IBM washed its hands of the matter and acted arrogantly instead. “That’s not the way to treat a long-time client.”
***
But Owen Cammayo and Marian DG Castillo, communications officers of IBM Philippines,say that their company is bewildered that the GSIS launched public relations attacks on IBM in late May, AFTER it has provided the so-called special build to provide technical solutions to the problem. Actually, the IBM provided help out of goodwill, when in reality it had “no contract with the GSIS and no involvement in the supply, design or installation of the system.”
In a press statement released earlier this month, IBM Philippines quoted Questronix which said that while the system had been operating successfully since May 26 (after IBM had provided the so-called build to address the problem), the overall stability of the system “will continue to be in question until the GSIS takes steps to address the many other issues impacting the system...these include instituting backup and recovery procedures, conducting appropriate performance testing and tuning in accordance with industry practice and having certified personnel manage complex systems on a regular basis.” (Continued on Monday)
Reader Comment:
from bertoP@aol.com
Hi Adelle,
I read your above column with great interest. I am retired after spending my 35-year career in the Information Systems field here in the United States. I have been following this story since the beginning and been trying to find answers from either GSIS or IBM or Questronix. Maybe you are my last resort. Here are my questions.
1. I understand that this GSIS application was first installed in 2006 under IBM's OS/390 Operating System on the mainframe and DB2 as the database manager. After the first half of 2008, did GSIS not renew its license for OS/390 because it was migrating to an open system architecture, maybe Linux? If the answers to the above questions are Yes, then the GSIS application must now be running with DB2 under Linux instead of OS/390.
2. Is Linux running on the same mainframe or on different servers?
3. What is the Authorized Program Analysis Report number (APAR) which came with the fix from IBM and did GSIS properly apply this fix? GSIS should be able to give the APAR number if they received one.
The reason I believe the answers to these questions are important is because by coincidence, GSIS reported that their performance problems started sometime in early 2008. It is very possible that a well-tuned DB2 application running on the mainframe could run like molasses as a result of the change in operating system/hardware if the necessary systems performance tuning was not done, or if the new hardware has not been sized adequately. If so, why focus all the blame on DB2? Granted, there was a program error in DB2 failing when the size of the table space exceeded 2 TB. But this has been fixed if GSIS applied the fix which is documented in IBM's APAR LI73318. This is in the public domain of IBM and you can read it yourself if you Google APAR LI73318. It is possible that GSIS received a different APAR, the reason for my Question 3 above. If the performance of the system did not improve after the error in DB2 was fixed, then the performance problem could be due to other factors.
Truly yours,
Bert Peronilla PhD Computer Science
P.S. I installed the very first computer at UP in 1967, the IBM System/360 Model 40.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Summons
Fourteen years of one's biggest battle. A lifetime crammed into several sheets of paper. Rolled up and carelessly tucked into the sheriff's jeans' back pocket.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Seven, six days later
That a kid has reached seven years is a big deal for us Filipinos. I don't know if this is so in other parts of the world. Normally, a big birthday party is thrown for a boy or girl when he or she turns seven. I remember my own party. I had a big pink-and-white cake with a telephone on top. I think it was because the song "Telephone" (Long long distance love affair, wooh) by Sheena Easton was popular then. My own firstborn, Bea, also had a fancy celebration, courtesy of her late grandmother, with a clown in attendance. Even family law makes much ado of the seventh year. It is seen as a treshold,in the case of a separation, and absent an agreement,the mother gains custody of a child below seven. Older children can choose which parent to stay with.
And so try as I did, I could not help feeling a little sad about Elmo's crossover, so to speak. He turned seven last Saturday, July 4. But on the day before that, he came home from school with a high fever -- I had to skip going to the office because of it. The following day, he was due to spend time with his father, who had told me he planned to take the kid to Greenhills on the special day. I hoped Elmo would feel better to enjoy the day. They did go to Greenhills and bought Transformers toys. And then they went home. Father left for a meeting and came home with a cake. Then he, Sophie and Elmo (remember Bea and Josh were living with me solidly) blew candles. And then it was Sunday.
In the meantime, Fridays were normally light days for me at the office. I had a single page to attend to -- meaning I only have to edit two columns and write the editorial,which I could do in advance if I get inspired early enough. So this week, I willed myself to decide on a topic and research on it as early as Thursday night. Friday morning before I cooked lunch, I had finished writing. Elmo was still in school. I fetched him at 2pm, dressed him, changed into office clothe myself, and off we went.
We got drenched early on. As soon as we stepped out of the house, a downpour came. I worried because Elmo's fever might return, good thing he brought his jacket, an umbrella, an extra shirt and towel. Good thing, too, that we were able to hail a cab and that there was not much traffic where we chose to pass. My workday was finished -- a bare hour.
Actually I had planned on taking Elmo first to church and then to Ocean Park Manila which was a stone's throw away from my office. But they were only operating until seven and the fees were higher than I expected. So we ditched our plan and decided to go to Timezone instead. A game card worth a hundred pesos made Elmo's day. He used the virtual motorcycle and car racing booths. He enjoyed the pasta in Alfredo sauce in The Old Spaghetti House. I introduced him to my favorite Sweet Crepe (mango cubes on avocado ice cream, topped with almond flakes and caramel syrup on a crepe cone) and loved it. Then we went to the bookstore and he asked if I could get him a comic-book version of, what else, Transformers. Then it was time to go home.
The downpour was metro-wide, I forgot to say, so traffic was monstrous in every major road. The lines for the cabs were also impossibly long. We decided to take the road less traveled -- walk a short distance to Mabini and then get a jeep from there. Even then it was not easy. Finally we boarded one headed for Manila City Hall, to change into a Valenzuela-bound one later on.
We were in the tricycle at 1030. And since it was not my night with my boy, I had to drop him off his father's house. As I headed home I wondered if the "celebration" I just gave my baby was enough -- and then I realized that it was, not because I had spent a few extra hundreds, but because I did so with love. Much,much love.
And so try as I did, I could not help feeling a little sad about Elmo's crossover, so to speak. He turned seven last Saturday, July 4. But on the day before that, he came home from school with a high fever -- I had to skip going to the office because of it. The following day, he was due to spend time with his father, who had told me he planned to take the kid to Greenhills on the special day. I hoped Elmo would feel better to enjoy the day. They did go to Greenhills and bought Transformers toys. And then they went home. Father left for a meeting and came home with a cake. Then he, Sophie and Elmo (remember Bea and Josh were living with me solidly) blew candles. And then it was Sunday.
In the meantime, Fridays were normally light days for me at the office. I had a single page to attend to -- meaning I only have to edit two columns and write the editorial,which I could do in advance if I get inspired early enough. So this week, I willed myself to decide on a topic and research on it as early as Thursday night. Friday morning before I cooked lunch, I had finished writing. Elmo was still in school. I fetched him at 2pm, dressed him, changed into office clothe myself, and off we went.
We got drenched early on. As soon as we stepped out of the house, a downpour came. I worried because Elmo's fever might return, good thing he brought his jacket, an umbrella, an extra shirt and towel. Good thing, too, that we were able to hail a cab and that there was not much traffic where we chose to pass. My workday was finished -- a bare hour.
Actually I had planned on taking Elmo first to church and then to Ocean Park Manila which was a stone's throw away from my office. But they were only operating until seven and the fees were higher than I expected. So we ditched our plan and decided to go to Timezone instead. A game card worth a hundred pesos made Elmo's day. He used the virtual motorcycle and car racing booths. He enjoyed the pasta in Alfredo sauce in The Old Spaghetti House. I introduced him to my favorite Sweet Crepe (mango cubes on avocado ice cream, topped with almond flakes and caramel syrup on a crepe cone) and loved it. Then we went to the bookstore and he asked if I could get him a comic-book version of, what else, Transformers. Then it was time to go home.
The downpour was metro-wide, I forgot to say, so traffic was monstrous in every major road. The lines for the cabs were also impossibly long. We decided to take the road less traveled -- walk a short distance to Mabini and then get a jeep from there. Even then it was not easy. Finally we boarded one headed for Manila City Hall, to change into a Valenzuela-bound one later on.
We were in the tricycle at 1030. And since it was not my night with my boy, I had to drop him off his father's house. As I headed home I wondered if the "celebration" I just gave my baby was enough -- and then I realized that it was, not because I had spent a few extra hundreds, but because I did so with love. Much,much love.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The privilege of education
published 6 July 2009, Manila Standard Today
It was a nostalgic Saturday morning for me as I accompanied my daughter Bea, now a high school senior, to good old Ateneo de Manila to get an application form for the college entrance exam there. I had not set foot in the college for too many years and thus noted some changes.
For instance, there was a new building south of Gonzaga Hall where a field was during my time. The Immaculate Conception chapel, where I used to sit for minutes before a crucial exam, had been renovated. I did not recognize the clerks at the admission and aid office, whereas the staff manning the place were like doting aunts to us then. Dela Costa Hall now had several levels; there was even a coffee shop at the ground floor.
Despite these, I got the sense that more things stayed the same. There was the infamous row of benches just outside the cafeteria. The photocopying area at the end of Kostka Hall remained, too, although I supposed the rates were higher than the 50 centavos per page I used to pay. Even the secretary of the English department, Ate Josie, was as warm as always. The only letdown was not being able to say hello to two of my mentors, one from English and one from Interdisciplinary Studies; both of them were not in that day.
But what were most unchanged were the bulletin boards on both sides of the Edsa walk and other corridors in the college. Announcements of meetings, seminars, workshops, performances and many other enrichment programs were all over the place. There were so many activities to choose from, my daughter gushed. Indeed one could go crazy deciding which opportunity to take advantage of.
I realized then that one must really be so blessed to go to college, not to this school per se, but to any other institution that serves such opportunities—not to mention the quality instruction—on the proverbial silver platter. In this sense, college does not mirror the real world which is, by leaps and bounds, tougher than the secured, privileged, orderly environment of the school.
College is perhaps the best time between childhood and adulthood. Your living conditions—meals, residence, transportation—are all taken care of, either by your parents, well-meaning relatives or a scholarship. You only have to make the grade to be deemed worthy. You are responsible for nobody but yourself. You enjoy considerable freedom (you can now go out with friends and occasionally stay out late) without the commensurate accountability. Recklessness and miscalculation can be excused by your youth. And even if you did commit some folly, you have the rest of your life to undo it and then proceed the right way. In college, one is constantly aware of one’s ideals, it is easy to be uncompromising.
But in the real world, the opportunities for self-improvement do not come as easily. Sometimes you fight with many others over the slimmest chance of moving upwards. At times you have to create opportunities for yourself. Sometimes you feel you deserve a break but it is handed out to others instead. Sometimes these openings come with a price, even a moral one.
Often, the choices are not between right and wrong (which would be easy to answer), but between right and noble, or between tolerable and evil.
All the things we see in school give us an idea of how things should be. Which is not to say that it is how they are in the real world. Out here, many other factors influence a person’s decision. There is financial gain. Loyalty to family and friends. Preservation of the status quo. A person must conduct a self-check every so often lest he lose his idealism altogether and get sucked into the flawed system without his realizing it.
And while the input students receive from their teachers do matter, it matters less than the practice (that should later on become a habit, then a skill) of processing these inputs. Processing, of course, is just a more scientific-sounding word than thinking. This is the gem of education, I believe. Not everything can be learned in school. Why, not everything can be learned in a lifetime! Many have said that the best teachers are those who are able to inspire their students, not to mouth memorized words, but to think for themselves, form their own opinions and communicate them effectively. Of course, to conduct themselves according to the words they utter.
Ultimately, people are not judged by the school they attended but by how they lived their adult lives. Lives, in turn, are shaped by big and small decisions people make every day. Education sets standards and equips students with tools to make good decisions—for themselves, their families, their communities and even their country. Still, it’s just one aspect. The rest of the equation can be answered for by human nature.
***
Part of the so-called Big Push for the passage of the reproductive health bill in Congress as well as the observance of the World Population Day this month is an event called Race Against Time to be held in front of the Quezon City Hall on Saturday, July 11.
The whole-day affair will include a mini-marathon, reproductive healthy consultations and a job fair. More than 60 local and international companies will be offering jobs in opportunities not limited to Quezon City residents.
The event is organized by the Philippine Legislators’ Committee on Population and Development Foundation Inc., Reproductive Health Advocacy Network and many other groups. Interested parties may go to www.plcpd.org.ph for details.
adellechua@gmail.com
It was a nostalgic Saturday morning for me as I accompanied my daughter Bea, now a high school senior, to good old Ateneo de Manila to get an application form for the college entrance exam there. I had not set foot in the college for too many years and thus noted some changes.
For instance, there was a new building south of Gonzaga Hall where a field was during my time. The Immaculate Conception chapel, where I used to sit for minutes before a crucial exam, had been renovated. I did not recognize the clerks at the admission and aid office, whereas the staff manning the place were like doting aunts to us then. Dela Costa Hall now had several levels; there was even a coffee shop at the ground floor.
Despite these, I got the sense that more things stayed the same. There was the infamous row of benches just outside the cafeteria. The photocopying area at the end of Kostka Hall remained, too, although I supposed the rates were higher than the 50 centavos per page I used to pay. Even the secretary of the English department, Ate Josie, was as warm as always. The only letdown was not being able to say hello to two of my mentors, one from English and one from Interdisciplinary Studies; both of them were not in that day.
But what were most unchanged were the bulletin boards on both sides of the Edsa walk and other corridors in the college. Announcements of meetings, seminars, workshops, performances and many other enrichment programs were all over the place. There were so many activities to choose from, my daughter gushed. Indeed one could go crazy deciding which opportunity to take advantage of.
I realized then that one must really be so blessed to go to college, not to this school per se, but to any other institution that serves such opportunities—not to mention the quality instruction—on the proverbial silver platter. In this sense, college does not mirror the real world which is, by leaps and bounds, tougher than the secured, privileged, orderly environment of the school.
College is perhaps the best time between childhood and adulthood. Your living conditions—meals, residence, transportation—are all taken care of, either by your parents, well-meaning relatives or a scholarship. You only have to make the grade to be deemed worthy. You are responsible for nobody but yourself. You enjoy considerable freedom (you can now go out with friends and occasionally stay out late) without the commensurate accountability. Recklessness and miscalculation can be excused by your youth. And even if you did commit some folly, you have the rest of your life to undo it and then proceed the right way. In college, one is constantly aware of one’s ideals, it is easy to be uncompromising.
But in the real world, the opportunities for self-improvement do not come as easily. Sometimes you fight with many others over the slimmest chance of moving upwards. At times you have to create opportunities for yourself. Sometimes you feel you deserve a break but it is handed out to others instead. Sometimes these openings come with a price, even a moral one.
Often, the choices are not between right and wrong (which would be easy to answer), but between right and noble, or between tolerable and evil.
All the things we see in school give us an idea of how things should be. Which is not to say that it is how they are in the real world. Out here, many other factors influence a person’s decision. There is financial gain. Loyalty to family and friends. Preservation of the status quo. A person must conduct a self-check every so often lest he lose his idealism altogether and get sucked into the flawed system without his realizing it.
And while the input students receive from their teachers do matter, it matters less than the practice (that should later on become a habit, then a skill) of processing these inputs. Processing, of course, is just a more scientific-sounding word than thinking. This is the gem of education, I believe. Not everything can be learned in school. Why, not everything can be learned in a lifetime! Many have said that the best teachers are those who are able to inspire their students, not to mouth memorized words, but to think for themselves, form their own opinions and communicate them effectively. Of course, to conduct themselves according to the words they utter.
Ultimately, people are not judged by the school they attended but by how they lived their adult lives. Lives, in turn, are shaped by big and small decisions people make every day. Education sets standards and equips students with tools to make good decisions—for themselves, their families, their communities and even their country. Still, it’s just one aspect. The rest of the equation can be answered for by human nature.
***
Part of the so-called Big Push for the passage of the reproductive health bill in Congress as well as the observance of the World Population Day this month is an event called Race Against Time to be held in front of the Quezon City Hall on Saturday, July 11.
The whole-day affair will include a mini-marathon, reproductive healthy consultations and a job fair. More than 60 local and international companies will be offering jobs in opportunities not limited to Quezon City residents.
The event is organized by the Philippine Legislators’ Committee on Population and Development Foundation Inc., Reproductive Health Advocacy Network and many other groups. Interested parties may go to www.plcpd.org.ph for details.
adellechua@gmail.com
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Reduced to a headline
The newsroom can be a heartless place.
I do not say this because editors are by nature evil. Sometimes, however, they are held hostage by the constraints of the job. They are left with no recourse but to value people and events according to their "cooperation" with rigid deadlines.
In this case, since we are talking about page 1, the reckoning hour is 8:30.
All of a sudden, a person's life -- and name -- is reduced to the possibility of being a banner story or just a supporting one. It does not matter what good the person has done. How many lives touched, how big the difference made, how well-loved she was. A valiant fight against cancer is cast aside. The only thing that matters is that if she "goes" before deadline, we have a banner story. If she fights on for yet another day -- well, that's tomorrow's problem. If she perishes between the deadline and sunrise, and other media outfits get to report it but we don't, then that's the paper's great misfortune. Bigger organizations may have the capability to "update" their top story at the eleventh hour. Not ours, sorry. Maybe a reporter can pre-write an obituary. It might come in handy soon.
Revolting, isn't it? But real, nonetheless.
I do not say this because editors are by nature evil. Sometimes, however, they are held hostage by the constraints of the job. They are left with no recourse but to value people and events according to their "cooperation" with rigid deadlines.
In this case, since we are talking about page 1, the reckoning hour is 8:30.
All of a sudden, a person's life -- and name -- is reduced to the possibility of being a banner story or just a supporting one. It does not matter what good the person has done. How many lives touched, how big the difference made, how well-loved she was. A valiant fight against cancer is cast aside. The only thing that matters is that if she "goes" before deadline, we have a banner story. If she fights on for yet another day -- well, that's tomorrow's problem. If she perishes between the deadline and sunrise, and other media outfits get to report it but we don't, then that's the paper's great misfortune. Bigger organizations may have the capability to "update" their top story at the eleventh hour. Not ours, sorry. Maybe a reporter can pre-write an obituary. It might come in handy soon.
Revolting, isn't it? But real, nonetheless.
All bunched up
I finally shed all illusions of separateness within the bedroom I share with the FOUR children (now that the other room is temporarily inhabited by my sister and her two children, plus the fact that our aunt would be returning from maternity leave, sans the baby, next week). There was a time I fancied I would be able to delineate my space from Bea's, or Josh's. But our room is just too cramped for boundaries.
So again I pushed and heaved and now stand Bea's and Josh's study tables on one side of the room. There is some space awaiting Sophie's desk which could come in December.
On another side are the closets: my own, the small kids' and the plastic accessories container, each drawer labeled after its owner. Did I say that when I have trouble falling asleep, organizing closets and drawers always does the trick?
Then I moved the two beds together. Bea's 48x75 and my own 36x75. The result is a width of 84 inches. It's bigger than a king-sized bed (72 inches wide, I think).
My, isn't it cozy for the five of us. No wonder I don't have any trouble getting up in the morning, no matter how early I have to, and no matter how heavy my work load -- in the house, with the kids, in the office -- is for the day. Before I close my eyes at night, and as soon as I open them at dawn, I am reminded that I do not have to look too far to be happy. All I love, and need, are within reach.
So again I pushed and heaved and now stand Bea's and Josh's study tables on one side of the room. There is some space awaiting Sophie's desk which could come in December.
On another side are the closets: my own, the small kids' and the plastic accessories container, each drawer labeled after its owner. Did I say that when I have trouble falling asleep, organizing closets and drawers always does the trick?
Then I moved the two beds together. Bea's 48x75 and my own 36x75. The result is a width of 84 inches. It's bigger than a king-sized bed (72 inches wide, I think).
My, isn't it cozy for the five of us. No wonder I don't have any trouble getting up in the morning, no matter how early I have to, and no matter how heavy my work load -- in the house, with the kids, in the office -- is for the day. Before I close my eyes at night, and as soon as I open them at dawn, I am reminded that I do not have to look too far to be happy. All I love, and need, are within reach.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Life in the time of swine flu
published 29 June 2009, Manila Standard Today
The discovery of the swine flu virus, later renamed A(H1N1), in Mexico and its easy crossing over into the United States in April gripped the world that previously viewed politics or ethnic conflicts in other lands as mere spectacle, without any sense of involvement.
This time, the connection was instant, the worry immediate. And why not? The world was smaller and people were more mobile. Given the daily volume of passengers in international flights, a virus carrier could move from North America to Europe or Asia in a matter of hours. Imagine the number of people, in both the origin and the destination, that the carrier would interact with in the course of a busy day. Imagine the mathematical progression as people who interacted with that carrier themselves interact subsequently with others. Ever seen the National Geographic feature on the next global pandemic? That documentary was made after the SARS outbreak of 2003. It shows how a flu virus could be, well, virulent, attacking healthy cells and causing its host’s death in a matter of a few days. It’s scary, just as the new virus was scary and mysterious.
The problem was that the enemy was invisible. The virus could pass undetected from one human to another. The symptoms could manifest as symptoms of other more common diseases like ordinary flu or pneumonia. A confirmation could come too late.
The A(H1N1) virus also came at a really bad time, when nations were reeling from economic woes. Governments were injecting money into collapsed industries just so they could keep on operating and let go of fewer employees. The last thing the world economy needs is a dampener on tourism and general activity. Certainly, consumer spending on face masks, isopropyl alcohol and ascorbic acid would not be enough to tide economies over.
Fortunately, people became more sober in the next few weeks. There were more confirmed cases, more deaths even, and eventually the Word Health Organization declared A(H1N1) a global pandemic. Still, the WHO sad that the highest-level alert was geographical—the virus had spread into numerous countries around the world. In terms of severity, authorities said the virus’ effects on the patients were generally moderate. This means that most of them became infected and then recovered without even the need to seek medical help.
The Philippines remained A(H1N1)-free for a few more weeks before the first case was confirmed here: a ten-year-old girl who had just arrived from the United States and Canada with her parents.
These events coincided with the opening of classes for the new school year and naturally, some fumbling was in order. Nobody perhaps imagined that classroom interaction would present a serious problem in terms of the spread of the disease. Classes were suspended in schools where cases have been confirmed.
In the meantime, officials of the Department of Health conducted a press conference every so often to apprise the public on the latest figures and the circumstances of the latest patients. The numbers kept going up. There are now more than 800 cases, the largest figure in Southeast Asia. At least fifty-four schools have been affected. A low-level community outbreak has been declared in Metro Manila. Health officials have also mentioned a possible second wave of the outbreak.
Recently, however, Health also began talking about the recovery of hundreds previously infected. A middle-aged woman, working at the House of Representatives, was the first A(H1N1) fatality in the country. But Health officials were quick to add that the 49-year-old had pre-existing health conditions, effectively saying that some people are more prone to contracting the virus than others are.
Obviously, the health department is trying to strike a balance between keeping the public aware of what’s been happening, what could be done and what may yet happen while avoiding to cause unnecessary alarm.
The balancing is not an easy task.
***
The thought that the virus is out there and could get you if you are unlucky remains unsettling. It is at the back of your mind among your many concerns but it is there, nonetheless. Some events remind you of the fuzzy yet ever-present danger. When the children say that five or seven classmates are absent because all have fever, do you dismiss that fever as a result of the erratic weather or suspect these children have gotten the virus? And what if you have to take public transportation every day? Imagine the sheer number of people you get in close contact with in these vehicles especially during rush hour. Do you blow your budget on cab fare or fuel every single day? What if a co-worker coughs or sneezes? Do you move your chair just a little further or go around the office wearing a mask? What if you wake up achy or feverish? Do you tell yourself I’m doomed! immediately?
The truth is, it’s easy to get immobilized by fear. It’s instinctive. There is no effort involved in wallowing in what ifs and entertaining worst-case scenarios. The possibility of being downed by A(H1N1) or some other disease that has an even-higher mortality claim is always there. The good news is that we have the choice to work on lessening its probability. We are rational people. We should not let fear dictate what we do and don’t do in our lives.
At least we know more today than we did in those first few weeks. Classes have resumed and children have quite gotten used to the habit of lining up for the routine temperature check at their school gates every morning. Even travel and recreation have not been affected much. Becoming hermits is not really an option for most of us. Life does go on.
There is no fancy formula on being flu-proof. One does not even have to know how to go to the Web sites of the WHO or the Health Department. All it takes is common sense. Boost your immune system by eating healthy and taking vitamins. Wash your hands often, and thoroughly. Keep a bottle of alcohol or hand sanitizer handy at all times if you wish. Don’t miss out on rest and sleep.
Come to think of it, these are the things we really should be doing even without the threat of A(H1N1), or after the danger has passed. These are sound habits we may as well start now.
The discovery of the swine flu virus, later renamed A(H1N1), in Mexico and its easy crossing over into the United States in April gripped the world that previously viewed politics or ethnic conflicts in other lands as mere spectacle, without any sense of involvement.
This time, the connection was instant, the worry immediate. And why not? The world was smaller and people were more mobile. Given the daily volume of passengers in international flights, a virus carrier could move from North America to Europe or Asia in a matter of hours. Imagine the number of people, in both the origin and the destination, that the carrier would interact with in the course of a busy day. Imagine the mathematical progression as people who interacted with that carrier themselves interact subsequently with others. Ever seen the National Geographic feature on the next global pandemic? That documentary was made after the SARS outbreak of 2003. It shows how a flu virus could be, well, virulent, attacking healthy cells and causing its host’s death in a matter of a few days. It’s scary, just as the new virus was scary and mysterious.
The problem was that the enemy was invisible. The virus could pass undetected from one human to another. The symptoms could manifest as symptoms of other more common diseases like ordinary flu or pneumonia. A confirmation could come too late.
The A(H1N1) virus also came at a really bad time, when nations were reeling from economic woes. Governments were injecting money into collapsed industries just so they could keep on operating and let go of fewer employees. The last thing the world economy needs is a dampener on tourism and general activity. Certainly, consumer spending on face masks, isopropyl alcohol and ascorbic acid would not be enough to tide economies over.
Fortunately, people became more sober in the next few weeks. There were more confirmed cases, more deaths even, and eventually the Word Health Organization declared A(H1N1) a global pandemic. Still, the WHO sad that the highest-level alert was geographical—the virus had spread into numerous countries around the world. In terms of severity, authorities said the virus’ effects on the patients were generally moderate. This means that most of them became infected and then recovered without even the need to seek medical help.
The Philippines remained A(H1N1)-free for a few more weeks before the first case was confirmed here: a ten-year-old girl who had just arrived from the United States and Canada with her parents.
These events coincided with the opening of classes for the new school year and naturally, some fumbling was in order. Nobody perhaps imagined that classroom interaction would present a serious problem in terms of the spread of the disease. Classes were suspended in schools where cases have been confirmed.
In the meantime, officials of the Department of Health conducted a press conference every so often to apprise the public on the latest figures and the circumstances of the latest patients. The numbers kept going up. There are now more than 800 cases, the largest figure in Southeast Asia. At least fifty-four schools have been affected. A low-level community outbreak has been declared in Metro Manila. Health officials have also mentioned a possible second wave of the outbreak.
Recently, however, Health also began talking about the recovery of hundreds previously infected. A middle-aged woman, working at the House of Representatives, was the first A(H1N1) fatality in the country. But Health officials were quick to add that the 49-year-old had pre-existing health conditions, effectively saying that some people are more prone to contracting the virus than others are.
Obviously, the health department is trying to strike a balance between keeping the public aware of what’s been happening, what could be done and what may yet happen while avoiding to cause unnecessary alarm.
The balancing is not an easy task.
***
The thought that the virus is out there and could get you if you are unlucky remains unsettling. It is at the back of your mind among your many concerns but it is there, nonetheless. Some events remind you of the fuzzy yet ever-present danger. When the children say that five or seven classmates are absent because all have fever, do you dismiss that fever as a result of the erratic weather or suspect these children have gotten the virus? And what if you have to take public transportation every day? Imagine the sheer number of people you get in close contact with in these vehicles especially during rush hour. Do you blow your budget on cab fare or fuel every single day? What if a co-worker coughs or sneezes? Do you move your chair just a little further or go around the office wearing a mask? What if you wake up achy or feverish? Do you tell yourself I’m doomed! immediately?
The truth is, it’s easy to get immobilized by fear. It’s instinctive. There is no effort involved in wallowing in what ifs and entertaining worst-case scenarios. The possibility of being downed by A(H1N1) or some other disease that has an even-higher mortality claim is always there. The good news is that we have the choice to work on lessening its probability. We are rational people. We should not let fear dictate what we do and don’t do in our lives.
At least we know more today than we did in those first few weeks. Classes have resumed and children have quite gotten used to the habit of lining up for the routine temperature check at their school gates every morning. Even travel and recreation have not been affected much. Becoming hermits is not really an option for most of us. Life does go on.
There is no fancy formula on being flu-proof. One does not even have to know how to go to the Web sites of the WHO or the Health Department. All it takes is common sense. Boost your immune system by eating healthy and taking vitamins. Wash your hands often, and thoroughly. Keep a bottle of alcohol or hand sanitizer handy at all times if you wish. Don’t miss out on rest and sleep.
Come to think of it, these are the things we really should be doing even without the threat of A(H1N1), or after the danger has passed. These are sound habits we may as well start now.
Quiet but not alone
Monday morning and am up at 530 ironing my children's uniforms. Wake them up at 615 and oversee the younger set's bathing and dressing routine. Breakfast is chiz whiz on toast loaf bread, and warm Milo plus a banana if they want, ho-hum, really, and one wishes one has more energy to whip up something more creative. Maybe tomorrow.
Sign all four diaries (three unsigned days earn a demerit)even when there's nothing written on the page. See the three older ones off, even as school is just across the street. Elmo goes to the same school but at a campus one street further. Bring him there. Kisses, kisses, reminders to finish his lunch and participate in discussions. Seven o'clock I am back at home, alone. Realize that I forgot to give the small kids their teaspoons of Ceelin. The older ones bring their ascorbic acid chewables in their bags. The house is topsy turvy, but I feel like I am on top of the world. It's going to be a good week.
I putter about the kitchen while tuned to CNN and just a little miffed that Michael Jackson is still getting a lot more coverage than Iranians, Afghans, Sri Lankans, Somalians...
My sister and niece rouse. Little Chloie goes to pre-school and is picked up by her "service" (a tricyle) at 830. Sister hurries to dress for a job interview. Her other kid is still asleep. I will mind him and get him ready for his 12pm class while she is gone.
I continue with my chores and do not notice nephew (and inaanak) is already there. He is watching the news as though he understands. Breakfast? I ask. He shakes his head. Oh well. This one does not like talking much.
I finish housekeeping. Time to worry about the next meal. Can I leave you here while I go to the market, I ask. Boy shakes head again. Wanna go with me? Nods. We walk hand in hand on the uphill road for ten minutes. It feels weird to be clutching at the wrist of a kid not your own. When we return, you take your early lunch and you get dressed for school, okay? Only then can you watch TV again, I tell him. Nods again. Wow. My talkative children have not prepared me for this. I am used to being out-talked.
A kilo of fish. I fry all eight pieces and then work on the sarciado. I hand a towel to the boy and his soap and shampoo. You know how to do this, of course, I say. Another nod. In less than five minutes he re-emerges and is ready to get dressed. I am nearly finished with my cooking.
The boy goes to school. Sister arrives. My own older children arrive home for lunch. Chloie is delivered home. It is noisy again. But I don't feel as lost. My kitchen is clean. The cubbyholes are orderly. I've had my quiet time -- even though I was not alone. I had with me a quiet person. I am tired but I look forward to the rest of the day.
Sign all four diaries (three unsigned days earn a demerit)even when there's nothing written on the page. See the three older ones off, even as school is just across the street. Elmo goes to the same school but at a campus one street further. Bring him there. Kisses, kisses, reminders to finish his lunch and participate in discussions. Seven o'clock I am back at home, alone. Realize that I forgot to give the small kids their teaspoons of Ceelin. The older ones bring their ascorbic acid chewables in their bags. The house is topsy turvy, but I feel like I am on top of the world. It's going to be a good week.
I putter about the kitchen while tuned to CNN and just a little miffed that Michael Jackson is still getting a lot more coverage than Iranians, Afghans, Sri Lankans, Somalians...
My sister and niece rouse. Little Chloie goes to pre-school and is picked up by her "service" (a tricyle) at 830. Sister hurries to dress for a job interview. Her other kid is still asleep. I will mind him and get him ready for his 12pm class while she is gone.
I continue with my chores and do not notice nephew (and inaanak) is already there. He is watching the news as though he understands. Breakfast? I ask. He shakes his head. Oh well. This one does not like talking much.
I finish housekeeping. Time to worry about the next meal. Can I leave you here while I go to the market, I ask. Boy shakes head again. Wanna go with me? Nods. We walk hand in hand on the uphill road for ten minutes. It feels weird to be clutching at the wrist of a kid not your own. When we return, you take your early lunch and you get dressed for school, okay? Only then can you watch TV again, I tell him. Nods again. Wow. My talkative children have not prepared me for this. I am used to being out-talked.
A kilo of fish. I fry all eight pieces and then work on the sarciado. I hand a towel to the boy and his soap and shampoo. You know how to do this, of course, I say. Another nod. In less than five minutes he re-emerges and is ready to get dressed. I am nearly finished with my cooking.
The boy goes to school. Sister arrives. My own older children arrive home for lunch. Chloie is delivered home. It is noisy again. But I don't feel as lost. My kitchen is clean. The cubbyholes are orderly. I've had my quiet time -- even though I was not alone. I had with me a quiet person. I am tired but I look forward to the rest of the day.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Onward bound
Bea is filling out forms when I arrive from work Sunday night. She is impatient with the boxes but she struggles. It's her application for the UPCAT, one of the two or three college entrance tests she has decided to take. My daughter is now a high school senior -- I feel like a dinosaur.
Her first and second choices are philosophy and political science, respectively, in the Diliman campus. I have been egging her to take the ACET, too, and of course she will sometime soon. Still, if it comes to a choice between UP and Ateneo, she will choose the former. "No offense, mom," she tells me. Of course. Not that I can afford to send her to Ateneo without a scholarship.
At the back portion of the form, there is a section on the applicant's parents' civil status. "What do I write here?" she asks. I struggle, too. I know it's only a form but telling her to put only "M" would make me feel disloyal to my cause. "Write 'married' and then put 'nullity proceedings pending' in parentheses," I tell her. She laughs and lifts the paper to show me there is a single box for a single letter. Buti pa ang friendster, may catch-all na "it's complicated," I muse.
Later on, and grudgingly, I tell her to write M anyway, because it is the legally and technically correct answer. She staples her picture onto the form and lovingly places it in a manila envelope. I don't show it but I might as well have applauded.
It's comforting to see my daughter taking control of the rest of her life. I hope I have given her enough tools to make it on her own. There is no room for inconsistencies. The real world is just around the corner.
Her first and second choices are philosophy and political science, respectively, in the Diliman campus. I have been egging her to take the ACET, too, and of course she will sometime soon. Still, if it comes to a choice between UP and Ateneo, she will choose the former. "No offense, mom," she tells me. Of course. Not that I can afford to send her to Ateneo without a scholarship.
At the back portion of the form, there is a section on the applicant's parents' civil status. "What do I write here?" she asks. I struggle, too. I know it's only a form but telling her to put only "M" would make me feel disloyal to my cause. "Write 'married' and then put 'nullity proceedings pending' in parentheses," I tell her. She laughs and lifts the paper to show me there is a single box for a single letter. Buti pa ang friendster, may catch-all na "it's complicated," I muse.
Later on, and grudgingly, I tell her to write M anyway, because it is the legally and technically correct answer. She staples her picture onto the form and lovingly places it in a manila envelope. I don't show it but I might as well have applauded.
It's comforting to see my daughter taking control of the rest of her life. I hope I have given her enough tools to make it on her own. There is no room for inconsistencies. The real world is just around the corner.
A queer father figure
published 22 June 2009, Manila Standard Today
(an edited version of a previous blog post)
Fatherhood comes in different hues.
Edwin would have turned 50 this month. I can imagine him flinching. “Majonders!” (matanda, or old), he would have shrieked. He was my mother’s youngest brother and he died eleven-and-a-half years ago, in August 1997, at the age of 38.
My memories of my uncle are so rich because it was he, together with my grandmother, who raised me. I did not grow up living with my parents. Thus, Edwin became a father figure of sorts to me—I say “of sorts” because the relationship had a pinkish hue.
In those days, my grandmother’s acceptance of her son’s gayness was a tacit recognition, not an outright acknowledgment. That Edwin looked, dressed and acted like a true-blue macho, mustache and all, probably made it easier for Lola. It did not really make a difference to me. Over the years, and especially as an adolescent and then a young adult, I respected and loved my uncle all the same. In fact, in one of the days he was bringing me to and from my grade school, he asked me to call him “Papa.” I jumped at the chance.
Papa Edwin liked playing records in our huge box of a stereo set. In the 1980s, he fancied himself a disk jockey. He had a good speaking voice and he was comfortable speaking in English. When there was a birthday celebration in our extended family, there would be a program. Gold foil lined the walls of the garage and a ball with small square mirrors hung in the middle. Papa Edwin would be in charge of the playlist and the choreography of lip-sung numbers. They were usually love duets performed by a fellow who was dressed as a man on one side and as a woman on the other half. There would also be fashion shows, with the better-looking teenage boys and girls in the neighborhood “presenting” themselves to the audience as DJ Edwin described what they were wearing. There were dance numbers, too. I remember dancing to Madonna’s “Material Girl”, with three boys in the background, during my 10th birthday, while the rest of the country was riveted to the revolution taking place on Edsa. It was 1986.
After a few years, Edwin outgrew being a show master. He became immersed in the spiritual world. His room and the rest of our house became populated with various images of Jesus and Mary—in all sizes. Simultaneously, he became a member of the Philippine Benevolent Missionaries Association. He developed a habit of reciting a Latin “oracion” at 2:30 in the afternoon and 6:00 in the evening. He had a libreto that contained magic Latin words for every illness imaginable. If somebody went to him complaining of a headache, for instance, he would copy the appropriate word on a small piece of paper, burn the paper while murmuring an indistinct prayer, gather the ashes and put them into a bottle of water. The patient was supposed to down the concoction and everything would be fine.
The DJ was now a faith healer. The garage of our rented place was not anymore the site of parties but a makeshift clinic. People from within the barangay came to our house complaining of aches, lumps, recurring nightmares, wayward children or philandering husbands. Aside from supposedly healing those people with magic water, Edwin also acted as counselor to those who sought his advice. He was a friend to many. Too many, my Lola complained. At one point I had to help Papa Edwin make numbered cards so he could see these believers in an orderly fashion. In those days, I did not question what he did. I took everything I saw at face value. No harm done—and he was not even earning from this “hobby.”
Inside the house, however, my uncle’s only vice was his odd sleeping hours. In those pre-call center days, he was used to turning in at two in the morning and then waking up at 11, just in time for lunch. No, he did not have a job (not until the mid-90s when I was already in college.) Our little family subsisted on the allowance my grandmother got from her late husband’s company and her social security pension. We were simple folk who did not want much.
Papa Edwin was busy just the same. He did not mind doing some of the house work. I was made to understand that my studies should be my priority. This side of my family was counting on me to bring home the first college diploma to our name, so I got off easily, chores-wise, even if we did not have a maid. Papa Edwin cleaned the house, did the dishes, washed clothes and went to the grocery.
In the years that followed, my uncle stopped his faith-healing activities but kept his Catholic statues and started a block rosary practice. He had a distinct style of praying, with his trademark disc jockey’s voice, that endeared him to most housewives in our area. At the end of the rosary, Papa Edwin would ask that all the lights be put out and candles be lit. Then he would utter a long, spontaneous Tagalog prayer, a direct conversation with God admitting human frailties and pleading for strength to overcome these. He paused at the right places as though to keep himself from sobbing. It never failed: all the other people, men and women both, in attendance would be wiping their tears and sniffing self-consciously after the prayer. And then, the lights would be turned on, and we would enjoy the pansit or the sopas and the previously-cold orange juice that had gone lukewarm from the length of the prayer.
Meanwhile, I grew up. When I entered the Ateneo at age 17, Papa Edwin always stood by me when Lola scolded me for coming home late. Then he would talk to me in private, reminding me not to lose my head over some guy because I had a bright future waiting for me.
He, too, grew up. He managed to get a job at a doctor-friend’s clinic as a medical assistant, He always said that his frustrations were being a doctor and being a priest. At that time, I was a young mother already while still in college. Papa Edwin forked out much-needed money for projects and books, expenses that were not covered by my scholarship. I was always touched by his generous nature.
I told myself that once I started working I would pay back my Lola and Papa Edwin for all that they have done for and taught me while I was in their care. But my first job as a PR assistant for a bank did not pay much. On Papa Edwin’s 38th birthday—it would turn out to be his last—I was already earning so I was able to bring him three pieces of asado siopao, his favorite. I said I could probably afford a dinner at a restaurant for his next birthday. Of course, it didn’t happen.
My uncle’s death—he fell into a coma for reasons we could not fully grasp—took us all by surprise. He had spent all his life taking care of other people: his mother, his niece, his “patients” and friends. He hardly had time to look after himself. During his wake, held at the small barangay chapel which he maintained faithfully, people never stopped telling us how much of a difference Edwin made in their lives. Indeed, my uncle gave willingly even though he did not have much.
Fatherhood comes in different hues. Some fathers and father figures are more mainstream than the rest. Celebrating them means shedding the external trappings, appreciating their core and letting their examples guide us even when they are no longer around.
**
Reader's reaction:
Dear ms. Chua
I thought I would let you know that I enjoyed reading about your Uncle Edwin. It is a down-to-earth story of another 'man for others' and I am sure he made many sacrifices to help others, including you. It was a good read and a refreshing change of pace, for me.
peteampil@in.com
(an edited version of a previous blog post)
Fatherhood comes in different hues.
Edwin would have turned 50 this month. I can imagine him flinching. “Majonders!” (matanda, or old), he would have shrieked. He was my mother’s youngest brother and he died eleven-and-a-half years ago, in August 1997, at the age of 38.
My memories of my uncle are so rich because it was he, together with my grandmother, who raised me. I did not grow up living with my parents. Thus, Edwin became a father figure of sorts to me—I say “of sorts” because the relationship had a pinkish hue.
In those days, my grandmother’s acceptance of her son’s gayness was a tacit recognition, not an outright acknowledgment. That Edwin looked, dressed and acted like a true-blue macho, mustache and all, probably made it easier for Lola. It did not really make a difference to me. Over the years, and especially as an adolescent and then a young adult, I respected and loved my uncle all the same. In fact, in one of the days he was bringing me to and from my grade school, he asked me to call him “Papa.” I jumped at the chance.
Papa Edwin liked playing records in our huge box of a stereo set. In the 1980s, he fancied himself a disk jockey. He had a good speaking voice and he was comfortable speaking in English. When there was a birthday celebration in our extended family, there would be a program. Gold foil lined the walls of the garage and a ball with small square mirrors hung in the middle. Papa Edwin would be in charge of the playlist and the choreography of lip-sung numbers. They were usually love duets performed by a fellow who was dressed as a man on one side and as a woman on the other half. There would also be fashion shows, with the better-looking teenage boys and girls in the neighborhood “presenting” themselves to the audience as DJ Edwin described what they were wearing. There were dance numbers, too. I remember dancing to Madonna’s “Material Girl”, with three boys in the background, during my 10th birthday, while the rest of the country was riveted to the revolution taking place on Edsa. It was 1986.
After a few years, Edwin outgrew being a show master. He became immersed in the spiritual world. His room and the rest of our house became populated with various images of Jesus and Mary—in all sizes. Simultaneously, he became a member of the Philippine Benevolent Missionaries Association. He developed a habit of reciting a Latin “oracion” at 2:30 in the afternoon and 6:00 in the evening. He had a libreto that contained magic Latin words for every illness imaginable. If somebody went to him complaining of a headache, for instance, he would copy the appropriate word on a small piece of paper, burn the paper while murmuring an indistinct prayer, gather the ashes and put them into a bottle of water. The patient was supposed to down the concoction and everything would be fine.
The DJ was now a faith healer. The garage of our rented place was not anymore the site of parties but a makeshift clinic. People from within the barangay came to our house complaining of aches, lumps, recurring nightmares, wayward children or philandering husbands. Aside from supposedly healing those people with magic water, Edwin also acted as counselor to those who sought his advice. He was a friend to many. Too many, my Lola complained. At one point I had to help Papa Edwin make numbered cards so he could see these believers in an orderly fashion. In those days, I did not question what he did. I took everything I saw at face value. No harm done—and he was not even earning from this “hobby.”
Inside the house, however, my uncle’s only vice was his odd sleeping hours. In those pre-call center days, he was used to turning in at two in the morning and then waking up at 11, just in time for lunch. No, he did not have a job (not until the mid-90s when I was already in college.) Our little family subsisted on the allowance my grandmother got from her late husband’s company and her social security pension. We were simple folk who did not want much.
Papa Edwin was busy just the same. He did not mind doing some of the house work. I was made to understand that my studies should be my priority. This side of my family was counting on me to bring home the first college diploma to our name, so I got off easily, chores-wise, even if we did not have a maid. Papa Edwin cleaned the house, did the dishes, washed clothes and went to the grocery.
In the years that followed, my uncle stopped his faith-healing activities but kept his Catholic statues and started a block rosary practice. He had a distinct style of praying, with his trademark disc jockey’s voice, that endeared him to most housewives in our area. At the end of the rosary, Papa Edwin would ask that all the lights be put out and candles be lit. Then he would utter a long, spontaneous Tagalog prayer, a direct conversation with God admitting human frailties and pleading for strength to overcome these. He paused at the right places as though to keep himself from sobbing. It never failed: all the other people, men and women both, in attendance would be wiping their tears and sniffing self-consciously after the prayer. And then, the lights would be turned on, and we would enjoy the pansit or the sopas and the previously-cold orange juice that had gone lukewarm from the length of the prayer.
Meanwhile, I grew up. When I entered the Ateneo at age 17, Papa Edwin always stood by me when Lola scolded me for coming home late. Then he would talk to me in private, reminding me not to lose my head over some guy because I had a bright future waiting for me.
He, too, grew up. He managed to get a job at a doctor-friend’s clinic as a medical assistant, He always said that his frustrations were being a doctor and being a priest. At that time, I was a young mother already while still in college. Papa Edwin forked out much-needed money for projects and books, expenses that were not covered by my scholarship. I was always touched by his generous nature.
I told myself that once I started working I would pay back my Lola and Papa Edwin for all that they have done for and taught me while I was in their care. But my first job as a PR assistant for a bank did not pay much. On Papa Edwin’s 38th birthday—it would turn out to be his last—I was already earning so I was able to bring him three pieces of asado siopao, his favorite. I said I could probably afford a dinner at a restaurant for his next birthday. Of course, it didn’t happen.
My uncle’s death—he fell into a coma for reasons we could not fully grasp—took us all by surprise. He had spent all his life taking care of other people: his mother, his niece, his “patients” and friends. He hardly had time to look after himself. During his wake, held at the small barangay chapel which he maintained faithfully, people never stopped telling us how much of a difference Edwin made in their lives. Indeed, my uncle gave willingly even though he did not have much.
Fatherhood comes in different hues. Some fathers and father figures are more mainstream than the rest. Celebrating them means shedding the external trappings, appreciating their core and letting their examples guide us even when they are no longer around.
**
Reader's reaction:
Dear ms. Chua
I thought I would let you know that I enjoyed reading about your Uncle Edwin. It is a down-to-earth story of another 'man for others' and I am sure he made many sacrifices to help others, including you. It was a good read and a refreshing change of pace, for me.
peteampil@in.com
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Intrepid Anita - a prelude
My long jeepney rides nowadays are made more bearable by the book I am reading, Island of Blood by Indian journalist Anita Pratap. Ms. Pratap is described as one of the finest journalists her country has ever produced. I suppose it is because she gives a face and a story to every person traditional reports would otherwise dismiss as mere answers to the 5Ws (who-what-when-where-why).
In the book, Pratap describes her experiences in Sri Lanka, Afghanistan and India, battle fronts all. She flirts with captivity, even death. She tells it equally well. Her style is engaging; I cannot seem to stop even when the ride gets bumpy and my eyes begin to hurt.
More on this in a subsequent entry.
In the book, Pratap describes her experiences in Sri Lanka, Afghanistan and India, battle fronts all. She flirts with captivity, even death. She tells it equally well. Her style is engaging; I cannot seem to stop even when the ride gets bumpy and my eyes begin to hurt.
More on this in a subsequent entry.
First Day Low
It is a quarter to eight in the morning It is the first regular school day of the year. All four children have been in school since seven. I am gloriously alone
Not for long, though. Soon the others will be stirring.
I had so looked forward to this schedule. I figured I would be so productive in the full half day, every day, that I would be spending on my own. I could write, watch the news, watch CSI or Numbers or a feature in National Geographic, a film, a concert. Clean the house, do the laundry, cook lunch and all that. Or lie down doing nothing.
But now all I have is a pathetic hour.
Admittedly I'm still too human. Two weeks and I am still struggling to deal with the trade-off that is now upon me.
My consolation? This precious hour. The thought that this arrangement may only be for a few months. The reminder that happiness is never external. I do have a choice -- to change my attitude and view these developments positively.
It's not automatic, though. I don't fancy myself a saint. I'm seeking my level first. It may take a few more weeks before I finally adjust. Or it may be a daily struggle.
I look forward to being fine, either way.
Not for long, though. Soon the others will be stirring.
I had so looked forward to this schedule. I figured I would be so productive in the full half day, every day, that I would be spending on my own. I could write, watch the news, watch CSI or Numbers or a feature in National Geographic, a film, a concert. Clean the house, do the laundry, cook lunch and all that. Or lie down doing nothing.
But now all I have is a pathetic hour.
Admittedly I'm still too human. Two weeks and I am still struggling to deal with the trade-off that is now upon me.
My consolation? This precious hour. The thought that this arrangement may only be for a few months. The reminder that happiness is never external. I do have a choice -- to change my attitude and view these developments positively.
It's not automatic, though. I don't fancy myself a saint. I'm seeking my level first. It may take a few more weeks before I finally adjust. Or it may be a daily struggle.
I look forward to being fine, either way.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Against the odds
published 15 June 2009, Manila Standard Today
Advocates of the reproductive health bill are not giving up just yet.
Monday, June 8. Three days after Congress went on its mid-year recess. Over lunch, Ernesto Almocera Jr., program manager for the Center for Advocacy and Policy Development of the Philippine Legislators' Committee on Population and Development Foundation Inc., and Roda Avila, Secretary General of the Democratic Socialist Women of the Philippines, make no secret of their frustration at what happened – actually, how nothing happened -- to Republic Act 5043, otherwise known as the Reproductive Health and Population Development Act, which would make family planning tools available to poor families and mandate age-appropriate sex education in schools, during the remaining working days of Congress.
In the House of Representatives, for instance, the bill is on second reading and is up for plenary debates. But 22 lawmakers have been lined up for interpellation and only two have spoken so far. Of course these are thinly veiled efforts to delay the voting on the matter – until it is perhaps impossible for Congress to get any real work done aside from boosting their chances in next year's elections. As a result, Speaker Prospero Nograles and Majority Floor Leader Arthur Defensor have said that a panel of 10 representatives, composed of 5 pro and 5 anti congressmen, would be formed to deliberate on the matter. Nonetheless, Almocera and Avila do not sound convinced that anything substantial would be done.
After all, Almocera says, this is not anymore a question of convincing lawmakers on the merits of the bill. The moral and practical issues have all been taken up and the people in Congress have long ago formed their personal positions on the proposal. Now it is just plain politics. And that's what makes the battle tougher.
At least this is the first time such a measure has gone this far in the legislative mill. A bill filed in the 9thCongress was focused on family planning in relation to the management of the population. A more integrated approach, rights-based and in the context of national development, was introduced in 2001. Still, the unprecedented progress is hardly any consolation. Almocera and Avila are aware they are up against formidable odds, and neither time is on their side. They see their window between July after the President's State-of-the-Nation Address and September. They must have the approved bill on the President's table by October. (They don't expect her to sign it, but at least she could do nothing and let it lapse into law anyway.) Why October? Congress will take another break then, and upon resumption will be focused on the national budget. Lawmakers will also then be rushing to beat the deadline for the filing of the certificates of candidacy. By the turn of the year, everybody would be busy with the elections. The bill's advocates may just as well begin from scratch and hope that they would get even farther next time around.
**
But if voting at the House were done today, and everybody voted according to his or her commitment, the reproductive health bill would just sail through. So far, there are 130-132 authors plus 12 supporters, bringing the total number to a little short of 142-144. The advocacy has even benefited from the increase in number of party-list representatives from that Supreme Court decision a few months ago. Out of the 32 newcomers, 18 have signed the bill.
So what's the problem, one asks, when only fifty percent plus one of the standing quorum on any given day – usually between 190 and 200 -- is needed to push the proposal forward?
The problem is that even some of those who have expressed support for the bill could not – would not – go to town with their preference, Almocera says. These lawmakers have a very real fear of backlash from the Church. It does not help that elections are practically around the corner. The same is true for those publicly against the bill but are in reality inclined to support it, or at least allow themselves to be convinced.
Those against the measure, which Almocera estimates at 78, are of different levels. Roughly 28 of this number are genuinely opposed to the bill. These are the ones whose stand is a product of religious and moral conviction. These hard-core oppositionists take active steps such as speaking out against the bill and recruiting other congressmen to their side. Then there are about six are who are known as “low opposition”. The rest are deemed neutral – about ten of which are “workable”.
The numbers, if the estimates are close, tell us the coast seems clear for the bill. In truth, the next few months are murky for the advocates, primarily because the House leadership could not even have the willpower to say “let's get this matter over with and vote on it now.”
And it's not as though occasioning a vote were impossible; our honorable representatives have shown us, just two weeks ago in passing the resolution that would convene them into a constituent assembly, that they would gladly move heaven and earth if they deemed an issue important enough.
Apparently, lawmakers' priority lies elsewhere.
**
Avila laments that the essence of representation has been conveniently set aside in favor of political expediency. She should know; her job takes her to various communities all over the country. She has talked to countless families, women and mothers especially, about the bill. These people have expressed bewilderment why lawmakers would block such a sound and practical measure. Surveys have shown more Filipinos favoring the passage of the reproductive health bill – so why aren't their representatives acting on their behalf?
The bill,if passed, would only give a more structured approach to pockets of reproductive health initiatives ALREADY BEING DONE in local governments through various agencies of the executive department: Health, Education, Social Welfare and Development, Science and Technology, Interior and Local Government, even Trade and Industry. These initiatives are also endorsed by international organizations such as USAID and the European Commission.
Avila wonders whether the long-held view that the Church could make or unmake a politician is still true. Most lawmakers, paralyzed by this belief, think they cannot afford to alienate the almighty Church hierarchy (not really the Church, because the faithful are included here) if they are serious about getting themselves re-elected, or their wives, brothers or children elected in their place.
This is where the problem lies, Almocera says. Religious leaders have all the right to speak out against any matter, be it moral or political. They can use the pulpit. They can preach to the young and old alike. They can slam the government's measures all they want. But they should do so only in the confines of the church. The state and politicians are at at fault for allowing the Church (not just the Catholic Church) to throw its weight around by dangling support, or threatening its absence, during elections. The electorate, too, must be enlightened.
Between now and the resumption of Congress late next month, Almocera's and Avila's respective organizations have lined up activities designed to sway lawmakers into supporting the bill. The program is called “The Big Push for the RH Bill”.
They face great odds and do not have much time. But advocates of the reproductive health bill are not giving up just yet.
adellechua@gmail.com
Reaction:
Thank you Ms. Adelle for this wonderful piece.
Cheers...
Ramon San Pascual, MPH
Executive Director, PLCPD Foundation
Advocates of the reproductive health bill are not giving up just yet.
Monday, June 8. Three days after Congress went on its mid-year recess. Over lunch, Ernesto Almocera Jr., program manager for the Center for Advocacy and Policy Development of the Philippine Legislators' Committee on Population and Development Foundation Inc., and Roda Avila, Secretary General of the Democratic Socialist Women of the Philippines, make no secret of their frustration at what happened – actually, how nothing happened -- to Republic Act 5043, otherwise known as the Reproductive Health and Population Development Act, which would make family planning tools available to poor families and mandate age-appropriate sex education in schools, during the remaining working days of Congress.
In the House of Representatives, for instance, the bill is on second reading and is up for plenary debates. But 22 lawmakers have been lined up for interpellation and only two have spoken so far. Of course these are thinly veiled efforts to delay the voting on the matter – until it is perhaps impossible for Congress to get any real work done aside from boosting their chances in next year's elections. As a result, Speaker Prospero Nograles and Majority Floor Leader Arthur Defensor have said that a panel of 10 representatives, composed of 5 pro and 5 anti congressmen, would be formed to deliberate on the matter. Nonetheless, Almocera and Avila do not sound convinced that anything substantial would be done.
After all, Almocera says, this is not anymore a question of convincing lawmakers on the merits of the bill. The moral and practical issues have all been taken up and the people in Congress have long ago formed their personal positions on the proposal. Now it is just plain politics. And that's what makes the battle tougher.
At least this is the first time such a measure has gone this far in the legislative mill. A bill filed in the 9thCongress was focused on family planning in relation to the management of the population. A more integrated approach, rights-based and in the context of national development, was introduced in 2001. Still, the unprecedented progress is hardly any consolation. Almocera and Avila are aware they are up against formidable odds, and neither time is on their side. They see their window between July after the President's State-of-the-Nation Address and September. They must have the approved bill on the President's table by October. (They don't expect her to sign it, but at least she could do nothing and let it lapse into law anyway.) Why October? Congress will take another break then, and upon resumption will be focused on the national budget. Lawmakers will also then be rushing to beat the deadline for the filing of the certificates of candidacy. By the turn of the year, everybody would be busy with the elections. The bill's advocates may just as well begin from scratch and hope that they would get even farther next time around.
**
But if voting at the House were done today, and everybody voted according to his or her commitment, the reproductive health bill would just sail through. So far, there are 130-132 authors plus 12 supporters, bringing the total number to a little short of 142-144. The advocacy has even benefited from the increase in number of party-list representatives from that Supreme Court decision a few months ago. Out of the 32 newcomers, 18 have signed the bill.
So what's the problem, one asks, when only fifty percent plus one of the standing quorum on any given day – usually between 190 and 200 -- is needed to push the proposal forward?
The problem is that even some of those who have expressed support for the bill could not – would not – go to town with their preference, Almocera says. These lawmakers have a very real fear of backlash from the Church. It does not help that elections are practically around the corner. The same is true for those publicly against the bill but are in reality inclined to support it, or at least allow themselves to be convinced.
Those against the measure, which Almocera estimates at 78, are of different levels. Roughly 28 of this number are genuinely opposed to the bill. These are the ones whose stand is a product of religious and moral conviction. These hard-core oppositionists take active steps such as speaking out against the bill and recruiting other congressmen to their side. Then there are about six are who are known as “low opposition”. The rest are deemed neutral – about ten of which are “workable”.
The numbers, if the estimates are close, tell us the coast seems clear for the bill. In truth, the next few months are murky for the advocates, primarily because the House leadership could not even have the willpower to say “let's get this matter over with and vote on it now.”
And it's not as though occasioning a vote were impossible; our honorable representatives have shown us, just two weeks ago in passing the resolution that would convene them into a constituent assembly, that they would gladly move heaven and earth if they deemed an issue important enough.
Apparently, lawmakers' priority lies elsewhere.
**
Avila laments that the essence of representation has been conveniently set aside in favor of political expediency. She should know; her job takes her to various communities all over the country. She has talked to countless families, women and mothers especially, about the bill. These people have expressed bewilderment why lawmakers would block such a sound and practical measure. Surveys have shown more Filipinos favoring the passage of the reproductive health bill – so why aren't their representatives acting on their behalf?
The bill,if passed, would only give a more structured approach to pockets of reproductive health initiatives ALREADY BEING DONE in local governments through various agencies of the executive department: Health, Education, Social Welfare and Development, Science and Technology, Interior and Local Government, even Trade and Industry. These initiatives are also endorsed by international organizations such as USAID and the European Commission.
Avila wonders whether the long-held view that the Church could make or unmake a politician is still true. Most lawmakers, paralyzed by this belief, think they cannot afford to alienate the almighty Church hierarchy (not really the Church, because the faithful are included here) if they are serious about getting themselves re-elected, or their wives, brothers or children elected in their place.
This is where the problem lies, Almocera says. Religious leaders have all the right to speak out against any matter, be it moral or political. They can use the pulpit. They can preach to the young and old alike. They can slam the government's measures all they want. But they should do so only in the confines of the church. The state and politicians are at at fault for allowing the Church (not just the Catholic Church) to throw its weight around by dangling support, or threatening its absence, during elections. The electorate, too, must be enlightened.
Between now and the resumption of Congress late next month, Almocera's and Avila's respective organizations have lined up activities designed to sway lawmakers into supporting the bill. The program is called “The Big Push for the RH Bill”.
They face great odds and do not have much time. But advocates of the reproductive health bill are not giving up just yet.
adellechua@gmail.com
Reaction:
Thank you Ms. Adelle for this wonderful piece.
Cheers...
Ramon San Pascual, MPH
Executive Director, PLCPD Foundation
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Visionary
Last week, one of my best friends, J, told me she had some news to share. She is a single mom with daughters aged 17 and 10. I had a milestone to tell her about, as well,so we agreed to meet up over the weekend to celebrate.
J was aglow that evening. She had lost some weight and looked great, yet that was not just it. She was just plain different! I suspected she had met somebody...it turned out that she had reconciled with somebody from her past. A twentysomething-year-old past, actually, and after both of them had gone “full circle,” as she put it. Some circle, my friend's life was. And in a few days she is flying to be with him, maybe plan how to spend the rest of their lives. Together.
“He's all I ever dreamed of,” she gushed. Later, over coffee, she showed me some hastily scribbled notes on her Moleskin, WRITTEN TWO MONTHS BEFORE THEY RECONNECTED, on how exactly she wanted her man. The notes were mostly adjectives describing her ideal man and outlining his “qualifications” in terms of age and status. There were no strict rules on the visualization exercise other than not including any word with a negative connotation. For example, you cannot write “I will have a stress-free day” because the words stress itself is there, even of it was followed by “free”. You get the drift.
J swears by the exercise an so do her other friends who told her about it in the first place. She said she did not even expect it would happen so fast. “You should do the exercise yourself,” she told me, winking.
Actually I had been doing something of the sort at the end of every year,during my personal planning session. Then again, I draft my plan – which includes a summary of core values, an ideal image of myself, long-term goals (for 3 years and beyond), short-term goals (for within the year) as well as specific action points for each “life category” – knowing the role I have to play in it. It's a guide for me to do the right things. But if I don't do the action points, it is a given i would not get to the goal, much less realize the vision.
J's suggestion was different. She is in effect saying that I could sit around and just think of what I had written, and then the forces of nature would conspire to make that vision real. Shall I dare tempt these forces?
The idea is seductive. Actually, I thought about it so much that I could not sleep. Upon arriving home after the dinner, I got my notebook and began to do the exercise. I did it wholesale: Finances, Career,Motherhood, Domestic Management and Health. I easily filled up three pages. I slept soundly. Upon waking up the following morning, I reviewed my list. There were gaps as to how exactly I would achieve the visions I had jotted down, but that's the whole point, I guess. J did not plan on the how of her vision. It – he -- just was there. (And now my friend says he has been her soulmate all along...sigh :))
I am truly happy for my friend. She deserves so much, having been through hell herself. I hope everything will work out between her and him and they can successfully merge their families. Indeed her years of being the ill-treated one, the hidden one, the second priority – are over. It is her time.
As for me...I've chickened out in the other aspects of the exercise. There is one category I have deliberately not written anything on. The truth is, i am downright scared. I cannot afford to have somebody turn my world upside down. I'm still chasing order. I'm still rebuilding -- no rush, no worries. After all, a pen and a piece of paper are just always within reach.
I hope the forces of nature don't beat me to it.
J was aglow that evening. She had lost some weight and looked great, yet that was not just it. She was just plain different! I suspected she had met somebody...it turned out that she had reconciled with somebody from her past. A twentysomething-year-old past, actually, and after both of them had gone “full circle,” as she put it. Some circle, my friend's life was. And in a few days she is flying to be with him, maybe plan how to spend the rest of their lives. Together.
“He's all I ever dreamed of,” she gushed. Later, over coffee, she showed me some hastily scribbled notes on her Moleskin, WRITTEN TWO MONTHS BEFORE THEY RECONNECTED, on how exactly she wanted her man. The notes were mostly adjectives describing her ideal man and outlining his “qualifications” in terms of age and status. There were no strict rules on the visualization exercise other than not including any word with a negative connotation. For example, you cannot write “I will have a stress-free day” because the words stress itself is there, even of it was followed by “free”. You get the drift.
J swears by the exercise an so do her other friends who told her about it in the first place. She said she did not even expect it would happen so fast. “You should do the exercise yourself,” she told me, winking.
Actually I had been doing something of the sort at the end of every year,during my personal planning session. Then again, I draft my plan – which includes a summary of core values, an ideal image of myself, long-term goals (for 3 years and beyond), short-term goals (for within the year) as well as specific action points for each “life category” – knowing the role I have to play in it. It's a guide for me to do the right things. But if I don't do the action points, it is a given i would not get to the goal, much less realize the vision.
J's suggestion was different. She is in effect saying that I could sit around and just think of what I had written, and then the forces of nature would conspire to make that vision real. Shall I dare tempt these forces?
The idea is seductive. Actually, I thought about it so much that I could not sleep. Upon arriving home after the dinner, I got my notebook and began to do the exercise. I did it wholesale: Finances, Career,Motherhood, Domestic Management and Health. I easily filled up three pages. I slept soundly. Upon waking up the following morning, I reviewed my list. There were gaps as to how exactly I would achieve the visions I had jotted down, but that's the whole point, I guess. J did not plan on the how of her vision. It – he -- just was there. (And now my friend says he has been her soulmate all along...sigh :))
I am truly happy for my friend. She deserves so much, having been through hell herself. I hope everything will work out between her and him and they can successfully merge their families. Indeed her years of being the ill-treated one, the hidden one, the second priority – are over. It is her time.
As for me...I've chickened out in the other aspects of the exercise. There is one category I have deliberately not written anything on. The truth is, i am downright scared. I cannot afford to have somebody turn my world upside down. I'm still chasing order. I'm still rebuilding -- no rush, no worries. After all, a pen and a piece of paper are just always within reach.
I hope the forces of nature don't beat me to it.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
My evasive equilibrium
I am less inspired nowadays.
I am still getting used to the new arrangements at home. I'm having a hard time. I am used to dictating when I would be alone and when I would be sociable. Now, talking and laughing are imposed on me. My kids' chatter I don't mind. Even their clutter. Gone is my alone-time after arriving home from work, watching my favorite programs, catching up on films. Gone is my much-anticipated entire morning to myself soon as school starts. I do like being alone, although other people can't seem to comprehend that. I've known people who were PETRIFIED at the thought of being by themselves.
The worst part is that I feel guilty for resenting this invasion of my -- and my kids' -- privacy. Good Lord,have I become a selfish, stuck-up bitch?
There are advantages, of course. And it's really the right thing to do under the circumstances. I'm still trying to convince myself that these advantages outweigh the encroachment I so strongly feel.
While I look forward to some me-time, big-time, in a different place, in a different time.
I am still getting used to the new arrangements at home. I'm having a hard time. I am used to dictating when I would be alone and when I would be sociable. Now, talking and laughing are imposed on me. My kids' chatter I don't mind. Even their clutter. Gone is my alone-time after arriving home from work, watching my favorite programs, catching up on films. Gone is my much-anticipated entire morning to myself soon as school starts. I do like being alone, although other people can't seem to comprehend that. I've known people who were PETRIFIED at the thought of being by themselves.
The worst part is that I feel guilty for resenting this invasion of my -- and my kids' -- privacy. Good Lord,have I become a selfish, stuck-up bitch?
There are advantages, of course. And it's really the right thing to do under the circumstances. I'm still trying to convince myself that these advantages outweigh the encroachment I so strongly feel.
While I look forward to some me-time, big-time, in a different place, in a different time.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A chemist's formula
published 08 June 2009, Manila Standard Today
This cancer-stricken scientist lets good faith get her from one day to the next.
My dear friend Evelyn Marie Baetiong (now Del Socorro), whom I have known since kindergarten, sent me a text message on Mothers' Day. Bates is godmother to my eldest daughter Bea; I was one of two matrons of honor at her wedding. My kumare greeted me but she also relayed the news that her mom had been diagnosed with cancer of the lungs. Terminal. The family received the news that day. Some Mothers' Day, indeed.
Tita Litz – Leonita Diano Baetiong, Leony to some and Lita to others, has been a government chemist in the last 37 years, starting with the National Pollution Control Commission. She then moved on to the Environmental Management Bureau, under the Department of Environment and Natural Resources. She is now Laboratory Chief of the Research and Development Division of the bureau. Her office space has been the laboratory, practically, since July 1972. She is also active in the church and in the local community. She is looked up to by her extended family (she has 19 other brothers and sisters) as a selfless and compassionate figure, ever-ready to help.
And so it came as a surprise when the indefatigable, seemingly invincible Tita Litz complained of breathing difficulties sometime in February. Initial consultations said her condition was bronchial asthma, and after taking some medication, the chemist resumed her busy life. She even took charge (characteristically) of her husband's own hospitalization for prostate problems. But in April,while hosting the traditional pabasa in her Quezon City home, Ate Lita appeared much too pale to a cousin, who insisted she let herself be examined by a doctor-nephew in a hospital in Calamba, Laguna.
X-rays revealed water in the lungs; immediately, four to five liters of it the fluid was taken out of her system. After more tests,the water was back and the tests more worrisome. The nephew then endorsed Tita Litz to the Lung Center of the Philippines.
It was during the Lung Center confinement that the family was stunned with the findings that the cancer had spread and was in its advanced stage. Strange, Bates, her older sister and their dad never heard Tita Litz complaining of anything prior to this; her last hospitalization was in 1986, a good 23 years ago.
It was also during their 16-day stay in this hospital that the family saw just how well-loved Tita Litz was both at work and in the community. Room 3114 became notorious for having no let-up of visitors and well wishers. It was also standing room only status most of the time. Bates and her sister, Ate Cecil, noted an stream of text messages from concerned friends and collegaues all over the country – even those from the agency's provincial offices. They did not realize how many lives their mother had touched until then.
The weeks of confinement also brought the family closer together, and brought forth each member's inherent capacity to find something positive in the whole experience. That Bates was jolly, talkative and was at her best when laughing without a care in the world was something I knew the whole time we were growing up. But not even her mom's sickness suppressed this bubbly nature. A string of bloopers during their stay in the hospital enabled them to laugh together; indeed this made their predicament lighter, more predictable.
But Bates says what stand out are her mother's acts of considerateness even when she was at the height of her precarious situation. For example, at the surgical ICU of the hospital that Mothers' Day, she told her daughter to acknowledge each greeting she received on her cell phone. She worried about the food to be served to the visitors and about provisions for her brothers and sisters who visited her. She was anxious about her hospital bills and hated to think her family would be inconvenienced caring for her. Truly, Tita Litz is not used to being at the receiving end of kindness.
She is perhaps best known for her compassion to just about everybody who asked for her help. She did not have a lot but she gave willingly. She gave a new meaning to the phrase "give until it hurts." "Be merciful and compassionate" was her mantra, always telling her girls, now both married and in their 30s, that what she wanted was for people to utter a "thank you" to God for both big and little things. By helping them, she becomes a tool; she gives people reason to be grateful. She was also fortunate to have a husband supportive of her ways.
Of course, this disposition has opened up Tita Litz to unscrupulous souls who took advantage of or were plain ungrateful for her kindness. She does not dwell on them. For example, in 2003, the family got swindled by a smooth-talking 24-year-old who promised them what looked to be viable business opportunities, only to run away with their money. Tita LItz decided against joining the class suit filed by rest of the community and said the punishment would be up to God.
Indeed there are numerous miracles to be thankful for -- if one chooses to recognize them. Even her condition has brought forth the love and support of the people around her, especially her two granddaughters, eight-year-old Rheniella and four-year-old Rhea.
Bates and her sister, Ate Cecil, grew up seeing their mother's faith in God and the encouragement and support she gave others who were sick and sought her help. They had the best mentor in accepting the test and caring for a loved one.
For her part, Bates dreamed of making her parents financially secure so they could enjoy their retirement years. But since this project remains a work in progress, Bates figures she could, for now, tell the world about her mother's secret formula -- an attitude that has made her emerge, in all this, complete, loving, and loved.
The family's prayer is for the will of God to be done. They are not searching for miracles anymore. They have plenty of miracles, foremost of which is the life of Tita Litz.
**
Scholarship slots. Punlaan School in San Juan CIty has good news for underprivileged young women who want to pursue a course in Food and Beverage Services. Twenty scholarship slots are still open; registration is until Wednesday, June 10.
Also, the school's "helpers program" (for members of household staff) remains open -- it is a ten-month curriculum, with certification by the TESDA -- until June 30. The fee is P1,500/ month inclusive of all cooking ingredients.
Please visit www.punlaan.com or call 727-0581/82 or 722-5671 for more details.
This cancer-stricken scientist lets good faith get her from one day to the next.
My dear friend Evelyn Marie Baetiong (now Del Socorro), whom I have known since kindergarten, sent me a text message on Mothers' Day. Bates is godmother to my eldest daughter Bea; I was one of two matrons of honor at her wedding. My kumare greeted me but she also relayed the news that her mom had been diagnosed with cancer of the lungs. Terminal. The family received the news that day. Some Mothers' Day, indeed.
Tita Litz – Leonita Diano Baetiong, Leony to some and Lita to others, has been a government chemist in the last 37 years, starting with the National Pollution Control Commission. She then moved on to the Environmental Management Bureau, under the Department of Environment and Natural Resources. She is now Laboratory Chief of the Research and Development Division of the bureau. Her office space has been the laboratory, practically, since July 1972. She is also active in the church and in the local community. She is looked up to by her extended family (she has 19 other brothers and sisters) as a selfless and compassionate figure, ever-ready to help.
And so it came as a surprise when the indefatigable, seemingly invincible Tita Litz complained of breathing difficulties sometime in February. Initial consultations said her condition was bronchial asthma, and after taking some medication, the chemist resumed her busy life. She even took charge (characteristically) of her husband's own hospitalization for prostate problems. But in April,while hosting the traditional pabasa in her Quezon City home, Ate Lita appeared much too pale to a cousin, who insisted she let herself be examined by a doctor-nephew in a hospital in Calamba, Laguna.
X-rays revealed water in the lungs; immediately, four to five liters of it the fluid was taken out of her system. After more tests,the water was back and the tests more worrisome. The nephew then endorsed Tita Litz to the Lung Center of the Philippines.
It was during the Lung Center confinement that the family was stunned with the findings that the cancer had spread and was in its advanced stage. Strange, Bates, her older sister and their dad never heard Tita Litz complaining of anything prior to this; her last hospitalization was in 1986, a good 23 years ago.
It was also during their 16-day stay in this hospital that the family saw just how well-loved Tita Litz was both at work and in the community. Room 3114 became notorious for having no let-up of visitors and well wishers. It was also standing room only status most of the time. Bates and her sister, Ate Cecil, noted an stream of text messages from concerned friends and collegaues all over the country – even those from the agency's provincial offices. They did not realize how many lives their mother had touched until then.
The weeks of confinement also brought the family closer together, and brought forth each member's inherent capacity to find something positive in the whole experience. That Bates was jolly, talkative and was at her best when laughing without a care in the world was something I knew the whole time we were growing up. But not even her mom's sickness suppressed this bubbly nature. A string of bloopers during their stay in the hospital enabled them to laugh together; indeed this made their predicament lighter, more predictable.
But Bates says what stand out are her mother's acts of considerateness even when she was at the height of her precarious situation. For example, at the surgical ICU of the hospital that Mothers' Day, she told her daughter to acknowledge each greeting she received on her cell phone. She worried about the food to be served to the visitors and about provisions for her brothers and sisters who visited her. She was anxious about her hospital bills and hated to think her family would be inconvenienced caring for her. Truly, Tita Litz is not used to being at the receiving end of kindness.
She is perhaps best known for her compassion to just about everybody who asked for her help. She did not have a lot but she gave willingly. She gave a new meaning to the phrase "give until it hurts." "Be merciful and compassionate" was her mantra, always telling her girls, now both married and in their 30s, that what she wanted was for people to utter a "thank you" to God for both big and little things. By helping them, she becomes a tool; she gives people reason to be grateful. She was also fortunate to have a husband supportive of her ways.
Of course, this disposition has opened up Tita Litz to unscrupulous souls who took advantage of or were plain ungrateful for her kindness. She does not dwell on them. For example, in 2003, the family got swindled by a smooth-talking 24-year-old who promised them what looked to be viable business opportunities, only to run away with their money. Tita LItz decided against joining the class suit filed by rest of the community and said the punishment would be up to God.
Indeed there are numerous miracles to be thankful for -- if one chooses to recognize them. Even her condition has brought forth the love and support of the people around her, especially her two granddaughters, eight-year-old Rheniella and four-year-old Rhea.
Bates and her sister, Ate Cecil, grew up seeing their mother's faith in God and the encouragement and support she gave others who were sick and sought her help. They had the best mentor in accepting the test and caring for a loved one.
For her part, Bates dreamed of making her parents financially secure so they could enjoy their retirement years. But since this project remains a work in progress, Bates figures she could, for now, tell the world about her mother's secret formula -- an attitude that has made her emerge, in all this, complete, loving, and loved.
The family's prayer is for the will of God to be done. They are not searching for miracles anymore. They have plenty of miracles, foremost of which is the life of Tita Litz.
**
Scholarship slots. Punlaan School in San Juan CIty has good news for underprivileged young women who want to pursue a course in Food and Beverage Services. Twenty scholarship slots are still open; registration is until Wednesday, June 10.
Also, the school's "helpers program" (for members of household staff) remains open -- it is a ten-month curriculum, with certification by the TESDA -- until June 30. The fee is P1,500/ month inclusive of all cooking ingredients.
Please visit www.punlaan.com or call 727-0581/82 or 722-5671 for more details.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Insomnia
We are standing in line for a cab just outside the Landmark Supermarket at the South exit of Trinoma. It is ten o'clock Sunday evening, and except for the fact that we have been waiting awhile, the drizzle and the lights of the city are just lovely. I get inspired.
Me: Knock knock
Josh: Who's there?
Me: Divisoria
Josh: Divisoria who?
Me: (to the tune of Craig David's “Insomnia”) Divisoria, oooh....Divisoria,oooh
Josh: (rolls his eyes and then chuckles) Ang corny..
Me: Eh bakit ka tumatawa? (Bea and her friend Tsini continue yakking, oblivious to it all)
Josh: Sobrang corny nakakatawa na...Mommy magsulat ka na lang..
And so I write.
It's eleven o'clock Wednesday night and Bea's cellphone just rang. She is on conference call with the rest of the Gang of Four, which includes her friend Jenny (another senior), Karlo (a sophomore) and Josh, who is in the hospital keeping his friend Eman company. (Three of Emman's family members are down in different hospital rooms from food poisoning; it's a small family and they have a shortage of bantay).
I'm no stranger to these four-way conversations, via cell phone, mind you. These last few days of the sumer vacation,my kids have taken “telebabad” to a whole new level. See Globe has this Unlinyt Calls promo, where a pre-paid subscriber can make endless phone calls for just a minimum amount ,I think twenty pesos. The window is from 11pm to 6am the following day. They use up the entire window. Sometimes they turn the loudspeaker on, and since we are all bunched up in the same room, I hear everything that transpires. Yes, way beyond the “Hi, Tita!” that Jenny or Karlo occasionally chirp – or their requests for more “corny” knock-knock jokes.
But whether the loudspeaker is on or the kids are using headsets while talking to their friends (in other days, Bea and Joshua are lying on side-by-side beds while talking to each other on the phone),it is difficult to sleep, naturally. Not that I hang on to every word being said – one gets tired of eavesdropping, after all. And one must get some sleep after a long day of being mom/homemaker/editor/writer/commuter all in one.
I mind, but not too much. It's high school, and I think our strongest bonds get formed then. Mine have sure stuck. Luckily I do not belong to that generation that dismisses “barkada” as a group of junkies who bum around. In fact I encourage the children to be good friends – hear their buddies out when they are down, or warn them against the consequences of their actions, or alert them if they are being talked about behind their backs. Of course, the parameters are there. As everything, nurturing friendships must be done in moderation.
In the meantime, I guess I should expect a few more shallow-sleep nights until this rainy summer vacation ends. I suppose I should invent a few more knock knock jokes to keep myself entertained.
Me: Knock knock
Josh: Who's there?
Me: Divisoria
Josh: Divisoria who?
Me: (to the tune of Craig David's “Insomnia”) Divisoria, oooh....Divisoria,oooh
Josh: (rolls his eyes and then chuckles) Ang corny..
Me: Eh bakit ka tumatawa? (Bea and her friend Tsini continue yakking, oblivious to it all)
Josh: Sobrang corny nakakatawa na...Mommy magsulat ka na lang..
And so I write.
It's eleven o'clock Wednesday night and Bea's cellphone just rang. She is on conference call with the rest of the Gang of Four, which includes her friend Jenny (another senior), Karlo (a sophomore) and Josh, who is in the hospital keeping his friend Eman company. (Three of Emman's family members are down in different hospital rooms from food poisoning; it's a small family and they have a shortage of bantay).
I'm no stranger to these four-way conversations, via cell phone, mind you. These last few days of the sumer vacation,my kids have taken “telebabad” to a whole new level. See Globe has this Unlinyt Calls promo, where a pre-paid subscriber can make endless phone calls for just a minimum amount ,I think twenty pesos. The window is from 11pm to 6am the following day. They use up the entire window. Sometimes they turn the loudspeaker on, and since we are all bunched up in the same room, I hear everything that transpires. Yes, way beyond the “Hi, Tita!” that Jenny or Karlo occasionally chirp – or their requests for more “corny” knock-knock jokes.
But whether the loudspeaker is on or the kids are using headsets while talking to their friends (in other days, Bea and Joshua are lying on side-by-side beds while talking to each other on the phone),it is difficult to sleep, naturally. Not that I hang on to every word being said – one gets tired of eavesdropping, after all. And one must get some sleep after a long day of being mom/homemaker/editor/writer/commuter all in one.
I mind, but not too much. It's high school, and I think our strongest bonds get formed then. Mine have sure stuck. Luckily I do not belong to that generation that dismisses “barkada” as a group of junkies who bum around. In fact I encourage the children to be good friends – hear their buddies out when they are down, or warn them against the consequences of their actions, or alert them if they are being talked about behind their backs. Of course, the parameters are there. As everything, nurturing friendships must be done in moderation.
In the meantime, I guess I should expect a few more shallow-sleep nights until this rainy summer vacation ends. I suppose I should invent a few more knock knock jokes to keep myself entertained.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Living with more entropy
Barely a day after writing about my resolution to be more patient and persevering in enforcing physical order in my home, a new mountain is suddenly in front of me.
I had been looking forward to the start of the school year. The children would all be out in the morning, and I would have the glorious opportunity to be by myself. Solitude perks me up; I get thrilled by the limitless possibility of things I can do, at my own pace and at my own scale.
In the last few weeks I had been toiling to organize things in the house and, more importantly, share with the children the value of looking after their own stuff. I had several boxes, several sako bags, and my precious drawers all duly labeled on the things they should ideally contain. it wasn't a perfect state yet, there were some more crucial things to do, but I felt i was getting there.
And last night i was trying to write a blog entry about my children's gregariousness, and it was raining and there were no cockroaches and the babies were with me...it was close to heaven. So close that I dozed off.
I awoke to the sound of dogs barking: Somebody was at the door.
It was my sister, Unica, with her two children in tow. And bags. “Dito muna kami, Ate,” she asked. I let her in and asked her what was wrong.
Unik is 25 and her boyfriend, Neal, was working at a hotel in Saudi. She and their kids Jap,8 and Chloie, 5, live with his parents and his brothers and sister (and their spouses) in a bungalow just 20 minutes from where we lived. Unik said she had had enough of Neal's brother who hollered at her children and who called her “El Presidente,” apparently referring to her arrogance. They were probably defensive because Neal supports the entire extended family and remits an allowance to Unik, besides.
My stress level shot up. I was already trying to manage a household on my own, without a helper, with four children. And i was going crazy. Now here is my distraught sister and her kids about to burst my bubble. Indeed on that first night, they slept at our room, the bigger room. The nightly picnic just drew a larger crowd. The bags were dumped into the floor of my home office. Neal texted me from Saudi to entrust his family to me in the meantime, until they saved enough for their own place (at least HE has the balls to support her quest for independence,unlike some people I knew in my previous life), and tell me they would help with the expenses. But it's really not the issue.
Attitude spells the difference, I know. Now, 22 hours later since the dog barks jolted me from sleep, Im still trying to decide on an attitude that would reconcile my support for my sister,my quest for quiet and my obsession with order.
Now we are back to having so many people in the house we have to have batches when eating meals. Sinigang will be a constant feature on the dinner table. The small kids will have a ball every time; Jap and Chloie are their favorite cousins. There will be more noise when I arrive tired from work and travel at night. Decidedly more clutter and more telenovelas. But more stories, more laughter,too.
Maybe it's a matter of seeing a glass half full or half empty. It's a trade off. There is entropy, yes. But there is also something else that quite nearly evens it out.
I had been looking forward to the start of the school year. The children would all be out in the morning, and I would have the glorious opportunity to be by myself. Solitude perks me up; I get thrilled by the limitless possibility of things I can do, at my own pace and at my own scale.
In the last few weeks I had been toiling to organize things in the house and, more importantly, share with the children the value of looking after their own stuff. I had several boxes, several sako bags, and my precious drawers all duly labeled on the things they should ideally contain. it wasn't a perfect state yet, there were some more crucial things to do, but I felt i was getting there.
And last night i was trying to write a blog entry about my children's gregariousness, and it was raining and there were no cockroaches and the babies were with me...it was close to heaven. So close that I dozed off.
I awoke to the sound of dogs barking: Somebody was at the door.
It was my sister, Unica, with her two children in tow. And bags. “Dito muna kami, Ate,” she asked. I let her in and asked her what was wrong.
Unik is 25 and her boyfriend, Neal, was working at a hotel in Saudi. She and their kids Jap,8 and Chloie, 5, live with his parents and his brothers and sister (and their spouses) in a bungalow just 20 minutes from where we lived. Unik said she had had enough of Neal's brother who hollered at her children and who called her “El Presidente,” apparently referring to her arrogance. They were probably defensive because Neal supports the entire extended family and remits an allowance to Unik, besides.
My stress level shot up. I was already trying to manage a household on my own, without a helper, with four children. And i was going crazy. Now here is my distraught sister and her kids about to burst my bubble. Indeed on that first night, they slept at our room, the bigger room. The nightly picnic just drew a larger crowd. The bags were dumped into the floor of my home office. Neal texted me from Saudi to entrust his family to me in the meantime, until they saved enough for their own place (at least HE has the balls to support her quest for independence,unlike some people I knew in my previous life), and tell me they would help with the expenses. But it's really not the issue.
Attitude spells the difference, I know. Now, 22 hours later since the dog barks jolted me from sleep, Im still trying to decide on an attitude that would reconcile my support for my sister,my quest for quiet and my obsession with order.
Now we are back to having so many people in the house we have to have batches when eating meals. Sinigang will be a constant feature on the dinner table. The small kids will have a ball every time; Jap and Chloie are their favorite cousins. There will be more noise when I arrive tired from work and travel at night. Decidedly more clutter and more telenovelas. But more stories, more laughter,too.
Maybe it's a matter of seeing a glass half full or half empty. It's a trade off. There is entropy, yes. But there is also something else that quite nearly evens it out.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Living with entropy
If I were a piece of furniture, I would prefer to be...a stack of wooden drawers. Deep brown with a smooth, dust-resistant surface. Sturdy with each piece firmly in place -- no awnings for insects to crawl through. Thin, no-frill silver handles that tolerate the strain from frequent opening and closing. Not quite floor-to-ceiling, for that would be difficult to maintain, but close. Uniform drawers, side by side, leaving the rest of the room clutter-free and pleasing to the eye.
I've made some more improvements upstairs, especially now that 1. a 0.5-horsepower air conditioner is in place; 2. Ate Helen, who sleeps in the smaller room,is now in Bulacan on maternity leave; and 3. A new school year begins in two weeks. I used to occupy the bigger room, sharing it with my daughter Bea. But since it's immensely more comfortable there with the aircon, everybody (meaning me and the kids, sometimes a permutation of them) is there, on a nightly family picnic. So I took out all the closets, yielded my new study table to Josh (he had vowed to do better in school in his bid to be Renaissance Dude) and made the bedroom a family sleep-and-study area. I've resumed holding my home-office area downstairs, by the living room window.
Meanwhile, the closets, the dresser,old books and notebooks and toys and bags and every other item now belongs to the smaller room which the kids have started calling the Dressing Room.
The containers of our clothes were purchased at various times over the last few years; it is hardly surprising that none of them match. There is a light brown one, two dark ones, a cloth zip-up closet, one blue-and-beige plastic drawer, two black-and-white ones. Keeping their closets neat has never been my kids' virtue(wish it were though) and the fact that our maid is now again on a part-time basis -- it's better and less intrusive, we decided -- guarantees that some form of a mess, sometimes mountains, may be in that room from time to time. I put labels using masking tape and pentel pen, but helper Jo, still a child in many ways, has never quite comprehended that the labels were there to guide her. Even if I had told her to be guided.
Actually, I believe that if everybody only looked after his or her things, there would be no more need for a helper. I'm at home for the most part of the day, not to pick up after the kids' clutter but to nag them nicely,if there were such a thing, to keep their backyards clean. Remember that the flow of clothes and clutter never does end.
My approach has had varied success. The smaller ones are easier to instruct, but that's when i'm looking, of course. When I'm not looking, Elmo tends to "forget" to put things back in order. Sophie orders him to do so, and he resists her bossing him around, and they sometimes end up fighting. My teenagers are worse. I suppose anybody who has ever had active 13- and 15-year-olds in their households will understand. Today you tell them, they comply. Tomorrow they slip and then try again. The next day they are in a hurry. You get tired at the sound of your own voice mouthing the same things in different tones. It could drive a mom crazy. They kid me I'm Oc-Oc. Actually, the psychological evaluation for my nullity case says I am, but how it spills over to the matter of closets escapes me (obsessive-compulsive behavior is supposed to be relational).
I now try to remember if I was as this passionate about order,or whether order had seemed so attractive, when I was their age. I can't recall. Horrors...I'm old.
So how do I live with the perennial challenge? I manage to. Sometimes I am in the mood to sort out even clutter that is not mine. When you have mild rain tapping on the roof and nice music, this could be a good way to spend alone-time. It clears the mind and I become more in control. A piece of paper and a pen beside me does wonders, for writing down all the ideas, mundane or literary, that crop up.
But most times I am not because there is too much clutter, it's warm in the room, there is a cockroach, I am tired, pissed at somebody or just PMS-ing. In this case I just make sure my own closet is neat, the blouses are hung in a spectrum, an everything is in its ideal place, hoping that if I cannot command the children to keep their turfs in order at all times, I can at least be a good example.
I've made some more improvements upstairs, especially now that 1. a 0.5-horsepower air conditioner is in place; 2. Ate Helen, who sleeps in the smaller room,is now in Bulacan on maternity leave; and 3. A new school year begins in two weeks. I used to occupy the bigger room, sharing it with my daughter Bea. But since it's immensely more comfortable there with the aircon, everybody (meaning me and the kids, sometimes a permutation of them) is there, on a nightly family picnic. So I took out all the closets, yielded my new study table to Josh (he had vowed to do better in school in his bid to be Renaissance Dude) and made the bedroom a family sleep-and-study area. I've resumed holding my home-office area downstairs, by the living room window.
Meanwhile, the closets, the dresser,old books and notebooks and toys and bags and every other item now belongs to the smaller room which the kids have started calling the Dressing Room.
The containers of our clothes were purchased at various times over the last few years; it is hardly surprising that none of them match. There is a light brown one, two dark ones, a cloth zip-up closet, one blue-and-beige plastic drawer, two black-and-white ones. Keeping their closets neat has never been my kids' virtue(wish it were though) and the fact that our maid is now again on a part-time basis -- it's better and less intrusive, we decided -- guarantees that some form of a mess, sometimes mountains, may be in that room from time to time. I put labels using masking tape and pentel pen, but helper Jo, still a child in many ways, has never quite comprehended that the labels were there to guide her. Even if I had told her to be guided.
Actually, I believe that if everybody only looked after his or her things, there would be no more need for a helper. I'm at home for the most part of the day, not to pick up after the kids' clutter but to nag them nicely,if there were such a thing, to keep their backyards clean. Remember that the flow of clothes and clutter never does end.
My approach has had varied success. The smaller ones are easier to instruct, but that's when i'm looking, of course. When I'm not looking, Elmo tends to "forget" to put things back in order. Sophie orders him to do so, and he resists her bossing him around, and they sometimes end up fighting. My teenagers are worse. I suppose anybody who has ever had active 13- and 15-year-olds in their households will understand. Today you tell them, they comply. Tomorrow they slip and then try again. The next day they are in a hurry. You get tired at the sound of your own voice mouthing the same things in different tones. It could drive a mom crazy. They kid me I'm Oc-Oc. Actually, the psychological evaluation for my nullity case says I am, but how it spills over to the matter of closets escapes me (obsessive-compulsive behavior is supposed to be relational).
I now try to remember if I was as this passionate about order,or whether order had seemed so attractive, when I was their age. I can't recall. Horrors...I'm old.
So how do I live with the perennial challenge? I manage to. Sometimes I am in the mood to sort out even clutter that is not mine. When you have mild rain tapping on the roof and nice music, this could be a good way to spend alone-time. It clears the mind and I become more in control. A piece of paper and a pen beside me does wonders, for writing down all the ideas, mundane or literary, that crop up.
But most times I am not because there is too much clutter, it's warm in the room, there is a cockroach, I am tired, pissed at somebody or just PMS-ing. In this case I just make sure my own closet is neat, the blouses are hung in a spectrum, an everything is in its ideal place, hoping that if I cannot command the children to keep their turfs in order at all times, I can at least be a good example.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Brillante's darkness
published June 1, 2009 Manila Standard Today
Truth is hardly ever good nor beautiful. But this year's Best Director at Cannes believes it is worth telling anyway.
Brillante “Dante” Mendoza used to be a film production designer. Among his work were Private Show, Takaw Tukso, Mula Paa Hanggang Ulo, Olongapo and Mga Lihim ng Kalapati, all released in mainstream cinema in the late 1980s. Being a freelancer enabled him to work with a good number of directors – Peque Gallaga, Celso Ad Castillo, Tata Esteban and Chito Roño, among others. Watching these directors at work, Mendoza sometimes imagined how he would have done the scenes if it were him on the director's chair.
Many years and bold career moves (he went into advertising, stayed there a decade and then returned to film) later, Mendoza indeed became director. His comeback was through a film called Masahista (2005), a story about a twenty-year-old masseur who deals with gay customers and fulfills his duty to visit an ailing father in the province. Beginner's luck or otherwise, participation in several international film festivals marked Mendoza's directorial debut. The film even won the Golden Leopard Award among digital films in the Locarno Film Festival in Switzerland. At that festival, a European woman told him she did not know anything about the Philippines prior to seeing the film. Through Masahista, she got a glimpse into the ways of the Filipinos. Mendoza realized he wanted to keep directing.
Succeeding films include Manoro (about an Aeta teacher; it is set against the backdrop of Philippine elections); Kaleldo (about an ailing father with three grown daughters; it is set in the lahar-stricken province of Pampanga), Foster Child (about a family giving temporary shelter to children about to be given up for adoption by a social welfare group), Tirador (about petty thieves who are at the same time devotees of the Black Nazarene in Quiapo), and Serbis, last year's entry to Cannes (about a family that runs a run-down movie house which also houses the trysts of male prostitutes and their gay customers).
The characters in these films and the situations they were in were not figments of Mendoza's imagination. Their coming to life was a result of painstaking research by the director and his team. They went to people in these settings, earned their confidence and encouraged them to speak about their lives. They had themselves invited to wedding receptions in the province. They familiarized themselves with the (more interesting) side stories that abound in such events. They went to massage parlors and talked to real masseurs on their real dilemmas. Of course, Mendoza and his group were always careful not to make these sources feel exploited. After all, the director only wanted to tell a truthful story – no embellishments, coordinated moves or predictable endings. Pretty much like life.
Mendoza shares that he has been lucky to be more “indie” (independent) than other filmmakers – for the plain reason that he has his own production company. Thus he is able to inject his ideas in all aspects of the film-- from the story, the setting, the cast down to the budget. Some filmmakers are good but have to face realities of submitting their work for approval. He says he has the luxury of asserting what he wants every step of the way – and that has made his job easier, even faster.
**
But most Filipinos did not know Mendoza from Adam until he was named Best Director at this year's Cannes Film Festival in France for his work in Kinatay (The Butchered). The film is about a criminology graduate, pressured for money so he could marry his girlfriend, who gets involved in a scheme that would pay $2,000. He accepts the job before he learned that it involved killing a woman, chopping her off and scattering her body parts over numerous places. If the mere description sounds gruesome, the actual experience of watching the film “offers viewers no relief nor redemption,” says one review.
Kinatay may be deemed a departure from Mendoza's earlier formula. Notable in its absence, according to another review, is the cultural flavor that situates the film in its country of origin. Mendoza's previous movies showed lantern festivals, religious processions, historical calamities and election habits that were peculiar to the Philippines. The implication is that while the characters in Kinatay were Filipinos, the sordid crime and the moral freefall could take place anywhere.
Mendoza says the concept of Kinatay (also known as The Execution of P) was triggered by conversations with a tormented criminology student and his own experience of fear (he did not elaborate what caused this personal experience). He wanted to recreate the terror without the aid of dialogue or visual effect. He also wanted to share the feeling a person might have when he or she does not know what would happen next.
Here perhaps in Kinatay, the realism is more psychological that environmental. Yet another review ascribes a moral angle to the movie.”[The film] a nerve-shredding exploration of crime which is both repellent and grimly compelling...it is perhaps most notable for its daring in attempting to capture the moment a young man crosses the line into irrevocable evil," Wikipedia quotes one Mike Goodridge.
**
Despite his victory in France, Mendoza's homecoming last Tuesday was relatively low-profile. There were no VIPs to welcome him, no confetti thrown his way. Mendoza says he is used to apparent lack of interest and is not anymore disappointed that there has not been support from Philippine officials for independent films in general. “Maybe the government has not yet seen the value in doing so,” he says.
It's easy to be blind to whatever value there may be if a film or any work of art for that matter does not portray the Philippines in a good light. Obviously, the thought that such butchering could in fact happen in the this country, (from a director noted for his realism, by the way) does not boost the government's bid to attract investors and tourists to the country.
But Mendoza shows no signs of compromising. “There are 90 million people in the Philippines,” he says. “Only ten percent live decently. What about the remaining 90 percent?” He adds that if he is able to let other people peek into the actual conditions of at least a miniscule part of this 90 percent, he would be happy with what he has done.
While he is not surprised at gaining notoriety for his “darkness,” Mendoza insists that a better word would be “truthfulness.” Individuals, families, societies and this country have both good and bad aspects at the same time. For instance, Filipinos can claim to be religious or pious. We are devoted to family. But that does not preclude us from being corrupt or selfish or lustful anyway. He does not agree that life should be shown as well-ordered, nor should characters be put in stereotypes. We cannot avoid complexities and contradictions. Even if we don't like them.
Honesty is what makes a director a good one, says Mendoza. Cinema should be a mirror of the non-simplicity of life. But he is quick to add that this is just what he thinks. Other directors may believe – and just as passionately – that films are for entertainment, even escape. He does not believe he is better than they are for thinking the way he does. He is not comfortable at being called “the best director”either. He says he was just lucky that at that time, a specific set of jurors had a specific set of criteria.
Ultimately, the most gratifying part of the job for Mendoza is knowing that his work has affected a viewer. “Affected” doesn't mean being moved to tears in an emotional scene only to forget about the movie altogether as one goes out of the theater. Maybe “haunted” is a better term. He wants his films to live in the viewer. He wants them to realize, perhaps,that such things could happen. Mendoza also marvels that there could be as many reactions to his work as there are as many individual viewers.
The director has traveled the world as his films have competed in dozens of international festivals. He has also been invited by some festival organizers to act as juror. Now he has this coveted award from Cannes. What more can he ask? “Well I wish I can go back to normal...no excessive attention, no more interviews. I want to work an another project – and then go back to tending my plants.”
Indeed there is a nice garden just outside the receiving area of his office. It is hardly likely that a supposed realist, a dark artist with a penchant for squalor and grime, would take up gardening for a hobby. Then again, that may just be part of the complexities in people's nature that Mendoza seeks to portray.
adellechua@gmail.com
Truth is hardly ever good nor beautiful. But this year's Best Director at Cannes believes it is worth telling anyway.
Brillante “Dante” Mendoza used to be a film production designer. Among his work were Private Show, Takaw Tukso, Mula Paa Hanggang Ulo, Olongapo and Mga Lihim ng Kalapati, all released in mainstream cinema in the late 1980s. Being a freelancer enabled him to work with a good number of directors – Peque Gallaga, Celso Ad Castillo, Tata Esteban and Chito Roño, among others. Watching these directors at work, Mendoza sometimes imagined how he would have done the scenes if it were him on the director's chair.
Many years and bold career moves (he went into advertising, stayed there a decade and then returned to film) later, Mendoza indeed became director. His comeback was through a film called Masahista (2005), a story about a twenty-year-old masseur who deals with gay customers and fulfills his duty to visit an ailing father in the province. Beginner's luck or otherwise, participation in several international film festivals marked Mendoza's directorial debut. The film even won the Golden Leopard Award among digital films in the Locarno Film Festival in Switzerland. At that festival, a European woman told him she did not know anything about the Philippines prior to seeing the film. Through Masahista, she got a glimpse into the ways of the Filipinos. Mendoza realized he wanted to keep directing.
Succeeding films include Manoro (about an Aeta teacher; it is set against the backdrop of Philippine elections); Kaleldo (about an ailing father with three grown daughters; it is set in the lahar-stricken province of Pampanga), Foster Child (about a family giving temporary shelter to children about to be given up for adoption by a social welfare group), Tirador (about petty thieves who are at the same time devotees of the Black Nazarene in Quiapo), and Serbis, last year's entry to Cannes (about a family that runs a run-down movie house which also houses the trysts of male prostitutes and their gay customers).
The characters in these films and the situations they were in were not figments of Mendoza's imagination. Their coming to life was a result of painstaking research by the director and his team. They went to people in these settings, earned their confidence and encouraged them to speak about their lives. They had themselves invited to wedding receptions in the province. They familiarized themselves with the (more interesting) side stories that abound in such events. They went to massage parlors and talked to real masseurs on their real dilemmas. Of course, Mendoza and his group were always careful not to make these sources feel exploited. After all, the director only wanted to tell a truthful story – no embellishments, coordinated moves or predictable endings. Pretty much like life.
Mendoza shares that he has been lucky to be more “indie” (independent) than other filmmakers – for the plain reason that he has his own production company. Thus he is able to inject his ideas in all aspects of the film-- from the story, the setting, the cast down to the budget. Some filmmakers are good but have to face realities of submitting their work for approval. He says he has the luxury of asserting what he wants every step of the way – and that has made his job easier, even faster.
**
But most Filipinos did not know Mendoza from Adam until he was named Best Director at this year's Cannes Film Festival in France for his work in Kinatay (The Butchered). The film is about a criminology graduate, pressured for money so he could marry his girlfriend, who gets involved in a scheme that would pay $2,000. He accepts the job before he learned that it involved killing a woman, chopping her off and scattering her body parts over numerous places. If the mere description sounds gruesome, the actual experience of watching the film “offers viewers no relief nor redemption,” says one review.
Kinatay may be deemed a departure from Mendoza's earlier formula. Notable in its absence, according to another review, is the cultural flavor that situates the film in its country of origin. Mendoza's previous movies showed lantern festivals, religious processions, historical calamities and election habits that were peculiar to the Philippines. The implication is that while the characters in Kinatay were Filipinos, the sordid crime and the moral freefall could take place anywhere.
Mendoza says the concept of Kinatay (also known as The Execution of P) was triggered by conversations with a tormented criminology student and his own experience of fear (he did not elaborate what caused this personal experience). He wanted to recreate the terror without the aid of dialogue or visual effect. He also wanted to share the feeling a person might have when he or she does not know what would happen next.
Here perhaps in Kinatay, the realism is more psychological that environmental. Yet another review ascribes a moral angle to the movie.”[The film] a nerve-shredding exploration of crime which is both repellent and grimly compelling...it is perhaps most notable for its daring in attempting to capture the moment a young man crosses the line into irrevocable evil," Wikipedia quotes one Mike Goodridge.
**
Despite his victory in France, Mendoza's homecoming last Tuesday was relatively low-profile. There were no VIPs to welcome him, no confetti thrown his way. Mendoza says he is used to apparent lack of interest and is not anymore disappointed that there has not been support from Philippine officials for independent films in general. “Maybe the government has not yet seen the value in doing so,” he says.
It's easy to be blind to whatever value there may be if a film or any work of art for that matter does not portray the Philippines in a good light. Obviously, the thought that such butchering could in fact happen in the this country, (from a director noted for his realism, by the way) does not boost the government's bid to attract investors and tourists to the country.
But Mendoza shows no signs of compromising. “There are 90 million people in the Philippines,” he says. “Only ten percent live decently. What about the remaining 90 percent?” He adds that if he is able to let other people peek into the actual conditions of at least a miniscule part of this 90 percent, he would be happy with what he has done.
While he is not surprised at gaining notoriety for his “darkness,” Mendoza insists that a better word would be “truthfulness.” Individuals, families, societies and this country have both good and bad aspects at the same time. For instance, Filipinos can claim to be religious or pious. We are devoted to family. But that does not preclude us from being corrupt or selfish or lustful anyway. He does not agree that life should be shown as well-ordered, nor should characters be put in stereotypes. We cannot avoid complexities and contradictions. Even if we don't like them.
Honesty is what makes a director a good one, says Mendoza. Cinema should be a mirror of the non-simplicity of life. But he is quick to add that this is just what he thinks. Other directors may believe – and just as passionately – that films are for entertainment, even escape. He does not believe he is better than they are for thinking the way he does. He is not comfortable at being called “the best director”either. He says he was just lucky that at that time, a specific set of jurors had a specific set of criteria.
Ultimately, the most gratifying part of the job for Mendoza is knowing that his work has affected a viewer. “Affected” doesn't mean being moved to tears in an emotional scene only to forget about the movie altogether as one goes out of the theater. Maybe “haunted” is a better term. He wants his films to live in the viewer. He wants them to realize, perhaps,that such things could happen. Mendoza also marvels that there could be as many reactions to his work as there are as many individual viewers.
The director has traveled the world as his films have competed in dozens of international festivals. He has also been invited by some festival organizers to act as juror. Now he has this coveted award from Cannes. What more can he ask? “Well I wish I can go back to normal...no excessive attention, no more interviews. I want to work an another project – and then go back to tending my plants.”
Indeed there is a nice garden just outside the receiving area of his office. It is hardly likely that a supposed realist, a dark artist with a penchant for squalor and grime, would take up gardening for a hobby. Then again, that may just be part of the complexities in people's nature that Mendoza seeks to portray.
adellechua@gmail.com
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Food court
At 12:52, lower ground is packed
With diners from
All fronts.
Tables crowded
Plates bowls clicking
spoons forks and food
in various stages of consumption.
Workers on break hurrying
to bundy back. Students blowing
money on coveted meal
With barely loose change for the ride home.
And odd fellows with much to say
On such little window.
The line is long for the grilled fish
Yet she stands, scouring the court
for tables clear
and welcoming. He is alongside,
Reveling in the lunch crowd
that confuses someone
for anyone.
A safe place. Nobody,
him least of all,
will see she craves the talk
on the license of artists, strength of meta studies
and people's hometown-driven quirks
over ice cream served upside down.
Indistinct chatter drowns desperation
over things better left undisturbed.
At 2:05, the tangency ends.
They are only two among
Swarms of strangers.
With diners from
All fronts.
Tables crowded
Plates bowls clicking
spoons forks and food
in various stages of consumption.
Workers on break hurrying
to bundy back. Students blowing
money on coveted meal
With barely loose change for the ride home.
And odd fellows with much to say
On such little window.
The line is long for the grilled fish
Yet she stands, scouring the court
for tables clear
and welcoming. He is alongside,
Reveling in the lunch crowd
that confuses someone
for anyone.
A safe place. Nobody,
him least of all,
will see she craves the talk
on the license of artists, strength of meta studies
and people's hometown-driven quirks
over ice cream served upside down.
Indistinct chatter drowns desperation
over things better left undisturbed.
At 2:05, the tangency ends.
They are only two among
Swarms of strangers.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Bubbly Bates
My dear friend Evelyn Marie Baetiong (now Del Socorro), whom I have known since kindergarten, sent me a text message on Mothers' Day. Bates is godmother to my eldest daughter Bea; I was one of two matrons of honor at her wedding. My kumare greeted me but she also relayed the news that her mom had been diagnosed with cancer of the lungs. Terminal. They received the news that day. Some Mothers' Day, indeed.
My impulse was to rush to my friend, wherever she was. I was in the office that Sunday afternoon and I asked her if she wanted to meet that same evening. Of course, the meeting did not push through. It was a critical family time for her. Good intentions notwithstanding, I was an outsider. And then came a downpour.
It was another two weeks before I finally saw her. It turned out that last Friday was also Tita Lita's last day at the hospital. I went with another friend, Grace. The guard at the main lobby -- not the clerk at the information desk -- of the Lung Center of the Philippines knew the room number of the patient and the fact that she was due to check out that day. Smart guard, I muttered. I thought he deserved a promotion.
Later, Bates told us that her mom was pretty well-known among the hospital staff. Room 3411 was noted for consistently having a standing-room only status. Well-wishers were many; nurses wondered whether Tita Lita was some sort of a celebrity.
When Grace and I arrived, Bates, her older sister and aunt were tidying up the room, preparing to leave. Tita Lita was seated on the couch, frail indeed but warm nonetheless. Grace informed her that her younger son Joaquin (born 08-08-08) was now nine months old. I showed her the latest studio portrait of myself and my kids -- she was amazed at how big my children were, already. And then she excused herself to return to her bed. We three friends were left in the receiving area. It was 1230 in the afternoon.
I knew Bates was devastated by the news. In a text message, she told me that her family was her weakest spot. So I went to the hospital expecting to console my friend. After all, Bates was one of the few girl friends who stood by me as I witnessed my own mom battle colon cancer in '92, when we were in high school. I knew, too, that she was missing work big time because of this crisis. As facilities manager and executive assistant to the country manager of a call center company, Bates' schedule was impossible. She worked long, odd hours, and that was why we have not been able to meet up that much in the last few years.
Imagine, thus, my surprise when the same jolly fellow regaled us with anecdotes that afternoon.
Of course, she told us about the events that led to the diagnosis. Those first few minutes were difficult, tentative. Bates said that the persistence of a cousin, a doctor who was practicing in Laguna, led to the discovery that what her mother had was more complicated than bronchitis. She also told us how members of their family reacted to the news, and how her mom accepted the news of her illness. Bates was floored by the concern of her mom's co-workers (Tita Lita is a chemist for the Department of Environment and Natural Resources) and other associates. Finally, Bates said that she was lucky that her boss, whom I had interviewed for an article on the business process outsourcing industry several months ago, understood her situation. He even e-mailed her the text of the song "Footprints in the sand" to encourage her to be strong.
After these stories, it was the same old Bates. Never running out of stories, always laughing before the punchline, at all times choosing to see the bright side of all things. The way she talked, it seemed as though their stay at the hospital was a string of one blooper after another. See, Bates never hesitated to take herself, and others, lightly. I was also amused at my friend's gay lingo. "Chorva", "Kembot" and "Ateng" rolled off her mouth effortlessly. She said she got it from the young people at work (they called her Mommy) and bragged that her own mom's colleagues marveled at how Tita Lita herself talked this way sometimes. Why, Bates even called her mom "Mother" (with a nasal twang).
And yes, we talked about the scandal that everybody in the Philippines was talking about last week.
By 230 in the afternoon, their sundo (fetcher), another cousin, had arrived and I realized I must also start heading for the office. I had thought the reunion would be sad, but Bates, being the way she was, showed that laughter does ease the burden.
The family remains hopeful for a miracle. But Bates said she has resigned herself to the will of God, only asking that her mom be spared of physical pain as she battles with her sickness. I believe that resignation is enabling her to carry on, day after day. Laugh and bring laughter, as she does so well. Bates' capacity for joy is indeed one of Tita Lita's greatest accomplishments.
Let's pray for a miracle. And let's thank God for the miracles that are already in our midst.
My impulse was to rush to my friend, wherever she was. I was in the office that Sunday afternoon and I asked her if she wanted to meet that same evening. Of course, the meeting did not push through. It was a critical family time for her. Good intentions notwithstanding, I was an outsider. And then came a downpour.
It was another two weeks before I finally saw her. It turned out that last Friday was also Tita Lita's last day at the hospital. I went with another friend, Grace. The guard at the main lobby -- not the clerk at the information desk -- of the Lung Center of the Philippines knew the room number of the patient and the fact that she was due to check out that day. Smart guard, I muttered. I thought he deserved a promotion.
Later, Bates told us that her mom was pretty well-known among the hospital staff. Room 3411 was noted for consistently having a standing-room only status. Well-wishers were many; nurses wondered whether Tita Lita was some sort of a celebrity.
When Grace and I arrived, Bates, her older sister and aunt were tidying up the room, preparing to leave. Tita Lita was seated on the couch, frail indeed but warm nonetheless. Grace informed her that her younger son Joaquin (born 08-08-08) was now nine months old. I showed her the latest studio portrait of myself and my kids -- she was amazed at how big my children were, already. And then she excused herself to return to her bed. We three friends were left in the receiving area. It was 1230 in the afternoon.
I knew Bates was devastated by the news. In a text message, she told me that her family was her weakest spot. So I went to the hospital expecting to console my friend. After all, Bates was one of the few girl friends who stood by me as I witnessed my own mom battle colon cancer in '92, when we were in high school. I knew, too, that she was missing work big time because of this crisis. As facilities manager and executive assistant to the country manager of a call center company, Bates' schedule was impossible. She worked long, odd hours, and that was why we have not been able to meet up that much in the last few years.
Imagine, thus, my surprise when the same jolly fellow regaled us with anecdotes that afternoon.
Of course, she told us about the events that led to the diagnosis. Those first few minutes were difficult, tentative. Bates said that the persistence of a cousin, a doctor who was practicing in Laguna, led to the discovery that what her mother had was more complicated than bronchitis. She also told us how members of their family reacted to the news, and how her mom accepted the news of her illness. Bates was floored by the concern of her mom's co-workers (Tita Lita is a chemist for the Department of Environment and Natural Resources) and other associates. Finally, Bates said that she was lucky that her boss, whom I had interviewed for an article on the business process outsourcing industry several months ago, understood her situation. He even e-mailed her the text of the song "Footprints in the sand" to encourage her to be strong.
After these stories, it was the same old Bates. Never running out of stories, always laughing before the punchline, at all times choosing to see the bright side of all things. The way she talked, it seemed as though their stay at the hospital was a string of one blooper after another. See, Bates never hesitated to take herself, and others, lightly. I was also amused at my friend's gay lingo. "Chorva", "Kembot" and "Ateng" rolled off her mouth effortlessly. She said she got it from the young people at work (they called her Mommy) and bragged that her own mom's colleagues marveled at how Tita Lita herself talked this way sometimes. Why, Bates even called her mom "Mother" (with a nasal twang).
And yes, we talked about the scandal that everybody in the Philippines was talking about last week.
By 230 in the afternoon, their sundo (fetcher), another cousin, had arrived and I realized I must also start heading for the office. I had thought the reunion would be sad, but Bates, being the way she was, showed that laughter does ease the burden.
The family remains hopeful for a miracle. But Bates said she has resigned herself to the will of God, only asking that her mom be spared of physical pain as she battles with her sickness. I believe that resignation is enabling her to carry on, day after day. Laugh and bring laughter, as she does so well. Bates' capacity for joy is indeed one of Tita Lita's greatest accomplishments.
Let's pray for a miracle. And let's thank God for the miracles that are already in our midst.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Incentives to being a victim
published 25 May 2009, Manila Standard Today
First there was Suzette Nicolas, whom the public knew only as “Nicole”. She made headlines with her story and her heavily disguised appearance. She successfully sued an American soldier, Daniel Smith, for raping her. But several months ago, Nicolas executed a sworn statement saying she was not anymore sure what happened was rape. In Smith's eventual acquittal, justices of the Court of Appeals – women all – said what happened was a “spontaneous romantic episode”. Both Smith and Nicolas are now in the US – though not necessarily together.
Then, two weeks ago, another veiled woman tearfully recounted her experience with a US serviceman to media. Her face was also concealed by a veil. She was called “Vanessa”. According to her, she met the soldier at a bar at The Fort where they exchanged mobile phone numbers. A few nights later, they met up and he invited her to a party at a hotel. She went with him – at 3:30 in the morning. There was no party at his hotel, but he did succeed in forcing himself on her. “Vanessa” said she tried to report the matter to authorities but when they found out that the alleged rapist was another US soldier, they did not pay attention to her.
Then came last week's video scandal that involved Katrina Halili and Hayden Kho. This was different; the personalities were prominent. Halili was not cloaked in a veil. Her tears –and everything else one cared to imagine – was there for the world to see.
She says she is angry at Kho because “binaboy niya ako.” (It is difficult to find an English translation for this.) But Halili's expression of anger at her erstwhile lover only fueled interest in the video. Practically everybody has heard of, if not seen, Kho's video/s, not only with her but with at least two other women. Of course, some people claim they are offended by it-- we do not know whether they have actually seen them to be offended or whether they are just pretending to be disgusted but actually delighted in viewing it, thus making Halili a victim over and over again.
A circus surrounded Halili's emergence and resolve to fight. Personalities rushed to her defense, mouthing the usual motherhood statements on protecting a woman's dignity and helping the poor victim cope with the abuse.
But for all this talk, many people remember that Katrina is first and foremost a “sexy starlet” who earns a living not from her acting prowess but on her physical attributes which she has never hesitated to flaunt. She has no qualms baring her body, even posing naked for an advertisement (with that doctor, incidentally). Because of this, we have a hard time picturing her as the “kawawa” (hapless) victim. In the same way, Vanessa and Nicole never quite came close to our profile of the virtuous victim, either. They were young women who knew how to have a good time. They frequented bars, drank alcohol, went (dirty) dancing and did not hesitate to show interest in the opposite sex.
Granted that these three women do not necessarily personify the image of the Virgin, must we automatically dismiss them as Whores who must be blamed for their situation? If they -- at least, Vanessa and Katrina –claim they are victims, must we even take them seriously?
**
Ofer Zur, Ph.D. is a consultant, licensed psychologist, writer, forensic consultant and lecturer from Sonoma, California. In an article, The Psychology of Victimhood: Rethinking “Don't blame the victim” published in 1994 in the Journal of Couple Therapy, (also available in www.zurinstitute.com), Zur refers to two prevailing attitudes towards victims of any crime, specifically intimate crimes like rape or domestic abuse. Blaming the victim is one. The other is entirely absolving her. The latter is deemed politically correct. Zur says that in this view, “the victim is always morally right, neither responsible nor accountable, and forever entitled to sympathy.”
And indeed the law is protective of the victim. Here, for example, rape trials rely mostly on testimonial evidence. The thinking is this: Why would a woman fabricate a tale about being raped and subject herself to the indignity of talking about her sordid experience in front of so many strangers? The definition of the crime has been broadened to include date rape,marital rape and that committed when the victim is intoxicated. Additionally, the Anti-Violence Against Women and Children Act enumerates several forms of abuse aside from the physical battery we know so well from telenovelas. Now there is psychological and economic abuse as well.
It's good because victims now have more grounds on which to base their complaints.
Unfortunately, this also makes it easier – and more appealing – to be a victim. Zur says that now, “everybody is leapfrogging over each other, wanting to attain victim status and be conferred with some sort of survivor image.”
**
But according to the psychologist, these two extreme approaches – blaming the victim on one hand and placing her on a pedestal of moral uprightness on another – both perpetrate and exacerbate the abusive environment. Neither really helps the victim at all.
Instead, Zur offers an approach that explores the victim's role in the situation but does not necessarily blame her, instead of extolling her “wronged” status. He says “alleviating all women and any victim from any and all responsibility to predict, prevent or even unconsciously invite abuse is to reduce them to helpless incapable creatures and in fact re-victimizes them.”
There are many incentives to being a victim. Everyone is on your side and you can do no wrong. You are a champion, a survivor. Why, in this country, you can even later run for public office. But it's also dangerous. “Victims may...likely attribute the outcome of their behavior to situational or external forces rather than to dispositional forces within themselves,” Zur says. For example, a battered woman may always complain that her husband beats her up and shows her no respect. But she chooses to stay on, exalting in her morally superior status as the aggrieved one, not knowing – worse, refusing to know, that she does have a choice. Actually, she can either demand that her husband treat her better or get out of the abusive environment altogether.
Finally, exploration of the victim's role – reflecting on what she may or may not have done that resulted, directly, indirectly, consciously or unconsciously in the abuse –– aims to “move the victim from blame to responsibility, helplessness to accountability, and from hopelessness to empowerment.”
This middle-ground approach is essentially forward looking. Nothing more can be done about the past instance of abuse. But exploring the role of the victim makes her recognize that she has the power to keep similar instance from happening in the future. She realizes that next time around, she should not allow herself to be in a compromising situation with a man she hardly knows. She should heed red flags that may tell her that the man she's dating is an exhibitionist. She should not trust somebody just because he is nice to her. She should always second-guess people's motives. Acknowledgment that she could be in control after her harrowing experience of victimization is an act of standing up after the fall and dignifying herself as a woman, as a person.
Being the victim is not a flattering title. Choosing to be a habitual victim is perhaps the most serious blow to free will and self-determination.
First there was Suzette Nicolas, whom the public knew only as “Nicole”. She made headlines with her story and her heavily disguised appearance. She successfully sued an American soldier, Daniel Smith, for raping her. But several months ago, Nicolas executed a sworn statement saying she was not anymore sure what happened was rape. In Smith's eventual acquittal, justices of the Court of Appeals – women all – said what happened was a “spontaneous romantic episode”. Both Smith and Nicolas are now in the US – though not necessarily together.
Then, two weeks ago, another veiled woman tearfully recounted her experience with a US serviceman to media. Her face was also concealed by a veil. She was called “Vanessa”. According to her, she met the soldier at a bar at The Fort where they exchanged mobile phone numbers. A few nights later, they met up and he invited her to a party at a hotel. She went with him – at 3:30 in the morning. There was no party at his hotel, but he did succeed in forcing himself on her. “Vanessa” said she tried to report the matter to authorities but when they found out that the alleged rapist was another US soldier, they did not pay attention to her.
Then came last week's video scandal that involved Katrina Halili and Hayden Kho. This was different; the personalities were prominent. Halili was not cloaked in a veil. Her tears –and everything else one cared to imagine – was there for the world to see.
She says she is angry at Kho because “binaboy niya ako.” (It is difficult to find an English translation for this.) But Halili's expression of anger at her erstwhile lover only fueled interest in the video. Practically everybody has heard of, if not seen, Kho's video/s, not only with her but with at least two other women. Of course, some people claim they are offended by it-- we do not know whether they have actually seen them to be offended or whether they are just pretending to be disgusted but actually delighted in viewing it, thus making Halili a victim over and over again.
A circus surrounded Halili's emergence and resolve to fight. Personalities rushed to her defense, mouthing the usual motherhood statements on protecting a woman's dignity and helping the poor victim cope with the abuse.
But for all this talk, many people remember that Katrina is first and foremost a “sexy starlet” who earns a living not from her acting prowess but on her physical attributes which she has never hesitated to flaunt. She has no qualms baring her body, even posing naked for an advertisement (with that doctor, incidentally). Because of this, we have a hard time picturing her as the “kawawa” (hapless) victim. In the same way, Vanessa and Nicole never quite came close to our profile of the virtuous victim, either. They were young women who knew how to have a good time. They frequented bars, drank alcohol, went (dirty) dancing and did not hesitate to show interest in the opposite sex.
Granted that these three women do not necessarily personify the image of the Virgin, must we automatically dismiss them as Whores who must be blamed for their situation? If they -- at least, Vanessa and Katrina –claim they are victims, must we even take them seriously?
**
Ofer Zur, Ph.D. is a consultant, licensed psychologist, writer, forensic consultant and lecturer from Sonoma, California. In an article, The Psychology of Victimhood: Rethinking “Don't blame the victim” published in 1994 in the Journal of Couple Therapy, (also available in www.zurinstitute.com), Zur refers to two prevailing attitudes towards victims of any crime, specifically intimate crimes like rape or domestic abuse. Blaming the victim is one. The other is entirely absolving her. The latter is deemed politically correct. Zur says that in this view, “the victim is always morally right, neither responsible nor accountable, and forever entitled to sympathy.”
And indeed the law is protective of the victim. Here, for example, rape trials rely mostly on testimonial evidence. The thinking is this: Why would a woman fabricate a tale about being raped and subject herself to the indignity of talking about her sordid experience in front of so many strangers? The definition of the crime has been broadened to include date rape,marital rape and that committed when the victim is intoxicated. Additionally, the Anti-Violence Against Women and Children Act enumerates several forms of abuse aside from the physical battery we know so well from telenovelas. Now there is psychological and economic abuse as well.
It's good because victims now have more grounds on which to base their complaints.
Unfortunately, this also makes it easier – and more appealing – to be a victim. Zur says that now, “everybody is leapfrogging over each other, wanting to attain victim status and be conferred with some sort of survivor image.”
**
But according to the psychologist, these two extreme approaches – blaming the victim on one hand and placing her on a pedestal of moral uprightness on another – both perpetrate and exacerbate the abusive environment. Neither really helps the victim at all.
Instead, Zur offers an approach that explores the victim's role in the situation but does not necessarily blame her, instead of extolling her “wronged” status. He says “alleviating all women and any victim from any and all responsibility to predict, prevent or even unconsciously invite abuse is to reduce them to helpless incapable creatures and in fact re-victimizes them.”
There are many incentives to being a victim. Everyone is on your side and you can do no wrong. You are a champion, a survivor. Why, in this country, you can even later run for public office. But it's also dangerous. “Victims may...likely attribute the outcome of their behavior to situational or external forces rather than to dispositional forces within themselves,” Zur says. For example, a battered woman may always complain that her husband beats her up and shows her no respect. But she chooses to stay on, exalting in her morally superior status as the aggrieved one, not knowing – worse, refusing to know, that she does have a choice. Actually, she can either demand that her husband treat her better or get out of the abusive environment altogether.
Finally, exploration of the victim's role – reflecting on what she may or may not have done that resulted, directly, indirectly, consciously or unconsciously in the abuse –– aims to “move the victim from blame to responsibility, helplessness to accountability, and from hopelessness to empowerment.”
This middle-ground approach is essentially forward looking. Nothing more can be done about the past instance of abuse. But exploring the role of the victim makes her recognize that she has the power to keep similar instance from happening in the future. She realizes that next time around, she should not allow herself to be in a compromising situation with a man she hardly knows. She should heed red flags that may tell her that the man she's dating is an exhibitionist. She should not trust somebody just because he is nice to her. She should always second-guess people's motives. Acknowledgment that she could be in control after her harrowing experience of victimization is an act of standing up after the fall and dignifying herself as a woman, as a person.
Being the victim is not a flattering title. Choosing to be a habitual victim is perhaps the most serious blow to free will and self-determination.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Slumber Party
In my previous life, I tried my hand at sales and entrepreneurship. It didn't fly.
2000. I was a stay-at-home mom. I had just given birth to Sophie. J. had just started a job in Singapore. I had been out of work for months; I'd resigned as researcher in a Makati investment house when I discovered I was pregnant with Sophie. The money flow was not stable. I adored the children but was bored. I needed to be busy with something. I needed to earn my own keep. But how?
The idea of selling pillowcases came to me in a dream. Different colors and designs. I knew my way around Bonifacio Market in Monumento and was not afraid of the dangers of Divisoria. The next morning I was in Monumento buying brightly printed cloths. Somebody from my Lola's neighborhood was a seamstress. I saw her that day, too, and we agreed on a per-pair rate, provided I give her at least three days to get the job done. I decided to do the cutting myself (I think it's called “tabas”) so I could control the raw materials.
In less than a week I was peddling the pillowcases – for regular and jumbo-sized pillows and throw pillows alike – to other moms and yayas in the kids' school, which was, by the way, where I attended my Kinder Junior to high school myself. I had to struggle with nagging thoughts that I should be doing something else. I was reminded of all the things I learned in Ateneo, the papers I wrote, all the fancy dreams I had of being a writer. But I decided I was a humble person – and practically a beggar, so I really did not have much choice.
I did make some sales. Of course they were from people who knew me. Acquaintances and co-parents, my kumares, my relatives, Lola herself. And then I went inside the gates of my old school and “visited” former teachers. Oh, we did catch up, and they asked me why I was carrying such a big and bulky bag. That would be my cue to show them what I had. “Ginang” – Mrs. Phebe Santiago, my adviser in fourth year – actually purchased several pieces for her new couch.
In fact I became so visible in OLGA those days that I received several invitations to speak. Ms. Lyn Bigaw, my adviser and math teacher in Grade Two, asked me to be a guest speaker for her TAGIM (Talented And Gifted In Math) class, despite my protestations that I majored in English literature, not math. When career day for high school students came along, I was also invited to be a speaker. The funny thing was that in those days, I did not have a career. I did not have a job and I had stopped my graduate studies (in Applied Business Economics, wouldn't you know it!) and I was really “just” a mom selling pillow cases, hoping to earn a few extra hundreds every week.
My initial luck inspired me. I expanded my product line into bedsheets and curtains. I made regular trips to Divisoria, where there were more designs to choose from. I made calling cards for myself and included one in the package of every pair I sold. I called my venture Slumber Party – “for sweet dreams and happy thoughts,” the cute pink, blue and white little card said.
A happy thought that drove me was that my business would prosper. I would get bulk orders, and I would make so much money that I would be so secure knowing I was feeding myself. I could have the freedom I did not have as a Makati worker, who had to commute (I did not like driving much) every day on top of the 830 to 530 schedule. I could spend quality time with my children. And then I could do as I pleased.
I took a pro-active stance. I would not wait for the buyers. I would bring my wares closer to them. One day I went to SM North Edsa and did the rounds of the interior design shops on the third floor. I had with me my cute calling card, my album of sample cloth designs and a practiced smile. But they were asking for track record and I did not have that.
I also made inquiries in Grand Central. I learned that the stalls cost 1 thousand pesos a day – I would have to sell my pieces for so much more to make the payments and still not break even.
Soon I was resigned to my fate. Soon, too, I knew why. Even if I succeeded there, I would have always felt mediocre. Inadequate.
After a while I went back to being an employee. Now here where I am, I am consigned to this status for a long time. Not that I mind. In fact I appreciate the stability, the certainty of having something in your bank account at the middle and at the end of every month – even though it's a pittance (hehehe), a pity. Hey, I am feeding myself. I have the freedom and flexibility – my office work here starts at 4pm. I have more time to be with the children. I do as I please. I'm in charge.
My Slumber Party may have ended, but the happy thoughts remain.
2000. I was a stay-at-home mom. I had just given birth to Sophie. J. had just started a job in Singapore. I had been out of work for months; I'd resigned as researcher in a Makati investment house when I discovered I was pregnant with Sophie. The money flow was not stable. I adored the children but was bored. I needed to be busy with something. I needed to earn my own keep. But how?
The idea of selling pillowcases came to me in a dream. Different colors and designs. I knew my way around Bonifacio Market in Monumento and was not afraid of the dangers of Divisoria. The next morning I was in Monumento buying brightly printed cloths. Somebody from my Lola's neighborhood was a seamstress. I saw her that day, too, and we agreed on a per-pair rate, provided I give her at least three days to get the job done. I decided to do the cutting myself (I think it's called “tabas”) so I could control the raw materials.
In less than a week I was peddling the pillowcases – for regular and jumbo-sized pillows and throw pillows alike – to other moms and yayas in the kids' school, which was, by the way, where I attended my Kinder Junior to high school myself. I had to struggle with nagging thoughts that I should be doing something else. I was reminded of all the things I learned in Ateneo, the papers I wrote, all the fancy dreams I had of being a writer. But I decided I was a humble person – and practically a beggar, so I really did not have much choice.
I did make some sales. Of course they were from people who knew me. Acquaintances and co-parents, my kumares, my relatives, Lola herself. And then I went inside the gates of my old school and “visited” former teachers. Oh, we did catch up, and they asked me why I was carrying such a big and bulky bag. That would be my cue to show them what I had. “Ginang” – Mrs. Phebe Santiago, my adviser in fourth year – actually purchased several pieces for her new couch.
In fact I became so visible in OLGA those days that I received several invitations to speak. Ms. Lyn Bigaw, my adviser and math teacher in Grade Two, asked me to be a guest speaker for her TAGIM (Talented And Gifted In Math) class, despite my protestations that I majored in English literature, not math. When career day for high school students came along, I was also invited to be a speaker. The funny thing was that in those days, I did not have a career. I did not have a job and I had stopped my graduate studies (in Applied Business Economics, wouldn't you know it!) and I was really “just” a mom selling pillow cases, hoping to earn a few extra hundreds every week.
My initial luck inspired me. I expanded my product line into bedsheets and curtains. I made regular trips to Divisoria, where there were more designs to choose from. I made calling cards for myself and included one in the package of every pair I sold. I called my venture Slumber Party – “for sweet dreams and happy thoughts,” the cute pink, blue and white little card said.
A happy thought that drove me was that my business would prosper. I would get bulk orders, and I would make so much money that I would be so secure knowing I was feeding myself. I could have the freedom I did not have as a Makati worker, who had to commute (I did not like driving much) every day on top of the 830 to 530 schedule. I could spend quality time with my children. And then I could do as I pleased.
I took a pro-active stance. I would not wait for the buyers. I would bring my wares closer to them. One day I went to SM North Edsa and did the rounds of the interior design shops on the third floor. I had with me my cute calling card, my album of sample cloth designs and a practiced smile. But they were asking for track record and I did not have that.
I also made inquiries in Grand Central. I learned that the stalls cost 1 thousand pesos a day – I would have to sell my pieces for so much more to make the payments and still not break even.
Soon I was resigned to my fate. Soon, too, I knew why. Even if I succeeded there, I would have always felt mediocre. Inadequate.
After a while I went back to being an employee. Now here where I am, I am consigned to this status for a long time. Not that I mind. In fact I appreciate the stability, the certainty of having something in your bank account at the middle and at the end of every month – even though it's a pittance (hehehe), a pity. Hey, I am feeding myself. I have the freedom and flexibility – my office work here starts at 4pm. I have more time to be with the children. I do as I please. I'm in charge.
My Slumber Party may have ended, but the happy thoughts remain.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
State of emergency
Monday night. I had planned on staying up. Diego Bunuel on National Geographic was in the former Yugoslavia. I had a mountain of books to wrap – it's that time of the year again. I had so many ideas in my head I also wanted to start writing them. I had recently yielded my study table to Josh on account of its being so small (pang-estudyante); I decided to return to my home office space, with the L-shaped table downstairs by the window and my executive swivel chair. Just as I was getting comfortable, contemplating whether I should go pour myself a glass of wine to celebrate some me-time, I saw 2 cockroaches chasing each other on the carpet. I raced upstairs.
All four kids were in the room. We are all bunched up there because of the aircon. Only Elmo and Bea were asleep. Josh was practicing, as usual,and Sophie was asking me to scratch her back. I lay down and we began the usual gabfest. Kids can be so talkative at whatever age. We talked about our future home. I was picturing it, believing in the power of visuals. We need at least three rooms One for me, one for the girls and another for the boys. A spare area for the helper so she has her own space. I imagined looking out into some view from my window and getting inspired enough to be as prolific as I want. I may be stuck with Pag-Ibig or some other bank loan for the next 25 years, but I would not mind. These are the things worth toiling for.
Just then, I saw a black thing crawling on Bea's side of the wall. Sophie and I immediately dunked under the blanket. Damn roaches. Josh stood up; he said he'd take care of it. He looked for the Baygon spraying can but it was downstairs. Only Lysol was at hand. He grabbed it and sprayed anyway. The roach retreated and went into hiding.
The next fifteen minutes were the worst. We succeeded in rousing Bea but Elmo was still asleep-- he was still recovering from fever. We didn't know where the roach had gone, but we were sure it was still there. How could we go to sleep knowing it could crawl and fly anytime?
By this time Josh had started turning things over. Moved my closet. Lifted the mattresses. Turned on the lights. Near-emptied the Lysol can. Gone downstairs, gotten the Baygon, and near-emptied it too. The roach was in a playful mood. It showed itself hen hid again. Josh said he wouldn't stop until he crushed it (pretty brave for somebody who had, five years ago, been threatened with a beating of he could not kill a flying roach). Sophie and I, down on the floor, remained under the blanket. Bea complained of inhaling all that poison. Elmo was still asleep.
Finally the roach climbed the wall on MY SIDE OF THE ROOM. That did it. I picked up Elmo and we girls ran outside the room, shrieking. Josh said he would probably lose a lot of weight heaving the furniture around in search of the roach. I was worried it would find its way to my half-open closet. We roused Inday, our helper, to be on lookout. Finally, we heard the sound of slippers being slapped repeatedly on the floor. Yay, heroes!
The room was a mess when we returned.It did not smell good, too. Josh said I should take out all the bedsheets because the cockroach crawled over these as it evaded the poison. It was 1130 pm already. We put the furniture back into place. Elmo went back to sleep. Bea remained in Inday's room, detesting the smell of the insecticide. Well, I would rather smell it and lie on a sheet-less bed inside a roach-less room. Fortunately Josh and Sophie felt the same.
Josh and I gabbed for yet another hour, mainly pondering the likely reason God created insects that seemed to serve no purpose on the face of the earth.
It's a quarter to one now, Tuesday morning,and I opened this laptop the moment I was sure he had fallen asleep. I need to get up in five hours to prepare for a trip to Bulacan to visit Ate Helen and her week-old Angel. So now that I have told this story, I will turn in. It was a full day, indeed. I've had my quota-- I don't think I have the energy to deal with yet another crawling object anytime soon. So I'm shutting my eyes.
All four kids were in the room. We are all bunched up there because of the aircon. Only Elmo and Bea were asleep. Josh was practicing, as usual,and Sophie was asking me to scratch her back. I lay down and we began the usual gabfest. Kids can be so talkative at whatever age. We talked about our future home. I was picturing it, believing in the power of visuals. We need at least three rooms One for me, one for the girls and another for the boys. A spare area for the helper so she has her own space. I imagined looking out into some view from my window and getting inspired enough to be as prolific as I want. I may be stuck with Pag-Ibig or some other bank loan for the next 25 years, but I would not mind. These are the things worth toiling for.
Just then, I saw a black thing crawling on Bea's side of the wall. Sophie and I immediately dunked under the blanket. Damn roaches. Josh stood up; he said he'd take care of it. He looked for the Baygon spraying can but it was downstairs. Only Lysol was at hand. He grabbed it and sprayed anyway. The roach retreated and went into hiding.
The next fifteen minutes were the worst. We succeeded in rousing Bea but Elmo was still asleep-- he was still recovering from fever. We didn't know where the roach had gone, but we were sure it was still there. How could we go to sleep knowing it could crawl and fly anytime?
By this time Josh had started turning things over. Moved my closet. Lifted the mattresses. Turned on the lights. Near-emptied the Lysol can. Gone downstairs, gotten the Baygon, and near-emptied it too. The roach was in a playful mood. It showed itself hen hid again. Josh said he wouldn't stop until he crushed it (pretty brave for somebody who had, five years ago, been threatened with a beating of he could not kill a flying roach). Sophie and I, down on the floor, remained under the blanket. Bea complained of inhaling all that poison. Elmo was still asleep.
Finally the roach climbed the wall on MY SIDE OF THE ROOM. That did it. I picked up Elmo and we girls ran outside the room, shrieking. Josh said he would probably lose a lot of weight heaving the furniture around in search of the roach. I was worried it would find its way to my half-open closet. We roused Inday, our helper, to be on lookout. Finally, we heard the sound of slippers being slapped repeatedly on the floor. Yay, heroes!
The room was a mess when we returned.It did not smell good, too. Josh said I should take out all the bedsheets because the cockroach crawled over these as it evaded the poison. It was 1130 pm already. We put the furniture back into place. Elmo went back to sleep. Bea remained in Inday's room, detesting the smell of the insecticide. Well, I would rather smell it and lie on a sheet-less bed inside a roach-less room. Fortunately Josh and Sophie felt the same.
Josh and I gabbed for yet another hour, mainly pondering the likely reason God created insects that seemed to serve no purpose on the face of the earth.
It's a quarter to one now, Tuesday morning,and I opened this laptop the moment I was sure he had fallen asleep. I need to get up in five hours to prepare for a trip to Bulacan to visit Ate Helen and her week-old Angel. So now that I have told this story, I will turn in. It was a full day, indeed. I've had my quota-- I don't think I have the energy to deal with yet another crawling object anytime soon. So I'm shutting my eyes.
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