published 28 Apr 2008, Manila Standard Today
**
In a country which has become increasingly suspicious of network marketing, no thanks to the all-too-many sob stories we have seen and read about, it is difficult to remain believing in the inherent merits of this type of distribution.
There have just been too many tales of disappearing savings, as well as dreams and plans that have crumbled in the face of these “ventures.” The stigma has just been too great that it is easier for most of us to keep a closed mind on the matter, shunning anything that smells like “networking” or “pyramiding” or “multi-level marketing” (the terms they come up with are endless!) at once even if some of them could be more legitimate and viable than other “business plans.”
And lately, those who have come forward with the sad tales of how they trusted a friend and believed in the promise of lucrative returns on their money are not met with sympathy anymore. On the contrary, they are sneered at for their excessive greed or utter stupidity—or a combination of both. “Buti nga sa kanila,” the rest of us would say.
But this attitude harbored by the general public is taken as a challenge by people like my friend Edgar, who remains a staunch believer in the wonders of multi-level marketing—the legitimate kind, he is quick to add. In fact, I choose to write about MLM today not because I necessarily buy what he’s saying (I’m normally conservative when it comes to matters of the pocket) but because I admire the earnest way he presents his proposition and even extends it to a matter of national economics.
You be the judge.
***
Edgar says the notion that network marketing will bring you easy money is a myth. “It’s hard work, and it’s not instant.” Any real difference could be achieved after only a period of three to five years.
He goes on: “Network marketing is essentially a selling activity or business. But each one is not expected to generate millions in peso sales individually. Rather, the work is in the constant motivation and monitoring of the members’ activity at continuously enlarging the number of retailer/consumer team members who generate only small sales volumes. But collectively, the team produces the unbelievably large sales that network marketing is famous for.”
And sales generation, Edgar emphasizes, not the mere recruitment of members, should be the source of income. People should be rewarded for their effort to sell the company’s products and not for bringing in more people into the organization. That’s an essential difference between a legitimate distribution plan and a pyramid sales scheme, as defined and prohibited by the Consumer Act of the Philippines, under Article 4(k) and Article 53, respectively.
Edgar is an auditor by training and a banker by profession. For years, he found his comfort zone in making sure his numbers added up and balanced. So when he stumbled into marketing, and discovered he loved it, his family and he himself were all surprised, especially since he used to be painfully shy, coming to Manila for his college education after having spent all his life in Bicol.
Now he says he is a changed man, viewing every sale as a personal victory. Of course he is careful which products he sells. He only carries those he personally believes in and uses. And while he has dabbled in marketing financial products like insurance policies and certificates of time deposits, he says that the ideal MLM products are consumable ones, basic goods, if need be, that people will buy over and over again after they have depleted their supplies.
The products should not be in any way superfluous. Or downright silly. Why shell out tens of thousands of pesos for items you do not need or even want that much? Why invest in this or that formula that purports to straighten a crooked spine or remove stretch marks even on women who have given birth decades ago?
Of course, the products should be reasonably priced. Since the retail distribution principally targets the CDE market, a product costing more than P1,000 would be difficult to sell. And whereas compensation plans—you know, those matrices with increasing digits the companies normally flash on their Powerpoint presentations that are meant to show distributors how much they could earn—while mathematically possible, leave out the basic fact that such is quite difficult to achieve.
It seems that even for this believer of sorts, anything too good to be true is probably that.
***
Still what’s more striking is Edgar’s forest approach to all he’s been saying. Most people go into the business expecting to augment their salaries and build their fortune from their sales commissions. On the other hand, Edgar has in mind a “mall without walls” (I excuse the pathetic attempt at rhyme), a grand mechanism of numerous small, independent retail distribution points which are, owing to the very quality of their products, liquid.
It’s almost a social ideal, what Edgar sees. Anybody can do it, even the poorest of the poor, who have neither education, advanced skills, capital or connections. It’s making them productive instead of whiling their time away. It’s a way of making them generate income... for now. Eventually, if mentored effectively enough, they can even rise above their parochial thinking and appreciate the system in the grander scheme of things. And you’re not even promising the moon and the stars—just an opportunity to improve their lives a little.
It’s an uphill climb, Edgar concedes, especially since greedy individuals and their unthinking groupies have given the business a bad name. Nevertheless, he still thinks it’s a good chance he’s taking. His conservatism tempers his networking activities well, and while he enjoins people to keep an open mind and at least listen, he recognizes that this venture is really not for everybody.
More on this topic in succeeding columns.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Palanca Essay Entry
Here is my entry to the Essay category of this year's Palanca. I feel rewarded already that I was able to immortalize this day. Anything else would be a bonus. But a bonus is always nice...:)
**
Bolting the Black Hole
They say it takes a tremendous amount of energy for light to leave a Black Hole.
But one Wednesday in July, energy seemed to be in abundance, and I took in all of it. I was leaving my old life and nothing could stop me. Not even myself.
It was, of course, not as easy or poetic or swift as I would have it sound. See, i had been plotting to leave for two years already. I'd been with my husband John since 1994, when we were young and in love and had to get married because we discovered I was pregnant. Between then and now, between the first pregnancy and the bringing forth of four children, much has changed. And that's an understatement.
There had been, in fact, three earlier attempts – failures, actually -- to flee that told me I had to have more than guts. I needed grace.
The first time, in July 2005, I had actually made a down payment for an apartment unit on the same street as the children's school, brought in a wooden cabinet, two mattresses and a medium-sized industrial fan, and had gone to the place twice to sweep and mop it in preparation for our moving. But on the evening I was supposed to tell John I was jumping ship, he wept, apologized and promised to change if I would only stay to keep the family intact. I thought of the four children: Beatrice (then 11), Joshua (then 9), Sophie (then 5) and Elmo (then 3) and then my own unconventional childhood when I, as an illegitimate child raised by my grandmother after my mother had gotten married and raised a family of her own, wished for nothing else but a real family, together in one home. I would do anything for my children, so I relented. I figured I could take more.
The second time, in August 2006, was more impulsive. There were no mapped out plans, but precisely since it was occasioned by my reaction to his acts – imagine running off with the repossessed car that had been parked at the basement of the finance company's building, while I was upstairs negotiating for lighter terms! -- the feeling was intense, urgent. That evening I told him I was going away. He said he did not mean to underestimate me, but he doubted whether I could really do it. And he was right. I couldn't.
The third attempt, in April 2007, I did through the Internet. I was in Berlin for an eight-week training grant. Prior to my going there, we had not been talking at all even though there had not been any fights. He sent me an e-mail asking why I had grown so distant, and he was not talking geography. I told him I was gone. Long gone.
And yet, upon my homecoming, I relented again. it was difficult to arrange for the execution of your plans when you are six time zones away from everybody else. And this is not something you delegate. In the meantime, a few days before I was due to fly back, the kids said he seemed to have changed so why didn't we give him yet another chance?
How can you say no to that?
I stood by my decision to stay --- for three days. By the fourth day, I realized I still wanted out. It dawned upon me there was no use in staying. Something fundamental was amiss: I did not even love him anymore. Love was a nebulous word, yes, but it did not mean it could not get extinguished. It takes a blow, too. This withering away happened insidiously, over many years. Try hard as I did, I could not will it back to life.
And so every day I stayed put, pretending everything was fine and that living this lie for the sake of appearances the best thing to do, I sunk into depression. I gave way to mood swings; I was a sweet, loving mother one minute and a bitchy tyrant the next. I had to take pills every day so I could digest my food properly. I felt bloated and ugly and my itchy hives plagued me no end. I downed two bottles of San Mig Strong Ice every Saturday night, when John would normally be all affectionate towards me. I felt I was in a perpetual state of intoxication.
One morning, I was walking aimlessly around the village after dropping off the little ones to school. The sky was overcast; it looked like it was about to rain anytime. I knew I should be heading home but felt compelled to keep walking as if I were looking for something. The problem was that I did not know what it was I was looking for.
I did not have to worry about that too long, because that something soon presented itself to me. I could not believe it had been standing right in front of the school gates. “Apartment for Rent. Inquire Inside.” Was the sign talking to me, telling me what to do?
I heeded it. I rang the bell and talked to a woman who was too glad to show me around. The available unit was a two-story, two bedroom apartment with a terrace-cum-hanging area upstairs. The windows were wide. I liked big windows – all that air to breathe in! From the bedroom I could see the school sitting right across the street.
I promised the woman I would be back that afternoon to make the down payment so the painting job could begin. I asked that the walls be painted white.
Now I maintained a secret bank account I had opened the previous year, one with only a passbook, not an ATM card. I fondly thought of this account as my Dignity Fund, hoping I would one day be able to use it, not to pay the bills or the supermarket counter or the school just because John had been, as always, remiss, but to strike it out on my own. I had also recently padded up this account after converting the euros I had saved from my rather generous stipend from the German taxpayers.
I went to the bank and then returned later that day, handing out the required one-month-advance-two-months-deposit to the woman. It was a Friday. She told me it normally took four days for the smell of the paint to completely wear off, which meant the earliest we could move in was Tuesday. We shook hands; I was aglow.
That happiness, however, soon gave way to trepidation. Sure , I feared John would get wind of my plan and thwart it again, one way or another. But I was more afraid I would lose my nerve altogether and chicken out yet again. If that happened, I would not be able to live with myself anymore.
The next days passed and despite feeling giddy I struggled to maintain a cool composure, afraid to tell anybody – yet – of my plan as though breaking the silence would cast a jinx on it. I had planned on moving that Friday, instead of Tuesday, because on Fridays John leaves the house early and comes home late; his car being coded. I also did not want any of the children missing school. Everybody would have the weekend to let the news sink in, adjust to it, and maybe we could all start afresh by Monday. It's not like John would be hearing this for the first time. I resurrected an old notebook and jotted down lists – of things I can afford to leave behind, those I must take with me, those I need to buy for the apartment to get ourselves started, whom I would need to be around, etc. I started packing, quietly, little by little so no one would notice. I hid the bundles in the closet of my home office.
On Wednesday morning, however, it was already 8 in the morning but John was still not getting up to prepare for the office. I didn't like it when he was around. It was like walking on eggshells. You didn't know what mood he was in, if there was anything bothering him, if he would take it out on you, if he suddenly felt like going to the mall, eating Chinese food, and insisting that you call in sick at work to accompany him, or luring you to bed, taking advantage of the kids' being in school.
That day it was the latter.
Nothing happened. I froze and told him I had a million other things to do. Of course he did not believe my explanation and asked if I was still his wife. “No,” I said, sadly.
Then his cell phone rang and somebody reminded him of a meeting he was supposed to attend in an hour's time. He told me he would miss his meeting if I promised to talk to him and “work things out.” Inwardly I sighed. He was hopeless. My feelings had become irreparable. It was not fair to me. To him, too. I really must go.
And then it hit me. I could be gone when he returned. And then this charade would end.
I told him to go. “You know how i feel, anyhow.” I said. “There is nothing to talk about. Maybe I will send you a long E-mail. ”
“I don't want an E-mail. I want you to talk to me. Let's take the day off. Let's talk.”
“It's okay,” I said. “Go to that meeting.” Another talk would be a waste of time! I had been telling him, all this time, that was making me unhappy. He was pretending he didn't know. I needed to act. And fast.
As soon as I heard the car speed away, I got moving. I put all the bundles I had earlier prepared on the floor of my home office, for easy carting away. My heart was beating fast. If I did not do this now, I might as well forget about Friday. Or ever leaving at all. I would cease to respect myself altogether. I might as well change my first name to Coward.
By three o'clock, I had transferred most of my personal belongings to the apartment, which was, really, a five-minute walk away. My shuttling back and forth, bags and all, caught my father-in-law's attention, but i told him I was just helping my sister move into her new house and giving her some of my old clothes and shoes to get her started.
I had also informed the bigger children, who were then already 13 and 11, and who had known all this time of my plans to leave their father that this would be “The Day.” That afternoon, Beatrice, the high school sophomore, was named editor-in-chief of their school paper and Joshua, the sixth grader, was moved from Section B to Section A. I told them we would celebrate some other time when I'm over this hump. They seemed to understand. They took out a few things of their own, too, because they said they feared their father's reaction and would like to stay away from him until they were sure he was calm and reasonable.
At four o'clock, I informed my superiors at the newspaper that I would not be able to go to the office but would be working – editing columns and writing our editorial – from a computer shop. I had a family emergency, I said. Wednesdays were usually difficult load-wise because the more challenging columnists were writing and I also had to write the editorial on behalf of the paper. I settled for a business topic, something about a credit ratings group upgrading the Philippines' scores. In the computer shop, while I worked, the children occupied other terminals – Joshua played online games and Bea blogged her heart out at Friendster.
With work out of the way, I copied a previously composed letter to John from my flash disk and E-mailed it to him. I texted him to say I would not be there when he returned and that I left something in his Yahoo inbox. Then I texted his best friend, our kumpare, to look out for him. Heaven help me, I muttered, clicking the “send” button.
After a while, my sister, who was five months pregnant, arrived at the shop. My aunt soon followed. I had requested them to keep me company for a few days, to back me up as I effected this transition. I asked the children what they wanted for dinner. “Chicken,” they chorused, and I wondered how they could still feel like eating when we were about to change the course of our lives. Was there till time to back down? Yes there was, but I would not allow it. I sure hoped the children were referring to the meal and not to me.
We returned to the family home to collect Sophia and Elmo, who were at the time 7 and 5 years old. I also remembered to bring a folding bed and a couple of pillows. The phone rang. When the househelp picked it up, it was John, mad as hell, asking to talk to Beatrice. He had read the Email and was apparently still in shock. I tried to make out what he was telling her but my daughter was simply nodding and muttering “ok” repeatedly. When she put the phone down, she said: “Obviously he's upset. He's on his way. Let's get out of here.”
But when we arrived at the apartment, I discovered that I had forgotten to get light bulbs. Good thing that the neighbor lent us the incandescent light on her laundry area; I promised I would return it the following day. So we had one light bulb, one electric fan, one folding bed. And there were seven of us.
The two younger ones asked for cold water and they said they were feeling sleepy already. “Uwi na tayo, mommy,” they said. Uh-oh. I would have to explain later. I realized I did not want them sleeping on the ground, drinking tap water. The transition was already difficult emotionally. Maybe they would never understand why I did this. Maybe they would always wonder whether any of this was their fault. I would have to sit down with them and tackle that some other day. For now, at the very least, I should in no way deprive these children of the material comforts they had been used to.
I had them brought back to their father's house but made a vow to come back for them as soon as our new home was more habitable. Gaining access to them in the succeeding days would prove to be a battle, one that would reach the family court. But that's another story.
It was already 830 in the evening. With dinner out of the way, with a single bulb in the living room, no furniture, no cold water, and no tv to entertain ourselves with, my sister, aunt, daughter, son and I found ourselves staring at each other wondering what would happen next. We kept imagining a furious John calling out for me, banging on the gate and hurling invectives at us for leaving so stealthily (but was there any other way?). We wondered whether we should have alerted the barangay of any possible violent confrontations, like him firing, or at least, brandishing, the gun he always said he would not hesitate to use when provoked enough. I was also worried he was, at that moment, bawling his eyes out or hitting the wall, oblivious to the fact that the children were witnessing his histrionics. I kept checking my cell phone for text messages – curses or threats -- from him. I froze every time I heard an engine stopping or a car door slamming outside.
But nothing so dramatic happened. Instead, the children, who had brought the guitar and the beat box, as well as their school bags and the following day's uniform, started singing songs as though they knew they should do something to calm their high-strung mom, who only then realized her blouse had been wrongly buttoned up since the afternoon. They also had no qualms sleeping on the floor – thank God the previous tenant left the linoleum intact – after we agreed my pregnant sister should have the folding bed.
Bea and Joshua must have played “Narda” a dozen times. By about the tenth time, I was singing along. And then I realized I was exhausted. I fell asleep thinking that I wished there would be no cockroaches crawling about that part of the floor I inhabited.
When I woke up, I felt rested and refreshed, even though I had been sleeping on the ground and my back was supposed to be bothering me. The world looked different. It was light. Grace, at last.
**
Bolting the Black Hole
They say it takes a tremendous amount of energy for light to leave a Black Hole.
But one Wednesday in July, energy seemed to be in abundance, and I took in all of it. I was leaving my old life and nothing could stop me. Not even myself.
It was, of course, not as easy or poetic or swift as I would have it sound. See, i had been plotting to leave for two years already. I'd been with my husband John since 1994, when we were young and in love and had to get married because we discovered I was pregnant. Between then and now, between the first pregnancy and the bringing forth of four children, much has changed. And that's an understatement.
There had been, in fact, three earlier attempts – failures, actually -- to flee that told me I had to have more than guts. I needed grace.
The first time, in July 2005, I had actually made a down payment for an apartment unit on the same street as the children's school, brought in a wooden cabinet, two mattresses and a medium-sized industrial fan, and had gone to the place twice to sweep and mop it in preparation for our moving. But on the evening I was supposed to tell John I was jumping ship, he wept, apologized and promised to change if I would only stay to keep the family intact. I thought of the four children: Beatrice (then 11), Joshua (then 9), Sophie (then 5) and Elmo (then 3) and then my own unconventional childhood when I, as an illegitimate child raised by my grandmother after my mother had gotten married and raised a family of her own, wished for nothing else but a real family, together in one home. I would do anything for my children, so I relented. I figured I could take more.
The second time, in August 2006, was more impulsive. There were no mapped out plans, but precisely since it was occasioned by my reaction to his acts – imagine running off with the repossessed car that had been parked at the basement of the finance company's building, while I was upstairs negotiating for lighter terms! -- the feeling was intense, urgent. That evening I told him I was going away. He said he did not mean to underestimate me, but he doubted whether I could really do it. And he was right. I couldn't.
The third attempt, in April 2007, I did through the Internet. I was in Berlin for an eight-week training grant. Prior to my going there, we had not been talking at all even though there had not been any fights. He sent me an e-mail asking why I had grown so distant, and he was not talking geography. I told him I was gone. Long gone.
And yet, upon my homecoming, I relented again. it was difficult to arrange for the execution of your plans when you are six time zones away from everybody else. And this is not something you delegate. In the meantime, a few days before I was due to fly back, the kids said he seemed to have changed so why didn't we give him yet another chance?
How can you say no to that?
I stood by my decision to stay --- for three days. By the fourth day, I realized I still wanted out. It dawned upon me there was no use in staying. Something fundamental was amiss: I did not even love him anymore. Love was a nebulous word, yes, but it did not mean it could not get extinguished. It takes a blow, too. This withering away happened insidiously, over many years. Try hard as I did, I could not will it back to life.
And so every day I stayed put, pretending everything was fine and that living this lie for the sake of appearances the best thing to do, I sunk into depression. I gave way to mood swings; I was a sweet, loving mother one minute and a bitchy tyrant the next. I had to take pills every day so I could digest my food properly. I felt bloated and ugly and my itchy hives plagued me no end. I downed two bottles of San Mig Strong Ice every Saturday night, when John would normally be all affectionate towards me. I felt I was in a perpetual state of intoxication.
One morning, I was walking aimlessly around the village after dropping off the little ones to school. The sky was overcast; it looked like it was about to rain anytime. I knew I should be heading home but felt compelled to keep walking as if I were looking for something. The problem was that I did not know what it was I was looking for.
I did not have to worry about that too long, because that something soon presented itself to me. I could not believe it had been standing right in front of the school gates. “Apartment for Rent. Inquire Inside.” Was the sign talking to me, telling me what to do?
I heeded it. I rang the bell and talked to a woman who was too glad to show me around. The available unit was a two-story, two bedroom apartment with a terrace-cum-hanging area upstairs. The windows were wide. I liked big windows – all that air to breathe in! From the bedroom I could see the school sitting right across the street.
I promised the woman I would be back that afternoon to make the down payment so the painting job could begin. I asked that the walls be painted white.
Now I maintained a secret bank account I had opened the previous year, one with only a passbook, not an ATM card. I fondly thought of this account as my Dignity Fund, hoping I would one day be able to use it, not to pay the bills or the supermarket counter or the school just because John had been, as always, remiss, but to strike it out on my own. I had also recently padded up this account after converting the euros I had saved from my rather generous stipend from the German taxpayers.
I went to the bank and then returned later that day, handing out the required one-month-advance-two-months-deposit to the woman. It was a Friday. She told me it normally took four days for the smell of the paint to completely wear off, which meant the earliest we could move in was Tuesday. We shook hands; I was aglow.
That happiness, however, soon gave way to trepidation. Sure , I feared John would get wind of my plan and thwart it again, one way or another. But I was more afraid I would lose my nerve altogether and chicken out yet again. If that happened, I would not be able to live with myself anymore.
The next days passed and despite feeling giddy I struggled to maintain a cool composure, afraid to tell anybody – yet – of my plan as though breaking the silence would cast a jinx on it. I had planned on moving that Friday, instead of Tuesday, because on Fridays John leaves the house early and comes home late; his car being coded. I also did not want any of the children missing school. Everybody would have the weekend to let the news sink in, adjust to it, and maybe we could all start afresh by Monday. It's not like John would be hearing this for the first time. I resurrected an old notebook and jotted down lists – of things I can afford to leave behind, those I must take with me, those I need to buy for the apartment to get ourselves started, whom I would need to be around, etc. I started packing, quietly, little by little so no one would notice. I hid the bundles in the closet of my home office.
On Wednesday morning, however, it was already 8 in the morning but John was still not getting up to prepare for the office. I didn't like it when he was around. It was like walking on eggshells. You didn't know what mood he was in, if there was anything bothering him, if he would take it out on you, if he suddenly felt like going to the mall, eating Chinese food, and insisting that you call in sick at work to accompany him, or luring you to bed, taking advantage of the kids' being in school.
That day it was the latter.
Nothing happened. I froze and told him I had a million other things to do. Of course he did not believe my explanation and asked if I was still his wife. “No,” I said, sadly.
Then his cell phone rang and somebody reminded him of a meeting he was supposed to attend in an hour's time. He told me he would miss his meeting if I promised to talk to him and “work things out.” Inwardly I sighed. He was hopeless. My feelings had become irreparable. It was not fair to me. To him, too. I really must go.
And then it hit me. I could be gone when he returned. And then this charade would end.
I told him to go. “You know how i feel, anyhow.” I said. “There is nothing to talk about. Maybe I will send you a long E-mail. ”
“I don't want an E-mail. I want you to talk to me. Let's take the day off. Let's talk.”
“It's okay,” I said. “Go to that meeting.” Another talk would be a waste of time! I had been telling him, all this time, that was making me unhappy. He was pretending he didn't know. I needed to act. And fast.
As soon as I heard the car speed away, I got moving. I put all the bundles I had earlier prepared on the floor of my home office, for easy carting away. My heart was beating fast. If I did not do this now, I might as well forget about Friday. Or ever leaving at all. I would cease to respect myself altogether. I might as well change my first name to Coward.
By three o'clock, I had transferred most of my personal belongings to the apartment, which was, really, a five-minute walk away. My shuttling back and forth, bags and all, caught my father-in-law's attention, but i told him I was just helping my sister move into her new house and giving her some of my old clothes and shoes to get her started.
I had also informed the bigger children, who were then already 13 and 11, and who had known all this time of my plans to leave their father that this would be “The Day.” That afternoon, Beatrice, the high school sophomore, was named editor-in-chief of their school paper and Joshua, the sixth grader, was moved from Section B to Section A. I told them we would celebrate some other time when I'm over this hump. They seemed to understand. They took out a few things of their own, too, because they said they feared their father's reaction and would like to stay away from him until they were sure he was calm and reasonable.
At four o'clock, I informed my superiors at the newspaper that I would not be able to go to the office but would be working – editing columns and writing our editorial – from a computer shop. I had a family emergency, I said. Wednesdays were usually difficult load-wise because the more challenging columnists were writing and I also had to write the editorial on behalf of the paper. I settled for a business topic, something about a credit ratings group upgrading the Philippines' scores. In the computer shop, while I worked, the children occupied other terminals – Joshua played online games and Bea blogged her heart out at Friendster.
With work out of the way, I copied a previously composed letter to John from my flash disk and E-mailed it to him. I texted him to say I would not be there when he returned and that I left something in his Yahoo inbox. Then I texted his best friend, our kumpare, to look out for him. Heaven help me, I muttered, clicking the “send” button.
After a while, my sister, who was five months pregnant, arrived at the shop. My aunt soon followed. I had requested them to keep me company for a few days, to back me up as I effected this transition. I asked the children what they wanted for dinner. “Chicken,” they chorused, and I wondered how they could still feel like eating when we were about to change the course of our lives. Was there till time to back down? Yes there was, but I would not allow it. I sure hoped the children were referring to the meal and not to me.
We returned to the family home to collect Sophia and Elmo, who were at the time 7 and 5 years old. I also remembered to bring a folding bed and a couple of pillows. The phone rang. When the househelp picked it up, it was John, mad as hell, asking to talk to Beatrice. He had read the Email and was apparently still in shock. I tried to make out what he was telling her but my daughter was simply nodding and muttering “ok” repeatedly. When she put the phone down, she said: “Obviously he's upset. He's on his way. Let's get out of here.”
But when we arrived at the apartment, I discovered that I had forgotten to get light bulbs. Good thing that the neighbor lent us the incandescent light on her laundry area; I promised I would return it the following day. So we had one light bulb, one electric fan, one folding bed. And there were seven of us.
The two younger ones asked for cold water and they said they were feeling sleepy already. “Uwi na tayo, mommy,” they said. Uh-oh. I would have to explain later. I realized I did not want them sleeping on the ground, drinking tap water. The transition was already difficult emotionally. Maybe they would never understand why I did this. Maybe they would always wonder whether any of this was their fault. I would have to sit down with them and tackle that some other day. For now, at the very least, I should in no way deprive these children of the material comforts they had been used to.
I had them brought back to their father's house but made a vow to come back for them as soon as our new home was more habitable. Gaining access to them in the succeeding days would prove to be a battle, one that would reach the family court. But that's another story.
It was already 830 in the evening. With dinner out of the way, with a single bulb in the living room, no furniture, no cold water, and no tv to entertain ourselves with, my sister, aunt, daughter, son and I found ourselves staring at each other wondering what would happen next. We kept imagining a furious John calling out for me, banging on the gate and hurling invectives at us for leaving so stealthily (but was there any other way?). We wondered whether we should have alerted the barangay of any possible violent confrontations, like him firing, or at least, brandishing, the gun he always said he would not hesitate to use when provoked enough. I was also worried he was, at that moment, bawling his eyes out or hitting the wall, oblivious to the fact that the children were witnessing his histrionics. I kept checking my cell phone for text messages – curses or threats -- from him. I froze every time I heard an engine stopping or a car door slamming outside.
But nothing so dramatic happened. Instead, the children, who had brought the guitar and the beat box, as well as their school bags and the following day's uniform, started singing songs as though they knew they should do something to calm their high-strung mom, who only then realized her blouse had been wrongly buttoned up since the afternoon. They also had no qualms sleeping on the floor – thank God the previous tenant left the linoleum intact – after we agreed my pregnant sister should have the folding bed.
Bea and Joshua must have played “Narda” a dozen times. By about the tenth time, I was singing along. And then I realized I was exhausted. I fell asleep thinking that I wished there would be no cockroaches crawling about that part of the floor I inhabited.
When I woke up, I felt rested and refreshed, even though I had been sleeping on the ground and my back was supposed to be bothering me. The world looked different. It was light. Grace, at last.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Shooting a wedding
It's a pleasant surprise I got today. Somebody asked for my help promoting a start-up wedding photography business. Basically I will write the company profile, Web content, anything and everything, maybe even proposal letters to would-be husband and wives shopping around for snapshot clickers who want to preserve how they looked -- and probably, felt -- on their special day.
The additional work is more than welcome. It's manna, actually, crashing down my lap.
But that it is directly related to a wedding makes it more challenging than usual. Me, who's never been photographed other than by an instamatic disposable camera at my own photo-finish civil wedding. Me who's never worn anything white that came down to below my knees except for the dress I wore on my first communion. Me,who has just recently decided that single-ness was a less imperfect state than the one I had been leading for years.
I will be meeting the people behind the business next week. Some writing work will probably have to be done by then. I wonder how the jaded me will finally go about it. I am actually looking forward to it.
The additional work is more than welcome. It's manna, actually, crashing down my lap.
But that it is directly related to a wedding makes it more challenging than usual. Me, who's never been photographed other than by an instamatic disposable camera at my own photo-finish civil wedding. Me who's never worn anything white that came down to below my knees except for the dress I wore on my first communion. Me,who has just recently decided that single-ness was a less imperfect state than the one I had been leading for years.
I will be meeting the people behind the business next week. Some writing work will probably have to be done by then. I wonder how the jaded me will finally go about it. I am actually looking forward to it.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Catching Happy
I call my column at the newspaper Chasing Happy. People tell me it does not sound quite right.
Of course it doesn't -- if you think of "happy" as the adjective it normally is. The better syntax would be Chasing Happiness or Chasing Happily. But the first one sounds prosaic. And, while grammatically correct, the latter phrase would now not make any sense. The verb “chase” requires an object. It does in its very essence. You cannot chase nothing or anything. Certainly you can't be happy about such aimlessness.
On the contrary, I go after Happy, the personification, the embodiment of happiness. That's what everyone is doing, really.
Actually, Happy is always meant to be chased and never captured. Ultimately, one unearths meaning and profundity in the pursuit. Oh, a few souls may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it. But almost always, it remains that – a glimpse, a peek. The real thing in its entirety is much too overwhelming for a human being to contain. That would be...heaven. Or Nirvana. Or its equivalent in any other religion.
As for me, I think I've caught Happy for the night.
It is midnight now and all four children are asleep. I feel so complete when all of them are with me. Of course it is always a challenge managing the four of them when they are talking all at once. Elmo wants me to color the left side of the page of his book as he colors the right. Sophia wants me to color her book. Joshua asks questions you don't know whether to take seriously. What is high blood, for instance, or how come dollars in one country are worth less than the dollars in another. For her part, Beatrice likes to talk about her day with her friends at the youth camp of the church.
When things are in this frenetic pace, somebody is bound to be crying, or jealous, or both, soon. Incessant crying can frustrate someone pretty bad. Especially if that someone is mentally exhausted from work, physically wiped out from traffic and plain famished.
Tonight, though, there is none of the sort. So I work up residual energy to scribble a few lines. And even if there had been fights and crying tonight, I would have managed, as I've often done.
Right now, what matters is this snapshot. I am sprawled on the sofa bed right beside the two older ones. Later, when I turn in, I will lie beside the babies. I am feeling cozy again. This is my world. They are my life. And Happy is here, looking over my shoulder as I write.
Of course it doesn't -- if you think of "happy" as the adjective it normally is. The better syntax would be Chasing Happiness or Chasing Happily. But the first one sounds prosaic. And, while grammatically correct, the latter phrase would now not make any sense. The verb “chase” requires an object. It does in its very essence. You cannot chase nothing or anything. Certainly you can't be happy about such aimlessness.
On the contrary, I go after Happy, the personification, the embodiment of happiness. That's what everyone is doing, really.
Actually, Happy is always meant to be chased and never captured. Ultimately, one unearths meaning and profundity in the pursuit. Oh, a few souls may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it. But almost always, it remains that – a glimpse, a peek. The real thing in its entirety is much too overwhelming for a human being to contain. That would be...heaven. Or Nirvana. Or its equivalent in any other religion.
As for me, I think I've caught Happy for the night.
It is midnight now and all four children are asleep. I feel so complete when all of them are with me. Of course it is always a challenge managing the four of them when they are talking all at once. Elmo wants me to color the left side of the page of his book as he colors the right. Sophia wants me to color her book. Joshua asks questions you don't know whether to take seriously. What is high blood, for instance, or how come dollars in one country are worth less than the dollars in another. For her part, Beatrice likes to talk about her day with her friends at the youth camp of the church.
When things are in this frenetic pace, somebody is bound to be crying, or jealous, or both, soon. Incessant crying can frustrate someone pretty bad. Especially if that someone is mentally exhausted from work, physically wiped out from traffic and plain famished.
Tonight, though, there is none of the sort. So I work up residual energy to scribble a few lines. And even if there had been fights and crying tonight, I would have managed, as I've often done.
Right now, what matters is this snapshot. I am sprawled on the sofa bed right beside the two older ones. Later, when I turn in, I will lie beside the babies. I am feeling cozy again. This is my world. They are my life. And Happy is here, looking over my shoulder as I write.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Trance
published 21 Apr 2008, Manila Standard Today
What comes to mind upon the mention of the word hypnosis? Let me guess: A swinging pendulum, dangled by some villain in front of a hapless subject, usually a captured scientist or a beautiful woman. The villain then gives out instructions, which the subject carries out only too willingly. Close enough? This stereotype best illustrates the gross misconception of what is actually a branch of psychology that has yet to gain recognition, much less acceptance, in the Philippines.
According to the book Hypnosis and the Art of Self-therapy (which I got at a Booksale outlet for the pitiful price of P75) by British clinical psychologist Dr. Gordon Milne, “when hypnosis is used by a professionally trained, responsible operator, the inherent dangers are few or non-existent.”
The book goes on to show the applications of hypnosis on actual physical and psychological cases. Among these are bodily functions like failure to ovulate, control of pain, allergies and skin disorders, indigestion, insomnia, asthma, hypertension, as well as stress, anxiety, jealousy, addictions, obesity, anger, phobias, sexual inadequacy and even bad habits like nail biting.
Back here at home, another clinical psychologist, Dr. Arnold Lopez, who runs the Hypnotherapy Clinic and Psychological Assessment Center (536-1574 or 0919-8011688), says hypnosis, that sleep-like state of trance characterized by heightened suggestibility, and hypnotherapy, the use of hypnosis for treatment, are two misunderstood terms that could otherwise benefit people greatly, especially with the present trend for alternative or non-traditional ways of healing people's afflictions.
Not that it's anything voodoo. What’s creepy is the concept of animal magnetism popularized by Frank Mesmer.
Nevertheless, the mix-up remains. Wikipedia says “the confusion of Mesmerism and hypnotism continues to be perpetuated by popular fiction, the media and its portrayal in comedy stage hypnosis shows. Basically, where Mesmerism is a supernatural theory, hypnotism attempts to explain the same phenomena in more established scientific terms, by reference to psychology and physiology. As Braid puts it, it is a scientific and psycho-physiological (mind-body) discipline.”
The operative words are “scientific” and “discipline.” And Lopez should know—having been fascinated with hypnosis since his student days at the San Pablo Seminary. He wrote his masters thesis and doctoral dissertation on the matter. Intent to bridge the disconnect between the merits of the subject and its lack of recognition in the country, he also attended intensive hypnotherapy trainings in Indiana and California in the United States as well as, more recently, in Singapore. Lopez earned the certifications and headed back home to practice it, as well as teach the subject at the Graduate School of Psychology of the University of Santo Tomas, one of only two institutions which offer the subject in the psychology curriculum. The other school is Ateneo.
The length of the treatment varies, according to Lopez, on the severity of the case and the individual's response to treatment. The success rate is varied. Some need more sessions, and the therapy stretches out for months. On the other hand, some notice changes and are all right after the first session. The latter is what Milner, citing E.R. Hilgard's study on highly hypnotizable people, calls “hypnotic virtuosos.”
One session takes one hour and generally follows this sequence. First, there is a pre-hypnosis talk where the therapist prepares the client for the administration of hypnosis. He helps educate him on the process. Then follows hypnotic induction, where the client is induced into the sleep-like state. And then follow the suggestions, usually in a script consisting of direct and indirect suggestions. Here abound a multitude of techniques such as age regression, reliving experiences during a particular period in one's life. Imagery and visualization are also used. This is the heart of the process.
Last, is the post-hypnotic talk. The therapist and the client, who still is in the state of trance, agree on what the client must to address his problem after the session ends and he steps back into the real world. For example, a chain smoker, emboldened by the suggestion that he already feels healthier and more whole, agrees to deliberately reject any urge to grab the next cigarette stick.
Lopez says that once successful, the treatment is inclined to prevent recurrence of the problem, unlike anti-depressant pills, for instance, that address chemical imbalances in the body but for the short term only. Hypnotherapy gets to the root—deep below the person's consciousness—and addresses the affliction from there.
* * *
But Lopez is concerned about the vulnerability of clients, since there is no local professional association or government regulation that defines the parameters of the practice. Consequently, anybody, even those with dubious training or with villainous (even lewd) designs can just present himself an expert in the field. And heaven help the client.
The Milne book in fact devotes a chapter, Sins of Commission, to documented cases of the destructive use of hypnosis, often for seduction. Milne agrees with one Professor Martin Orne who says that when hypnosis is used, there is an extra hazard: An unwarranted belief that hypnosis enables the therapist to gain a special sort of control over his patient.
In other countries, professional medical associations and health departments take an active role in the promotion and regulation of hypnotherapy. In the United States, for instance, the National Board for Certified Clinical Hypnotherapists certifies professional in this field. The profession is even included in the US Department of Labor Directory of Occupational Titles. In the United Kingdom, hypnotherapy has been approved as a stand-alone therapy by the Department for Education and Skills. The UK Confederation of Hypnotherapy Organizations has a public register of practitioners who are subject to the professional standards of the group.
Lopez hopes the practice becomes more accepted in the Philippines, convinced as he is of its merits for the wellness of mind and body.
What comes to mind upon the mention of the word hypnosis? Let me guess: A swinging pendulum, dangled by some villain in front of a hapless subject, usually a captured scientist or a beautiful woman. The villain then gives out instructions, which the subject carries out only too willingly. Close enough? This stereotype best illustrates the gross misconception of what is actually a branch of psychology that has yet to gain recognition, much less acceptance, in the Philippines.
According to the book Hypnosis and the Art of Self-therapy (which I got at a Booksale outlet for the pitiful price of P75) by British clinical psychologist Dr. Gordon Milne, “when hypnosis is used by a professionally trained, responsible operator, the inherent dangers are few or non-existent.”
The book goes on to show the applications of hypnosis on actual physical and psychological cases. Among these are bodily functions like failure to ovulate, control of pain, allergies and skin disorders, indigestion, insomnia, asthma, hypertension, as well as stress, anxiety, jealousy, addictions, obesity, anger, phobias, sexual inadequacy and even bad habits like nail biting.
Back here at home, another clinical psychologist, Dr. Arnold Lopez, who runs the Hypnotherapy Clinic and Psychological Assessment Center (536-1574 or 0919-8011688), says hypnosis, that sleep-like state of trance characterized by heightened suggestibility, and hypnotherapy, the use of hypnosis for treatment, are two misunderstood terms that could otherwise benefit people greatly, especially with the present trend for alternative or non-traditional ways of healing people's afflictions.
Not that it's anything voodoo. What’s creepy is the concept of animal magnetism popularized by Frank Mesmer.
Nevertheless, the mix-up remains. Wikipedia says “the confusion of Mesmerism and hypnotism continues to be perpetuated by popular fiction, the media and its portrayal in comedy stage hypnosis shows. Basically, where Mesmerism is a supernatural theory, hypnotism attempts to explain the same phenomena in more established scientific terms, by reference to psychology and physiology. As Braid puts it, it is a scientific and psycho-physiological (mind-body) discipline.”
The operative words are “scientific” and “discipline.” And Lopez should know—having been fascinated with hypnosis since his student days at the San Pablo Seminary. He wrote his masters thesis and doctoral dissertation on the matter. Intent to bridge the disconnect between the merits of the subject and its lack of recognition in the country, he also attended intensive hypnotherapy trainings in Indiana and California in the United States as well as, more recently, in Singapore. Lopez earned the certifications and headed back home to practice it, as well as teach the subject at the Graduate School of Psychology of the University of Santo Tomas, one of only two institutions which offer the subject in the psychology curriculum. The other school is Ateneo.
The length of the treatment varies, according to Lopez, on the severity of the case and the individual's response to treatment. The success rate is varied. Some need more sessions, and the therapy stretches out for months. On the other hand, some notice changes and are all right after the first session. The latter is what Milner, citing E.R. Hilgard's study on highly hypnotizable people, calls “hypnotic virtuosos.”
One session takes one hour and generally follows this sequence. First, there is a pre-hypnosis talk where the therapist prepares the client for the administration of hypnosis. He helps educate him on the process. Then follows hypnotic induction, where the client is induced into the sleep-like state. And then follow the suggestions, usually in a script consisting of direct and indirect suggestions. Here abound a multitude of techniques such as age regression, reliving experiences during a particular period in one's life. Imagery and visualization are also used. This is the heart of the process.
Last, is the post-hypnotic talk. The therapist and the client, who still is in the state of trance, agree on what the client must to address his problem after the session ends and he steps back into the real world. For example, a chain smoker, emboldened by the suggestion that he already feels healthier and more whole, agrees to deliberately reject any urge to grab the next cigarette stick.
Lopez says that once successful, the treatment is inclined to prevent recurrence of the problem, unlike anti-depressant pills, for instance, that address chemical imbalances in the body but for the short term only. Hypnotherapy gets to the root—deep below the person's consciousness—and addresses the affliction from there.
* * *
But Lopez is concerned about the vulnerability of clients, since there is no local professional association or government regulation that defines the parameters of the practice. Consequently, anybody, even those with dubious training or with villainous (even lewd) designs can just present himself an expert in the field. And heaven help the client.
The Milne book in fact devotes a chapter, Sins of Commission, to documented cases of the destructive use of hypnosis, often for seduction. Milne agrees with one Professor Martin Orne who says that when hypnosis is used, there is an extra hazard: An unwarranted belief that hypnosis enables the therapist to gain a special sort of control over his patient.
In other countries, professional medical associations and health departments take an active role in the promotion and regulation of hypnotherapy. In the United States, for instance, the National Board for Certified Clinical Hypnotherapists certifies professional in this field. The profession is even included in the US Department of Labor Directory of Occupational Titles. In the United Kingdom, hypnotherapy has been approved as a stand-alone therapy by the Department for Education and Skills. The UK Confederation of Hypnotherapy Organizations has a public register of practitioners who are subject to the professional standards of the group.
Lopez hopes the practice becomes more accepted in the Philippines, convinced as he is of its merits for the wellness of mind and body.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
In Good Company
MST, 11 feb 2007 (20th anniversary supplement)
Call it a job interview with a twist.
One afternoon not too long ago, I was in a coffee shop talking to Standard Today editor-in-chief Jojo Robles. I had earlier informed him of my intention to join the paper as a correspondent and emailed sample essays so he could evaluate my writing and consider my application.
Jojo told me he needed not just a writer but an editor for the opinion section. We discussed the contents of my resume. Eventually, he started describing the role of editor in great detail. I was encouraged. I was almost saying yes before he even asked me.
Official matters over, I ventured to ask whether he knew anybody by the name of Liza Chua. My late mother had been a reporter for as long as I could remember. I also remembered that a significant part of her career was spent with Manila Standard. I hoped my memory did not fail me.
“You’re the daughter of Liza?” Jojo was stupefied. “Then I shouldn’t interview you any further. If you’re her daughter, it’s like I know you already.” Shortly thereafter, I assumed my post at the newsroom’s central desk.
Memory snatches
Unlike most children, I did not enjoy everyday interaction with my mother -- we did not live in the same house. To make up for this, she made sure we were always together during weekends or whenever I was on holiday from school. By being together I do not mean lounging around, watching television or strolling at the park. She always had to go to work, on odd days and odd hours. Spending time with her meant tagging along to wherever she went. This was her brand of quality time, and this was my introduction to journalism.
My mother was a beat reporter, assigned to cover Malacanang. As a girl of nine or ten, I was freely going in and out of the Palace. That was not quite a big deal then; what stood out more were the string of jeepney rides we had to take (think Monumento-Recto-Quiapo-San Miguel) and the long walk we had to take going into the compound – and all in the noontime heat. By the time we got to Kalayaan Hall, I was all but ready to slump in the sofa in front of the giant television set. Meanwhile, my mom talked with her colleagues or wrote her story in one of the cubicles. Saturdays were lazy days at the Palace, so she told me. When I got bored or remembered where I was, I called up my friends from a red telephone inside an honest-to-goodness booth – exactly like Colin Farrell’s. Within a few hours, my mom was done – she usually rushed because we still had one stop: the newsroom.
The Standard office was then at the Elizalde Building along Ayala Avenue in Makati. The elevator was dim and scary. The office furniture was rickety; the desks littered with paper, coffee mugs and occasional cockroaches. The phones rang endlessly. There were no computers then, of course, only manual typewriters that clicked nonstop. After awhile, one’s ears became used to the noise. The usual comment we got from her officemates was that we looked more like sisters than mother-and-daughter. I was used to that; after all, she had me when she was barely 20.
Only after turning in her story – usually in the early evening – did she consider herself done for the day. We usually headed to the Makati Commercial Center where Glorietta and Greenbelt now stand. We feasted, standing up, on noodles and siomai from her favorite kiosk. She gave me P100 to spend any way I wanted in National Book Store. In those days, the amount fetched me two or three paperbacks. Good ones. Then we took a bus that went straight from Makati to Valenzuela, plying what now seems like a primitive Edsa. There were very few airconditioned buses then, and I usually chose a window seat in the ordinary bus. Traffic was light, and by the time we reached our stop, my face was numb with the wind.
The editorial department’s Christmas parties were famous for the movie stars that graced them. In one particular year, the guest was teen idol Jestoni Alarcon. In the bathroom, I remember overhearing a conversation between two women who were talking about Jestoni and having to hold on to their underwear. I was perplexed at the apparent lack of connection.
I am not sure if it was that same party or another gathering, at a Chinese restaurant, where my mother was asked to sing. She brought along a multiplex, but for some reason the tape just stopped in the middle of the number. Loving the spotlight at whatever cost, she shrugged off the hitch and finished singing “Iisa pa lamang,” a capella.
The Standard, today
On my first day in the newsroom, I was introduced to people not as someone who had been part of this or that organization but as, plain and simple, the daughter of a former reporter. World editor Dinna Chan Vasquez exclaimed “Ah, si Liza, yung nagbebenta ng paputok!”
Indeed, Liza was a peddler of wares. I remember helping her carry the fireworks. In those pre-terrorism days, such items were allowed in the Light Rail Transit. I used to complain having to go up and down the terminal stairs carrying a big plastic bag on either hand.
Dinna also remembers Liza coming to the office with a little too much make up on her face. Aside from being inherently vain (even in her hospital bed, in those last days, she was most sore about having to be “panget” and insisted on having her kikay bag at her bedside), she used to play bit roles in films. Those movies are totally lost to me now, except for “Huwag Kang Hahalik sa Diyablo,” where she played the role of the yaya of Isabel Granada and Chuckie Dreyfuss. The movie stands out because here she had a kissing scene – lips-to-lips, mind you – with Gabby Concepcion who played the “diyablo.” Man, that really got my stepfather riled.
Not once did I hear Liza complain about juggling journalism with other sources of income. Aside from me, she had three other little girls to support. I do not think the thought of practicing any other profession even crossed her mind. As long as she could keep on writing, she didn’t mind having to be “creative” every now and then.
Homecoming queen
Liza succumbed to cancer of the colon in October of 1992. I was sixteen then, just done with the National College Entrance Examinations and in the middle of sending out university applications.
The wake showed our family how generous friends could be. We did not have to worry about little things like supplies running out, tents or chairs for the visitors, even the bill for the mortuary services. During the funeral, there were so many vehicles that people on the streets thought the hearse was carrying a celebrity. A group of journalists came in a van and told us there was still a lot of room in that vehicle for family members. I rode the van with my grandmother.
Now I find myself in this newspaper – a second-generation Standard employee in the editorial department. I am beginning to see this company in the same way as Liza may have seen it some eighteen years ago.
I especially like the giant corkboard where we pin our newspaper’s front page alongside the front pages of all other broadsheets and tabloids. I take pride that even though we are not the most widely circulated or the most known paper, we strive for balance and fairness. We do not give in to the temptation to sensationalize just to sell or play too safe to the point of blandness. I admire how we work hard at our craft, agonize over words and phrases, and abide by the rules of style.
Aside from the professional reasons, I really just like it here. This was Liza’s world -- albeit a different edifice and a different set of editors. I never knew her that much: she was only an occasional parent, and I feel that there is a lot of catching up to do. Had she lived, we would have been able to share many things now that I am older – motherhood, making a difference, disdain for sweet-talking politicians who promise you the world but don’t deliver, and sticking it out in this country, for better or for worse.
I’m here, though, and it’s the next best thing.
Call it a job interview with a twist.
One afternoon not too long ago, I was in a coffee shop talking to Standard Today editor-in-chief Jojo Robles. I had earlier informed him of my intention to join the paper as a correspondent and emailed sample essays so he could evaluate my writing and consider my application.
Jojo told me he needed not just a writer but an editor for the opinion section. We discussed the contents of my resume. Eventually, he started describing the role of editor in great detail. I was encouraged. I was almost saying yes before he even asked me.
Official matters over, I ventured to ask whether he knew anybody by the name of Liza Chua. My late mother had been a reporter for as long as I could remember. I also remembered that a significant part of her career was spent with Manila Standard. I hoped my memory did not fail me.
“You’re the daughter of Liza?” Jojo was stupefied. “Then I shouldn’t interview you any further. If you’re her daughter, it’s like I know you already.” Shortly thereafter, I assumed my post at the newsroom’s central desk.
Memory snatches
Unlike most children, I did not enjoy everyday interaction with my mother -- we did not live in the same house. To make up for this, she made sure we were always together during weekends or whenever I was on holiday from school. By being together I do not mean lounging around, watching television or strolling at the park. She always had to go to work, on odd days and odd hours. Spending time with her meant tagging along to wherever she went. This was her brand of quality time, and this was my introduction to journalism.
My mother was a beat reporter, assigned to cover Malacanang. As a girl of nine or ten, I was freely going in and out of the Palace. That was not quite a big deal then; what stood out more were the string of jeepney rides we had to take (think Monumento-Recto-Quiapo-San Miguel) and the long walk we had to take going into the compound – and all in the noontime heat. By the time we got to Kalayaan Hall, I was all but ready to slump in the sofa in front of the giant television set. Meanwhile, my mom talked with her colleagues or wrote her story in one of the cubicles. Saturdays were lazy days at the Palace, so she told me. When I got bored or remembered where I was, I called up my friends from a red telephone inside an honest-to-goodness booth – exactly like Colin Farrell’s. Within a few hours, my mom was done – she usually rushed because we still had one stop: the newsroom.
The Standard office was then at the Elizalde Building along Ayala Avenue in Makati. The elevator was dim and scary. The office furniture was rickety; the desks littered with paper, coffee mugs and occasional cockroaches. The phones rang endlessly. There were no computers then, of course, only manual typewriters that clicked nonstop. After awhile, one’s ears became used to the noise. The usual comment we got from her officemates was that we looked more like sisters than mother-and-daughter. I was used to that; after all, she had me when she was barely 20.
Only after turning in her story – usually in the early evening – did she consider herself done for the day. We usually headed to the Makati Commercial Center where Glorietta and Greenbelt now stand. We feasted, standing up, on noodles and siomai from her favorite kiosk. She gave me P100 to spend any way I wanted in National Book Store. In those days, the amount fetched me two or three paperbacks. Good ones. Then we took a bus that went straight from Makati to Valenzuela, plying what now seems like a primitive Edsa. There were very few airconditioned buses then, and I usually chose a window seat in the ordinary bus. Traffic was light, and by the time we reached our stop, my face was numb with the wind.
The editorial department’s Christmas parties were famous for the movie stars that graced them. In one particular year, the guest was teen idol Jestoni Alarcon. In the bathroom, I remember overhearing a conversation between two women who were talking about Jestoni and having to hold on to their underwear. I was perplexed at the apparent lack of connection.
I am not sure if it was that same party or another gathering, at a Chinese restaurant, where my mother was asked to sing. She brought along a multiplex, but for some reason the tape just stopped in the middle of the number. Loving the spotlight at whatever cost, she shrugged off the hitch and finished singing “Iisa pa lamang,” a capella.
The Standard, today
On my first day in the newsroom, I was introduced to people not as someone who had been part of this or that organization but as, plain and simple, the daughter of a former reporter. World editor Dinna Chan Vasquez exclaimed “Ah, si Liza, yung nagbebenta ng paputok!”
Indeed, Liza was a peddler of wares. I remember helping her carry the fireworks. In those pre-terrorism days, such items were allowed in the Light Rail Transit. I used to complain having to go up and down the terminal stairs carrying a big plastic bag on either hand.
Dinna also remembers Liza coming to the office with a little too much make up on her face. Aside from being inherently vain (even in her hospital bed, in those last days, she was most sore about having to be “panget” and insisted on having her kikay bag at her bedside), she used to play bit roles in films. Those movies are totally lost to me now, except for “Huwag Kang Hahalik sa Diyablo,” where she played the role of the yaya of Isabel Granada and Chuckie Dreyfuss. The movie stands out because here she had a kissing scene – lips-to-lips, mind you – with Gabby Concepcion who played the “diyablo.” Man, that really got my stepfather riled.
Not once did I hear Liza complain about juggling journalism with other sources of income. Aside from me, she had three other little girls to support. I do not think the thought of practicing any other profession even crossed her mind. As long as she could keep on writing, she didn’t mind having to be “creative” every now and then.
Homecoming queen
Liza succumbed to cancer of the colon in October of 1992. I was sixteen then, just done with the National College Entrance Examinations and in the middle of sending out university applications.
The wake showed our family how generous friends could be. We did not have to worry about little things like supplies running out, tents or chairs for the visitors, even the bill for the mortuary services. During the funeral, there were so many vehicles that people on the streets thought the hearse was carrying a celebrity. A group of journalists came in a van and told us there was still a lot of room in that vehicle for family members. I rode the van with my grandmother.
Now I find myself in this newspaper – a second-generation Standard employee in the editorial department. I am beginning to see this company in the same way as Liza may have seen it some eighteen years ago.
I especially like the giant corkboard where we pin our newspaper’s front page alongside the front pages of all other broadsheets and tabloids. I take pride that even though we are not the most widely circulated or the most known paper, we strive for balance and fairness. We do not give in to the temptation to sensationalize just to sell or play too safe to the point of blandness. I admire how we work hard at our craft, agonize over words and phrases, and abide by the rules of style.
Aside from the professional reasons, I really just like it here. This was Liza’s world -- albeit a different edifice and a different set of editors. I never knew her that much: she was only an occasional parent, and I feel that there is a lot of catching up to do. Had she lived, we would have been able to share many things now that I am older – motherhood, making a difference, disdain for sweet-talking politicians who promise you the world but don’t deliver, and sticking it out in this country, for better or for worse.
I’m here, though, and it’s the next best thing.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Death in Noah
Saturday night. I am packing our bags for a four-day trip to Noah’s Island, one of the most expensive resorts in the country.
This may just be the perfect opportunity for me to sort out my feelings towards you and its repercussions on our family. I have been wanting to leave. For years. Every bone in my body aches to start afresh – apart from you, your booming voice, your irrational demands, your irresponsibility, your pretense, the way you put me down and the way you feel you are entitled to all of the above. Matter of fact, I have plotted to leave thrice already. I have always chickened out.
Perhaps this trip would give us the chance to rekindle what must be left of a romance that used to be powerful enough for me to compromise an otherwise lucrative future.
Sayang naman. Baka pwede pa.
Imagine that – a honeymoon for free! And I just have to write about this resort and publish it in my newspaper! Not too bad. Not too bad at all.
Sunday, 2am. I am up very early. I think I slept only about 45 minutes, afraid lest I oversleep. The PR company's car is coming to pick us up and bring us to the airport at 330. We don’t want to be late.
I have managed to keep my baggage down to 8 kilos, 2 short of the maximum weight we are allowed to carry on the charter plane. I left my laptop, although I would need it every afternoon for about two hours, beginning at about 430 every day. You say we don’t need the extra weight and you will be bringing your own laptop, with the Visibility gadget that will hopefully get me online even in that remote island off the shore of Palawan.
I am dressed to go. I have fixed the kids’ meal schedules for the next four days and posted it on the ref door. I know the loyal Esther will stick to schedule; she always does. I will miss the children, and I will worry about the two older ones ganging upon the babies.
I banish the thought. They will benefit from this trip in the long run, anyhow. It may just save their parents’ marriage.
I am supposed to wake you up any minute now. I hope you are in a good mood and are excited as I am.
You are. This time you don’t grumble as I rouse you and tell you it is time to get up. In fact, you kiss me on the cheek. The best thing about all these is that it’s free, you say, with a little too much glee.
9am. We have just landed on the northeastern tip of Palawan. Now we are waiting for the jeepney that will take us to the shore, where we will board a banca that will bring us to the resort. It will be an hour’s boat rode, so I am told.
There are a lot of flies. You say the iced tea doesn’t have ice and isn’t even cold at all. You tell me to watch your bag as you look for the bathroom. The line is too long. Finally, the jeep is here. I am feeling cramped.
1130 am. The boat ride is phenomenal. I am surprised my cell phone is able to detect a signal even at the heart of Apulit Bay. I call the house to check on the children but you stop me. This is a vacation, you say, and clumsy as I am, I may just drop the phone into the water.
We arrive at the resort where there is a welcome party, some sort of cultural show, and a round of refreshing drinks.
We are handed keys to Cottage 26. There’s a wooden bridge that leads to the door. The hut stands on the water. The terrace opens out into the sea. You turn on the aircon as I slide open the glass door to the veranda. You seem piqued. You say it is hot and having the glass door open will diffuse the cold air. I am tempted to say, isn't some natural breeze what we are here for? But I bite my tongue and refrain from saying a word. I don’t want to vex you this early. Remember, this is make or break for me.
After you put your bags down, you act a little more relaxed. I say I want to take a shower and freshen up before we go to the club house for the sumptuous lunch promised us. But you say you are going in first. Then you take so long in the bathroom that by the time you step out, all freshened up from our flight, we are already late and the coordinator has already called our room to tell us we’re the only ones missing in the group.
Monday, 6am. I open my eyes and briefly wonder where I am. I cannot feel the sleeping forms of the babies. I am cold. Then I realize I have nothing but the sheets around my body.
It is still half-dark. The sun is only beginning to rise. I pull the draperies to the sides and gasp at the beauty beyond our veranda. I cannot resist. I stand up, gather the sheets tighter and open the glass doors. The early morning breeze takes my breath away. It is so beautiful I want to cry.
Pssst, you say. You don’t want to give the fishermen a show, do you? I look at you and wonder what you are talking about. There were no fisherman, no fishing boats. In fact, there was nobody in sight, just me and this beautiful scene in front of me. But now you are awake and I feel the magic fade just a little.
It’s still early, you say. You reach for your Omega on the nightstand and say there’s a little over an hour before breakfast. You tell me to draw back the curtains, drop the sheets and climb back to bed. I do.
5pm. You say I should hurry up and that we didn’t come all the way to Palawan for me to get cooped up with work. I am wasting the entire experience.
But, see, I’m hurrying already. I’m finishing up editing the columns and in a while I will be able to email them back to my layout artist. I will be done in 30 minutes, I tell you. You walk to the veranda and light up a cigarette.
10pm. There is so much good food it seems like a sin to enjoy all these. Everything tastes heavenly, and one wishes one's stomach expanded indefinitely to make sure one never missed out on anything. I feasted on seafood, of course, and some kind of brown rice (they called it unpolished) I've never heard of before. Kind of keeps a cap on your guilt feelings for packing in all that food.
This time, the dinner is held outdoors. We have had occasion to socialize with the other participants in the group tour. There is the mother-daughter team (the daughter is editor of a glossy) who always looked – and smelled – as though they just stepped out of a Balinese spa. There are the middle-aged sisters who look exactly alike except that one is very thin and the other plump. Then there are Mang Romy and his wife. The man regales the group with stories from all the big political events he has covered, from as far back as the time of Magsaysay. He does lifestyle stories for balance, he says, and to take his wife out on holidays he otherwise cannot afford. The wife, always smiling and agreeable, seems happily used to Mang Romy's chatter. I've seen them sharing a drink in the veranda next to ours (they occupied Cottage 25). I wonder: Does it take decades for a woman to know if it's worth staying on?
Tonight you say none of them looks particularly interesting so we should just sit by ourselves. Again there is a cultural show and free-flowing wine and beer. We talk about the children. What careers would fit them? You say at least one of them should be in the medical field and go abroad, strike it big in Canada like your relatives. I believe otherwise but calculate my replies. I think children should make a career of what they love doing most. Then they are bound to succeed, and effortlessly.
My cell phone alarm rings and tells us it is time to head back to our cottage, Our complimentary massage starts at 1030. The masahistas should be waiting by now.
Tuesday, 10am. We have just woken up. I dress hurriedly hoping there is still breakfast at the club house. I took a long time falling asleep even though the one-hour massage was heavenly because the oil they used simply reeked! Some flowery smell and I can't even tell what it is.
There is still food, it turns out, because it's not breakfast they are serving today but brunch. There's a big activity scheduled for the rest of the day. Those who knew how can go diving. Some can snorkel, or learn how to. Some can just laze around and swim.
I figure I should get out of my comfort zone. I just might be making bold (albeit calculated) moves pretty soon. Now, I know how to float but never to swim. So I decide to learn to snorkel. Seems safe enough, since it does not require one to submerge one's body in water. On the contrary, it's right smack in the middle of water and the air around you. Plus the bonus of seeing the coral reefs Palawan is famous for.
It takes me an hour or two to learn. But you are a fast learner. In the first place, you already know how to swim and thus have more confidence. I look around for you and see you are farther out to sea, happily exploring that patch of the underworld on your own. I try to catch up. I don't like hanging on to the arm of the instructor too long.
When I do learn, not even hunger could make me come to shore. I am awed, humbled. I feel small and inconsequential. It's the stuff even the most elaborate aquarium cannot dare imitate. It's the real thing.
Soon, peace engulfs this intruder. What troubles, I then ask. One failed marriage is nothing compared to this. Beauty outlives ugliness and hurt. Everything is a snapshot. Hallelujah! There is a god!
300pm. Finally I come up and I look around for you but you are nowhere in sight. I remember I have work to do. I rush to our cottage to dry up and boot up the computer.I have to write tomorrow's editorial, too, and I haven't the faintest idea what is going on in political Manila.
You are in our room, in the terrace, finishing off a can of Coke. You ask what time I will finish and I tell you I should be done around six. That's too long, you say. You bid me to come to bed first. It's not even four yet, and some of the other editors are not even in the office yet, you say. I relent and decide to defer working for the next 30 minutes to lie beside you. When I hear you starting to snore, I get up and buckle down to work. The back of my arms are starting to sting. Sunburn.
Tuesday, 9am. Today is our last full day in this resort, and the program coordinators are saying the day's activity will be, by far, the best. Briefly I wonder if anything can still be better than snorkeling. Then again, I keep an open mind.
After breakfast, the entire party is hauled off in two boats for the must-experience island hop. The sea is greenish-blue and clear. The wind on my face is liberating. Again I feel so small, so overwhelmed. But I snap out of the mush and remind myself I am here because I have been asked to write about this resort. They just want to sell, period. An ex-deal. but what the heck. I'm totally sold myself.
The first island is full of caves. There a tiny openings between jagged rocks and we have to twist and tilt our bodies to get in. I see you are having a difficult time, and I stay around to help you. You seem to resent it, though, just as you say you resent that I have allowed you to grow this big, that it is my fault I did not feed you healthy food or moderate your cravings.
I am spooked by the caves. My imagination runs wild and I picture bats, or, horrors, bodies of tourists who have gone missing but were never found. I am one of the first to get back on the boat.
On the shores of the next island is a long table laden with colorful flags. We get nearer and see the table is loaded. We take lunch, our ankles submerged in water, and after stuffing ourselves ponder whether it is better to sip watermelon shake or go snorkeling again. I am biased for the latter. I may never get this opportunity in a long while.
9pm. Dinner is served earlier so the group can prepare for the early trip back to Manila the following morning. You are freshening up in the bathroom while I await my turn by looking out to sea from my reclining seat in the veranda. The water in front of me is vast and, in the darkness, menacing. What lies ahead?
You get out of the bathroom and dump several pieces of clothes and undergarments I have earlier washed and dried into my lap. See I meant to lessen the number of damp clothes we would be bringing back so they would fit better in my bag. “Kunin mo na to,” you tell me. “Squatter.”
My heart stops. Did I hear you right? Did you just say squatter? Maybe you meant, what's the matter? Mind over matter? Laughter? Blotter? Anything but?
In bed, that last night, I try to hide tears running down my cheeks as you hold me close. My chest feels as though it is being hammered repeatedly. I have difficulty breathing. My mind is screaming. Squatter? On whose credit do we get this chance to spend four days in Noah's Island? Mine. MINE!!!
I try to hide my sniffing, but you notice. You say I've caught a cold because I'm not used to sleeping naked anymore.
Wednesday, 930 am. The 22-seater aircraft has just taken off. The islands get smaller and smaller below. In an hour we would be back in Manila. I utter a prayer. My pulse is racing. My heart, beating loud. I cannot wait to get back to land.
And plan the rest of my life.
This may just be the perfect opportunity for me to sort out my feelings towards you and its repercussions on our family. I have been wanting to leave. For years. Every bone in my body aches to start afresh – apart from you, your booming voice, your irrational demands, your irresponsibility, your pretense, the way you put me down and the way you feel you are entitled to all of the above. Matter of fact, I have plotted to leave thrice already. I have always chickened out.
Perhaps this trip would give us the chance to rekindle what must be left of a romance that used to be powerful enough for me to compromise an otherwise lucrative future.
Sayang naman. Baka pwede pa.
Imagine that – a honeymoon for free! And I just have to write about this resort and publish it in my newspaper! Not too bad. Not too bad at all.
Sunday, 2am. I am up very early. I think I slept only about 45 minutes, afraid lest I oversleep. The PR company's car is coming to pick us up and bring us to the airport at 330. We don’t want to be late.
I have managed to keep my baggage down to 8 kilos, 2 short of the maximum weight we are allowed to carry on the charter plane. I left my laptop, although I would need it every afternoon for about two hours, beginning at about 430 every day. You say we don’t need the extra weight and you will be bringing your own laptop, with the Visibility gadget that will hopefully get me online even in that remote island off the shore of Palawan.
I am dressed to go. I have fixed the kids’ meal schedules for the next four days and posted it on the ref door. I know the loyal Esther will stick to schedule; she always does. I will miss the children, and I will worry about the two older ones ganging upon the babies.
I banish the thought. They will benefit from this trip in the long run, anyhow. It may just save their parents’ marriage.
I am supposed to wake you up any minute now. I hope you are in a good mood and are excited as I am.
You are. This time you don’t grumble as I rouse you and tell you it is time to get up. In fact, you kiss me on the cheek. The best thing about all these is that it’s free, you say, with a little too much glee.
9am. We have just landed on the northeastern tip of Palawan. Now we are waiting for the jeepney that will take us to the shore, where we will board a banca that will bring us to the resort. It will be an hour’s boat rode, so I am told.
There are a lot of flies. You say the iced tea doesn’t have ice and isn’t even cold at all. You tell me to watch your bag as you look for the bathroom. The line is too long. Finally, the jeep is here. I am feeling cramped.
1130 am. The boat ride is phenomenal. I am surprised my cell phone is able to detect a signal even at the heart of Apulit Bay. I call the house to check on the children but you stop me. This is a vacation, you say, and clumsy as I am, I may just drop the phone into the water.
We arrive at the resort where there is a welcome party, some sort of cultural show, and a round of refreshing drinks.
We are handed keys to Cottage 26. There’s a wooden bridge that leads to the door. The hut stands on the water. The terrace opens out into the sea. You turn on the aircon as I slide open the glass door to the veranda. You seem piqued. You say it is hot and having the glass door open will diffuse the cold air. I am tempted to say, isn't some natural breeze what we are here for? But I bite my tongue and refrain from saying a word. I don’t want to vex you this early. Remember, this is make or break for me.
After you put your bags down, you act a little more relaxed. I say I want to take a shower and freshen up before we go to the club house for the sumptuous lunch promised us. But you say you are going in first. Then you take so long in the bathroom that by the time you step out, all freshened up from our flight, we are already late and the coordinator has already called our room to tell us we’re the only ones missing in the group.
Monday, 6am. I open my eyes and briefly wonder where I am. I cannot feel the sleeping forms of the babies. I am cold. Then I realize I have nothing but the sheets around my body.
It is still half-dark. The sun is only beginning to rise. I pull the draperies to the sides and gasp at the beauty beyond our veranda. I cannot resist. I stand up, gather the sheets tighter and open the glass doors. The early morning breeze takes my breath away. It is so beautiful I want to cry.
Pssst, you say. You don’t want to give the fishermen a show, do you? I look at you and wonder what you are talking about. There were no fisherman, no fishing boats. In fact, there was nobody in sight, just me and this beautiful scene in front of me. But now you are awake and I feel the magic fade just a little.
It’s still early, you say. You reach for your Omega on the nightstand and say there’s a little over an hour before breakfast. You tell me to draw back the curtains, drop the sheets and climb back to bed. I do.
5pm. You say I should hurry up and that we didn’t come all the way to Palawan for me to get cooped up with work. I am wasting the entire experience.
But, see, I’m hurrying already. I’m finishing up editing the columns and in a while I will be able to email them back to my layout artist. I will be done in 30 minutes, I tell you. You walk to the veranda and light up a cigarette.
10pm. There is so much good food it seems like a sin to enjoy all these. Everything tastes heavenly, and one wishes one's stomach expanded indefinitely to make sure one never missed out on anything. I feasted on seafood, of course, and some kind of brown rice (they called it unpolished) I've never heard of before. Kind of keeps a cap on your guilt feelings for packing in all that food.
This time, the dinner is held outdoors. We have had occasion to socialize with the other participants in the group tour. There is the mother-daughter team (the daughter is editor of a glossy) who always looked – and smelled – as though they just stepped out of a Balinese spa. There are the middle-aged sisters who look exactly alike except that one is very thin and the other plump. Then there are Mang Romy and his wife. The man regales the group with stories from all the big political events he has covered, from as far back as the time of Magsaysay. He does lifestyle stories for balance, he says, and to take his wife out on holidays he otherwise cannot afford. The wife, always smiling and agreeable, seems happily used to Mang Romy's chatter. I've seen them sharing a drink in the veranda next to ours (they occupied Cottage 25). I wonder: Does it take decades for a woman to know if it's worth staying on?
Tonight you say none of them looks particularly interesting so we should just sit by ourselves. Again there is a cultural show and free-flowing wine and beer. We talk about the children. What careers would fit them? You say at least one of them should be in the medical field and go abroad, strike it big in Canada like your relatives. I believe otherwise but calculate my replies. I think children should make a career of what they love doing most. Then they are bound to succeed, and effortlessly.
My cell phone alarm rings and tells us it is time to head back to our cottage, Our complimentary massage starts at 1030. The masahistas should be waiting by now.
Tuesday, 10am. We have just woken up. I dress hurriedly hoping there is still breakfast at the club house. I took a long time falling asleep even though the one-hour massage was heavenly because the oil they used simply reeked! Some flowery smell and I can't even tell what it is.
There is still food, it turns out, because it's not breakfast they are serving today but brunch. There's a big activity scheduled for the rest of the day. Those who knew how can go diving. Some can snorkel, or learn how to. Some can just laze around and swim.
I figure I should get out of my comfort zone. I just might be making bold (albeit calculated) moves pretty soon. Now, I know how to float but never to swim. So I decide to learn to snorkel. Seems safe enough, since it does not require one to submerge one's body in water. On the contrary, it's right smack in the middle of water and the air around you. Plus the bonus of seeing the coral reefs Palawan is famous for.
It takes me an hour or two to learn. But you are a fast learner. In the first place, you already know how to swim and thus have more confidence. I look around for you and see you are farther out to sea, happily exploring that patch of the underworld on your own. I try to catch up. I don't like hanging on to the arm of the instructor too long.
When I do learn, not even hunger could make me come to shore. I am awed, humbled. I feel small and inconsequential. It's the stuff even the most elaborate aquarium cannot dare imitate. It's the real thing.
Soon, peace engulfs this intruder. What troubles, I then ask. One failed marriage is nothing compared to this. Beauty outlives ugliness and hurt. Everything is a snapshot. Hallelujah! There is a god!
300pm. Finally I come up and I look around for you but you are nowhere in sight. I remember I have work to do. I rush to our cottage to dry up and boot up the computer.I have to write tomorrow's editorial, too, and I haven't the faintest idea what is going on in political Manila.
You are in our room, in the terrace, finishing off a can of Coke. You ask what time I will finish and I tell you I should be done around six. That's too long, you say. You bid me to come to bed first. It's not even four yet, and some of the other editors are not even in the office yet, you say. I relent and decide to defer working for the next 30 minutes to lie beside you. When I hear you starting to snore, I get up and buckle down to work. The back of my arms are starting to sting. Sunburn.
Tuesday, 9am. Today is our last full day in this resort, and the program coordinators are saying the day's activity will be, by far, the best. Briefly I wonder if anything can still be better than snorkeling. Then again, I keep an open mind.
After breakfast, the entire party is hauled off in two boats for the must-experience island hop. The sea is greenish-blue and clear. The wind on my face is liberating. Again I feel so small, so overwhelmed. But I snap out of the mush and remind myself I am here because I have been asked to write about this resort. They just want to sell, period. An ex-deal. but what the heck. I'm totally sold myself.
The first island is full of caves. There a tiny openings between jagged rocks and we have to twist and tilt our bodies to get in. I see you are having a difficult time, and I stay around to help you. You seem to resent it, though, just as you say you resent that I have allowed you to grow this big, that it is my fault I did not feed you healthy food or moderate your cravings.
I am spooked by the caves. My imagination runs wild and I picture bats, or, horrors, bodies of tourists who have gone missing but were never found. I am one of the first to get back on the boat.
On the shores of the next island is a long table laden with colorful flags. We get nearer and see the table is loaded. We take lunch, our ankles submerged in water, and after stuffing ourselves ponder whether it is better to sip watermelon shake or go snorkeling again. I am biased for the latter. I may never get this opportunity in a long while.
9pm. Dinner is served earlier so the group can prepare for the early trip back to Manila the following morning. You are freshening up in the bathroom while I await my turn by looking out to sea from my reclining seat in the veranda. The water in front of me is vast and, in the darkness, menacing. What lies ahead?
You get out of the bathroom and dump several pieces of clothes and undergarments I have earlier washed and dried into my lap. See I meant to lessen the number of damp clothes we would be bringing back so they would fit better in my bag. “Kunin mo na to,” you tell me. “Squatter.”
My heart stops. Did I hear you right? Did you just say squatter? Maybe you meant, what's the matter? Mind over matter? Laughter? Blotter? Anything but?
In bed, that last night, I try to hide tears running down my cheeks as you hold me close. My chest feels as though it is being hammered repeatedly. I have difficulty breathing. My mind is screaming. Squatter? On whose credit do we get this chance to spend four days in Noah's Island? Mine. MINE!!!
I try to hide my sniffing, but you notice. You say I've caught a cold because I'm not used to sleeping naked anymore.
Wednesday, 930 am. The 22-seater aircraft has just taken off. The islands get smaller and smaller below. In an hour we would be back in Manila. I utter a prayer. My pulse is racing. My heart, beating loud. I cannot wait to get back to land.
And plan the rest of my life.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Marrying Kind
MST, 14 Apr 2008
I'm helping a psychologist friend edit reports he submits to lawyers who in turn submit petitions to courts for declaration of nullity of marriages. I've been doing this since 2005, and I must have processed the stories of at least 80 couples who, for some reason or another, want the court to declare that it is as though they and their spouses have never been married in the first place.
Needless to say, business is good.
I remember, too, that a few months ago, Solicitor General Agnes Devanadera expressed alarm that the number of nullity cases filed with her office had been increasing. Devanadera added that the principal ground invoked for the petitions was provided for by Article 36 of the Family Code. That article is more popularly known as “psychological incapacity.”
Ideally, this term is applied sparingly, i.e., in extreme cases only. Thus, mere quarrels, petty incompatibilities, infidelity and even isolated instances of violence are, in themselves, insufficient to have a marriage declared null and void.
Instead, a person's individual actions should form a behavioral pattern, observed during a prolonged time period. Conclusions are drawn from narrations of marital histories, interviews with witnesses and, most importantly, the results of a battery of (at least seven) psychological tests that both spouses must undergo.
These patterns define the pathological disorder (any or a combination of the numerous types, based on the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) that in turn makes somebody psychologically incapable of carrying out the obligations attendant to married life. And they are pretty basic -- to live together, to observe mutual love, respect and fidelity, and to render mutual help and support. The disorder must be proven severe and incurable.
Airtight conditions, you say? On the practical level, there are several things that don't quite fit.
First, there is an implied requirement that the disorder should be a dormant condition. The tendencies must already be present prior to the marriage, but must be made manifest thereafter. So how can you tell if the man you are marrying is a narcissistic, histrionic,antisocial or dependent type if the two of you are just so enamored with each other? You can only point to the tendencies in hindsight, when, after a few years, love (or anything close to it) has gone sour.
Second, a declaration of nullity means that it is as if one has never been married at all. But if one's disorder is supposed to be inherent, and independent of whoever the mate is, why are both spouses, even the one declared incapacitated, permitted to get married anew? Won't this screw up his or her chances of having a successful relationship with the next one? Devanadera talks about marital recidivists – what do you do with people who think the perfect marriage is arrived at by trial and error?
Third, the law agrees to be, for once, illogical in the interest of compassion. Recognizing the stigma as well as the legal disadvantages of children out of illegitimate unions (I cringe to say illegitimate children, it just does not sound right) the law says children born out of marriages subsequently declared null shall remain legitimate. It simply does not follow. How can children out of a union which had been void from the beginning be legitimate?
Don't get me wrong, though. I think the compassion is laudable.
Suffice it to say that preparedness of both parties is the best possible guarantee that a union would work. And being prepared does not have anything to do with preparing to deliver babies. Indeed, in many of the cases i have seen, the parties rushed into marriage because of an unplanned pregnancy. I hope that parents are now more flexible and should know better than insisting on marriage as a way of legitimizing any premature acts on the part of their children. Because what happens once teenagers get past the “the-hell-with-everything-i-love-him/her” stage? As in that old movie, Reality Bites. And bites hard.
It's disturbing, too, that just because the Philippines takes pride in being a predominantly Catholic nation (oh, how many times has this phrase been abused!), we can't even seriously consider divorce as a plausible option for couples whose marriages – after reasonable effort at saving them is exhausted, of course – just won't work anymore? In the meantime, troubled couples resort to nullity petitions that deny something that was once good ever existed. But who wants to be in denial? Who will want to be declared incapacitated or apply that to somebody one used to love?
You'll be surprised how badly some people want their freedom. They will do anything -- even participate in a sham.
In this sense, a legal separation sounds more pragmatic, because at least it recognizes the existence of the union and legitimizes the parting of ways. The only reason why this is not popular is because it doesn't enable the parties to remarry. Everybody wants a second chance. Everybody wants to do better after one has failed. Right?
And it's not as if the system is perfect. Only those with the money and the patience can avail themselves of this legal recourse. We know too well that some lawyers are more comfortable in particular cities or municipalities because they know the family court judges in the area. In such a scenario, literally, lives and futures are determined by associations. Isn't that another heartbreaking matter as well?
Relationships fail. Nobody likes it that way. But it doesn't help, too, that a failed union, in an attempt to go around existing laws, should be reduced to nil. It is not nil. At best, it is a life-defining experience which has taught one precious lessons.
The worst would be to pretend none of it ever happened. Mistakes and failures should be acknowledged. Only then can people move on. To being better parents, better persons.
I'm helping a psychologist friend edit reports he submits to lawyers who in turn submit petitions to courts for declaration of nullity of marriages. I've been doing this since 2005, and I must have processed the stories of at least 80 couples who, for some reason or another, want the court to declare that it is as though they and their spouses have never been married in the first place.
Needless to say, business is good.
I remember, too, that a few months ago, Solicitor General Agnes Devanadera expressed alarm that the number of nullity cases filed with her office had been increasing. Devanadera added that the principal ground invoked for the petitions was provided for by Article 36 of the Family Code. That article is more popularly known as “psychological incapacity.”
Ideally, this term is applied sparingly, i.e., in extreme cases only. Thus, mere quarrels, petty incompatibilities, infidelity and even isolated instances of violence are, in themselves, insufficient to have a marriage declared null and void.
Instead, a person's individual actions should form a behavioral pattern, observed during a prolonged time period. Conclusions are drawn from narrations of marital histories, interviews with witnesses and, most importantly, the results of a battery of (at least seven) psychological tests that both spouses must undergo.
These patterns define the pathological disorder (any or a combination of the numerous types, based on the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) that in turn makes somebody psychologically incapable of carrying out the obligations attendant to married life. And they are pretty basic -- to live together, to observe mutual love, respect and fidelity, and to render mutual help and support. The disorder must be proven severe and incurable.
Airtight conditions, you say? On the practical level, there are several things that don't quite fit.
First, there is an implied requirement that the disorder should be a dormant condition. The tendencies must already be present prior to the marriage, but must be made manifest thereafter. So how can you tell if the man you are marrying is a narcissistic, histrionic,antisocial or dependent type if the two of you are just so enamored with each other? You can only point to the tendencies in hindsight, when, after a few years, love (or anything close to it) has gone sour.
Second, a declaration of nullity means that it is as if one has never been married at all. But if one's disorder is supposed to be inherent, and independent of whoever the mate is, why are both spouses, even the one declared incapacitated, permitted to get married anew? Won't this screw up his or her chances of having a successful relationship with the next one? Devanadera talks about marital recidivists – what do you do with people who think the perfect marriage is arrived at by trial and error?
Third, the law agrees to be, for once, illogical in the interest of compassion. Recognizing the stigma as well as the legal disadvantages of children out of illegitimate unions (I cringe to say illegitimate children, it just does not sound right) the law says children born out of marriages subsequently declared null shall remain legitimate. It simply does not follow. How can children out of a union which had been void from the beginning be legitimate?
Don't get me wrong, though. I think the compassion is laudable.
Suffice it to say that preparedness of both parties is the best possible guarantee that a union would work. And being prepared does not have anything to do with preparing to deliver babies. Indeed, in many of the cases i have seen, the parties rushed into marriage because of an unplanned pregnancy. I hope that parents are now more flexible and should know better than insisting on marriage as a way of legitimizing any premature acts on the part of their children. Because what happens once teenagers get past the “the-hell-with-everything-i-love-him/her” stage? As in that old movie, Reality Bites. And bites hard.
It's disturbing, too, that just because the Philippines takes pride in being a predominantly Catholic nation (oh, how many times has this phrase been abused!), we can't even seriously consider divorce as a plausible option for couples whose marriages – after reasonable effort at saving them is exhausted, of course – just won't work anymore? In the meantime, troubled couples resort to nullity petitions that deny something that was once good ever existed. But who wants to be in denial? Who will want to be declared incapacitated or apply that to somebody one used to love?
You'll be surprised how badly some people want their freedom. They will do anything -- even participate in a sham.
In this sense, a legal separation sounds more pragmatic, because at least it recognizes the existence of the union and legitimizes the parting of ways. The only reason why this is not popular is because it doesn't enable the parties to remarry. Everybody wants a second chance. Everybody wants to do better after one has failed. Right?
And it's not as if the system is perfect. Only those with the money and the patience can avail themselves of this legal recourse. We know too well that some lawyers are more comfortable in particular cities or municipalities because they know the family court judges in the area. In such a scenario, literally, lives and futures are determined by associations. Isn't that another heartbreaking matter as well?
Relationships fail. Nobody likes it that way. But it doesn't help, too, that a failed union, in an attempt to go around existing laws, should be reduced to nil. It is not nil. At best, it is a life-defining experience which has taught one precious lessons.
The worst would be to pretend none of it ever happened. Mistakes and failures should be acknowledged. Only then can people move on. To being better parents, better persons.
A Less Imperfect State
Barbara C. Gonzales wrote a charming essay called “An Imperfect State” which appears in the anthology Pinay, Autobiographical Narratives by Women Writers (1926-1998) edited by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo and published by the Ateneo de Manila University Press (2000).
It's a compelling read because Ms. Gonzales describes, in simple present tense, one particular Monday in her life as a single parent and career woman. She claims she is not superwoman, hence the title, but she remains cheerful and happy.
Now I'd like to borrow that phrase and stretch it a bit.
It is April. I've been single since July last year, and there are no signs I am changing my mind. In fact, every day i wake up, convinced that I am on the right track. Heck, I did not say it is easy, but it's priceless, feeling you're in control. I don't think I'll even be prepared to give up this self-possession again. For anybody.
Tonight, for instance. It is Saturday, my precious day off (my newspaper does not have Sunday issue), and I am itching to get more writing done now that I have just discovered the wonders of blogging. Some deadlines loom, too, both in my official work and my moonlighting engagements. There is a lot to do to put this apartment in order. I've just rearranged the living room furniture so that now my home office is right by the window, but I haven't gotten around to fixing the bunch of papers stashed away in these drawers. I always get interrupted, and I'm easily set off by dust. Achoo.
The freshly-laundered clothes, too, remain on the bed, waiting for me to put them back to our respective closets. But it is just too hot upstairs.
Excuses, excuses. The kids won't leave me alone. technically it's Big Kid Season (On Fridays and Saturdays, Bea, 14 and Joshua, 12 are only too happy to have me to themselves) and I'm supposed to be catching up with cleaning chores, planning, organizing and watching all the TV I can handle. But then I had to compete with MTV and Nickelodeon. Good thing we somet9imes agree on Fox Crime.
Of course I was not able to accomplish all that today. I discovered that my salary had not yet been credited to my savings account and with that went my plans of going to the supermarket to stack up for the next two weeks. I overslept, felt lazy to whip up anything more complicated than a frying job in the kitchen. My back bothered me all day. The big kids teased me non-stop about a phone call from a male friend and I struggled (okay, I failed) to keep my cool.
In the late afternoon, my six-year-old son Elmo asked to be brought here and wanted to spend the night. For a brief moment I wondered what my estranged husband John would say to that. But heck, the kid wants to be with me! And so he is now asleep on the sofa bed on the living floor. I am thankful I finally put him into sleep so I coulld start keying away. he is too excited at the taekwom-do class he is starting on Monday that he just would not stop talking. Must be all that Milo he gulped after dinner..
Only my other Small Kid, Sophie, who is eight, is with her father tonight. The small ones are really supposed to be with me from Sundays to Thursdays, and Sophie likes to comply with the arrangements. Nah, I'll see her tomorrow. I promised her we would play teacher mommy. She says Im the funniest mom around.
Not that where she is is anywhere far, anyhow. Actually, if I walked, I would be with her in three minutes' flat. But who wants to set foot in that house again? I'd already fled it, hadn't I?
A new week begins tomorrow, Sunday. I will fix up the terrace upstairs so the small kids could hang out there with all their clutter. See I have no househelp, and I have to fix things around here on my own. Oh there is a little help from my aunt, who lives with us, but she has a seven-day-a-week job, and the Big Kids help around but of course have to be nagged. Most times I find it easier to keep the peace and just do the work myself. Then I cross my fingers they would come around.
So far, in my calendar, I am supposed to have lunch with a friend, write one column and three editorials, interview somebody for a piece Id been wanting to write. Bea and Joshua have also scheduled a swimming party with their friends and been bugging me not to charge that expense item from their fixed allowance. There are bills to be paid. The house must be kept and so does my sanity.
And darn, my nails are hideous.
I can be tired and mean and grumpy. I think the neighbors – especially these college kids that occupy the unit to our left -- would depict me as a high-strung woman. See , even though the separation was a self-preservatory response to the stimulus from John, I'm a bit neurotic and feel it is my responsibility to try to be the equivalent of two parents to these four beautiful children. Im scared shit they would end up scarred.
But I know, too, that they would have been more scarred had I not gathered up the courage to leave. I'm living proof that teenage marriages, especially those that were contracted because of an unplanned pregnancy, are doomed. Especially when you realize you've picked a lemon, only that you were too insecure and naïve to realize it. When you did, it was too late. You have become parents, responsible for the lives of beings other than yourselves. Is that enough reason to stay? Not, I realized after all these years, when he has started throwing his weight around, putting you down, believing he's entitled to deference, eating into your spirit until you're a ghost of your former self.
It's not a comfortable life I've chosen. There would have been less resistance had i settled for the more conventional set-up, even if it were imperfect – no, rotten – to the core.
No thanks, though. I'm fine and getting by. I love my life.
It's a compelling read because Ms. Gonzales describes, in simple present tense, one particular Monday in her life as a single parent and career woman. She claims she is not superwoman, hence the title, but she remains cheerful and happy.
Now I'd like to borrow that phrase and stretch it a bit.
It is April. I've been single since July last year, and there are no signs I am changing my mind. In fact, every day i wake up, convinced that I am on the right track. Heck, I did not say it is easy, but it's priceless, feeling you're in control. I don't think I'll even be prepared to give up this self-possession again. For anybody.
Tonight, for instance. It is Saturday, my precious day off (my newspaper does not have Sunday issue), and I am itching to get more writing done now that I have just discovered the wonders of blogging. Some deadlines loom, too, both in my official work and my moonlighting engagements. There is a lot to do to put this apartment in order. I've just rearranged the living room furniture so that now my home office is right by the window, but I haven't gotten around to fixing the bunch of papers stashed away in these drawers. I always get interrupted, and I'm easily set off by dust. Achoo.
The freshly-laundered clothes, too, remain on the bed, waiting for me to put them back to our respective closets. But it is just too hot upstairs.
Excuses, excuses. The kids won't leave me alone. technically it's Big Kid Season (On Fridays and Saturdays, Bea, 14 and Joshua, 12 are only too happy to have me to themselves) and I'm supposed to be catching up with cleaning chores, planning, organizing and watching all the TV I can handle. But then I had to compete with MTV and Nickelodeon. Good thing we somet9imes agree on Fox Crime.
Of course I was not able to accomplish all that today. I discovered that my salary had not yet been credited to my savings account and with that went my plans of going to the supermarket to stack up for the next two weeks. I overslept, felt lazy to whip up anything more complicated than a frying job in the kitchen. My back bothered me all day. The big kids teased me non-stop about a phone call from a male friend and I struggled (okay, I failed) to keep my cool.
In the late afternoon, my six-year-old son Elmo asked to be brought here and wanted to spend the night. For a brief moment I wondered what my estranged husband John would say to that. But heck, the kid wants to be with me! And so he is now asleep on the sofa bed on the living floor. I am thankful I finally put him into sleep so I coulld start keying away. he is too excited at the taekwom-do class he is starting on Monday that he just would not stop talking. Must be all that Milo he gulped after dinner..
Only my other Small Kid, Sophie, who is eight, is with her father tonight. The small ones are really supposed to be with me from Sundays to Thursdays, and Sophie likes to comply with the arrangements. Nah, I'll see her tomorrow. I promised her we would play teacher mommy. She says Im the funniest mom around.
Not that where she is is anywhere far, anyhow. Actually, if I walked, I would be with her in three minutes' flat. But who wants to set foot in that house again? I'd already fled it, hadn't I?
A new week begins tomorrow, Sunday. I will fix up the terrace upstairs so the small kids could hang out there with all their clutter. See I have no househelp, and I have to fix things around here on my own. Oh there is a little help from my aunt, who lives with us, but she has a seven-day-a-week job, and the Big Kids help around but of course have to be nagged. Most times I find it easier to keep the peace and just do the work myself. Then I cross my fingers they would come around.
So far, in my calendar, I am supposed to have lunch with a friend, write one column and three editorials, interview somebody for a piece Id been wanting to write. Bea and Joshua have also scheduled a swimming party with their friends and been bugging me not to charge that expense item from their fixed allowance. There are bills to be paid. The house must be kept and so does my sanity.
And darn, my nails are hideous.
I can be tired and mean and grumpy. I think the neighbors – especially these college kids that occupy the unit to our left -- would depict me as a high-strung woman. See , even though the separation was a self-preservatory response to the stimulus from John, I'm a bit neurotic and feel it is my responsibility to try to be the equivalent of two parents to these four beautiful children. Im scared shit they would end up scarred.
But I know, too, that they would have been more scarred had I not gathered up the courage to leave. I'm living proof that teenage marriages, especially those that were contracted because of an unplanned pregnancy, are doomed. Especially when you realize you've picked a lemon, only that you were too insecure and naïve to realize it. When you did, it was too late. You have become parents, responsible for the lives of beings other than yourselves. Is that enough reason to stay? Not, I realized after all these years, when he has started throwing his weight around, putting you down, believing he's entitled to deference, eating into your spirit until you're a ghost of your former self.
It's not a comfortable life I've chosen. There would have been less resistance had i settled for the more conventional set-up, even if it were imperfect – no, rotten – to the core.
No thanks, though. I'm fine and getting by. I love my life.
Friday, April 11, 2008
A Love Story
June 1993
It was a room of no dimensions, a country without boundaries, and a world of no limits, and the color of its heavens changed from light to dark or dark to light or semi-dark to semi light.
All about that unfathomable space, there floated and swirled and blended and parted and chased one another beings of soft, light, liquid but never dripping mass. These playful ones, with neither face nor definite form, moved by instinct, and the most supreme Supreme governed the continuity of their existence.
This world of the unborn, within the earth, outside the heaven, inside the mind and beyond the universe, was connected to our sphere through a hole and a tunnel. Every so often, any huiman being would be called and be encased in the body of a newborn human.
This event was taken as an inevitable fact, and so we can say that the beings aimlessly drifted, waiting only for their turn. As a rule, they were supposed to be coprdial to one another. But there were two beings, at one point, who became especially fond of one another. We shall call them the pink being and the blue being, based on the impression of their unseen shade. They would curl together until they foprmed a ball, glowing with their delight, after which they would wiggle and untangle themselves. Within that world was another world, theirs, and no other being could penetrate it.
But one day, as the two were engrossed in a game of chase, the blue being suddenly got bluer and bluer, until his radiance nearly blinded his friend. And then he was zapped, pulled away by a Great force. he was fast receding, out of control, and before his friend could utter a cry of helplessness, he disappeared into the tunnel.
Since then, the pink being became paler and paler. She floated slowly, in spite of her weightless mass. Until one day. she felt a tingling sensation. Shefelt as though she were being blown up, until she thoughtv she would burst. and then she receded, backward, backward, with a speed she had never known before.
Simultaneously, on earth, a baby girl cried herself out her mother's womb.
It was a room of no dimensions, a country without boundaries, and a world of no limits, and the color of its heavens changed from light to dark or dark to light or semi-dark to semi light.
All about that unfathomable space, there floated and swirled and blended and parted and chased one another beings of soft, light, liquid but never dripping mass. These playful ones, with neither face nor definite form, moved by instinct, and the most supreme Supreme governed the continuity of their existence.
This world of the unborn, within the earth, outside the heaven, inside the mind and beyond the universe, was connected to our sphere through a hole and a tunnel. Every so often, any huiman being would be called and be encased in the body of a newborn human.
This event was taken as an inevitable fact, and so we can say that the beings aimlessly drifted, waiting only for their turn. As a rule, they were supposed to be coprdial to one another. But there were two beings, at one point, who became especially fond of one another. We shall call them the pink being and the blue being, based on the impression of their unseen shade. They would curl together until they foprmed a ball, glowing with their delight, after which they would wiggle and untangle themselves. Within that world was another world, theirs, and no other being could penetrate it.
But one day, as the two were engrossed in a game of chase, the blue being suddenly got bluer and bluer, until his radiance nearly blinded his friend. And then he was zapped, pulled away by a Great force. he was fast receding, out of control, and before his friend could utter a cry of helplessness, he disappeared into the tunnel.
Since then, the pink being became paler and paler. She floated slowly, in spite of her weightless mass. Until one day. she felt a tingling sensation. Shefelt as though she were being blown up, until she thoughtv she would burst. and then she receded, backward, backward, with a speed she had never known before.
Simultaneously, on earth, a baby girl cried herself out her mother's womb.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The Best Opinion
published 7 Apr 2008, MST
I spent last Monday at St. Paul’s College in Pasig, having been invited as a resource speaker and contest judge for opinion writing at the third Asian Campus Journalism Fellowship for Paulinian Writers and Teacher-Advisers. In attendance at the two-day conference were grade school and high school writers, artists and school paper advisers from the 33 schools owned and administered by the Congregation of St. Paul of Chartres.
I started agonizing about my presentation the minute I got the invitation. Make me write all day on anything and I would manage to cough up a few paragraphs, pages even. But speaking before a large audience—by Sunday, 30 March, there had been 80 names in the sign-up sheet, I was informed—was a new challenge. That I was assigned to the high school division exerted additional pressure on me: How does one conduct a lecture before dozens of teenagers who are used to interactive media and who seem to get by on a language of their own?
My first plan was to play it safe by just writing a “speech”...not even a real speech meant to be delivered before an audience, but a simple essay discussing the subject matter. I figured nothing could go wrong there, and if ever I got overwhelmed by the crowd, I could always read my piece aloud.
But I had not gone past the first two paragraphs of my “speech” when I stopped typing altogether. This was wrong, I thought. I took out, instead, a pen and paper and started an outline, in bullet points and phrases. I ditched the didactic approach (that’s what the books are for) and started following a train of thought guided by my daily experiences in this newspaper.
Later, I transferred my scribblings to a Word document. I junked the Powerpoint. I was personally averse to too much color, animation, graphics, even fancy transitions. And, after all, isn’t good writing the same—the less frills, the more effective?
Friends and mentors also gave me a pat on the back, telling me that the most important thing was to establish a connection with my audience—immediately. If I got that one thing right, everything would follow.
The best advice I got was to just go ahead and have fun. These were children and they signed up for the talks not because they me to tell them Gospel truths on opinion writing, but because they were eager to learn more about the practical experience of putting down one’s opinions on paper, in coherent form.
I had lunch at the school, arriving just in time to meet the conference organizers, led by Mr. Ruben Velarde and Mr. Ronald Santos, as well as the speakers for the other categories. I knew one of them, Mr. Rey Binuya, my own former high school paper adviser, who had just finished his talk on newswriting for grade school students. By the end of the meal, I was already relaxed and confident. I actually could not wait to meet these children.
What I had not been prepared for was the heat, and the notorious after-lunch slot. The talk was scheduled at 1:30 in the afternoon in a rather sunny side of the school building. Had I been part of the audience, I would have had difficulty concentrating, too. Nevertheless, I counted 60 or 70 people by the time I started talking; an hour and a half later, there were children sitting on the floor on the sides of the conference room.
The workshop was called “Beyond Expression.” The main idea was while there was no such thing as a good or bad opinion, there exist good and bad opinion pieces. I added that as journalists, their objectives must transcend merely expressing their views. They must provoke thought or, if they are lucky, action. They must inspire.
It was not a lecture in the sense that I enumerated things they should or should not do in order to come up with good opinion pieces. I was, after all, just a few years older than them (ehem!) and the best way to get through them would be to tell them about my everyday struggles with the op-ed page of this newspaper. In short, nagkuwento lang ako—my little crises, how I get by, how I decide what’s relevant or not, how I try to outdo myself every time, and why I am still here.
I hope I inspired those kids. Through their questions and the workshop, I got a peek into the stumbling blocks of campus journalists and an idea of what they considered relevant to their young lives.
***
The talk was only half the story. A contest on opinion writing followed. I was supposed to help oversee that and then judge the entries, but since I had to dash from Pasig City to the newsroom in Port Area, Manila in record time (it was already 3 p.m. by then), I just made arrangements for the entries to be hand carried to my office later that evening.
Before I left, however, I decided on the topic the contestants were supposed to write about. Considering that they were mostly incoming high school juniors and seniors, I asked them to write an opinion piece on whether parents should have a say on the courses their children would take up in college. I looked forward to reading the entries.
I was not disappointed. Most of the 38 entries were in English, but I counted five or six that had been written in Filipino. Some of the children said parents should not interfere with their children’s career choices. They said what was at stake was the rest of the children’s lives; they would only do well, they said, in fields they themselves chose. On the other hand, some said they would be willing to defer to their parents’ ideas because they (parents) were wiser and knew what was best for them. The more substantial entries enumerated the arguments for both sides before settling down to a “safe” mix of autonomy and parental guidance. The outstanding ones employed simple language in delivering their point, as well as an occasional original metaphor, such as the two front wheels and the two rear wheels of a vehicle.
Thankfully, I did not have to rank the winners. The judges were simply asked to name five “Most Promising” and five “Most Outstanding” entries. To this day—and although I spent hours making sure I carried out my role as judge effectively—I am worried that I may have failed to recognize well-written entries or unduly commended the more mediocre ones.
But then again, it’s just one piece. Good writing is not defined by a single piece; it’s an attitude of diligence and pursuit of excellence. It’s the ability to say something in a way that’s purely your own. It’s recognizing you can’t be brilliant every day—but that you can constantly try.
I didn’t quite make that last point very clear with those students, but I hope they stay long in the business, enough to discover that gem of a fact on their own.
I spent last Monday at St. Paul’s College in Pasig, having been invited as a resource speaker and contest judge for opinion writing at the third Asian Campus Journalism Fellowship for Paulinian Writers and Teacher-Advisers. In attendance at the two-day conference were grade school and high school writers, artists and school paper advisers from the 33 schools owned and administered by the Congregation of St. Paul of Chartres.
I started agonizing about my presentation the minute I got the invitation. Make me write all day on anything and I would manage to cough up a few paragraphs, pages even. But speaking before a large audience—by Sunday, 30 March, there had been 80 names in the sign-up sheet, I was informed—was a new challenge. That I was assigned to the high school division exerted additional pressure on me: How does one conduct a lecture before dozens of teenagers who are used to interactive media and who seem to get by on a language of their own?
My first plan was to play it safe by just writing a “speech”...not even a real speech meant to be delivered before an audience, but a simple essay discussing the subject matter. I figured nothing could go wrong there, and if ever I got overwhelmed by the crowd, I could always read my piece aloud.
But I had not gone past the first two paragraphs of my “speech” when I stopped typing altogether. This was wrong, I thought. I took out, instead, a pen and paper and started an outline, in bullet points and phrases. I ditched the didactic approach (that’s what the books are for) and started following a train of thought guided by my daily experiences in this newspaper.
Later, I transferred my scribblings to a Word document. I junked the Powerpoint. I was personally averse to too much color, animation, graphics, even fancy transitions. And, after all, isn’t good writing the same—the less frills, the more effective?
Friends and mentors also gave me a pat on the back, telling me that the most important thing was to establish a connection with my audience—immediately. If I got that one thing right, everything would follow.
The best advice I got was to just go ahead and have fun. These were children and they signed up for the talks not because they me to tell them Gospel truths on opinion writing, but because they were eager to learn more about the practical experience of putting down one’s opinions on paper, in coherent form.
I had lunch at the school, arriving just in time to meet the conference organizers, led by Mr. Ruben Velarde and Mr. Ronald Santos, as well as the speakers for the other categories. I knew one of them, Mr. Rey Binuya, my own former high school paper adviser, who had just finished his talk on newswriting for grade school students. By the end of the meal, I was already relaxed and confident. I actually could not wait to meet these children.
What I had not been prepared for was the heat, and the notorious after-lunch slot. The talk was scheduled at 1:30 in the afternoon in a rather sunny side of the school building. Had I been part of the audience, I would have had difficulty concentrating, too. Nevertheless, I counted 60 or 70 people by the time I started talking; an hour and a half later, there were children sitting on the floor on the sides of the conference room.
The workshop was called “Beyond Expression.” The main idea was while there was no such thing as a good or bad opinion, there exist good and bad opinion pieces. I added that as journalists, their objectives must transcend merely expressing their views. They must provoke thought or, if they are lucky, action. They must inspire.
It was not a lecture in the sense that I enumerated things they should or should not do in order to come up with good opinion pieces. I was, after all, just a few years older than them (ehem!) and the best way to get through them would be to tell them about my everyday struggles with the op-ed page of this newspaper. In short, nagkuwento lang ako—my little crises, how I get by, how I decide what’s relevant or not, how I try to outdo myself every time, and why I am still here.
I hope I inspired those kids. Through their questions and the workshop, I got a peek into the stumbling blocks of campus journalists and an idea of what they considered relevant to their young lives.
***
The talk was only half the story. A contest on opinion writing followed. I was supposed to help oversee that and then judge the entries, but since I had to dash from Pasig City to the newsroom in Port Area, Manila in record time (it was already 3 p.m. by then), I just made arrangements for the entries to be hand carried to my office later that evening.
Before I left, however, I decided on the topic the contestants were supposed to write about. Considering that they were mostly incoming high school juniors and seniors, I asked them to write an opinion piece on whether parents should have a say on the courses their children would take up in college. I looked forward to reading the entries.
I was not disappointed. Most of the 38 entries were in English, but I counted five or six that had been written in Filipino. Some of the children said parents should not interfere with their children’s career choices. They said what was at stake was the rest of the children’s lives; they would only do well, they said, in fields they themselves chose. On the other hand, some said they would be willing to defer to their parents’ ideas because they (parents) were wiser and knew what was best for them. The more substantial entries enumerated the arguments for both sides before settling down to a “safe” mix of autonomy and parental guidance. The outstanding ones employed simple language in delivering their point, as well as an occasional original metaphor, such as the two front wheels and the two rear wheels of a vehicle.
Thankfully, I did not have to rank the winners. The judges were simply asked to name five “Most Promising” and five “Most Outstanding” entries. To this day—and although I spent hours making sure I carried out my role as judge effectively—I am worried that I may have failed to recognize well-written entries or unduly commended the more mediocre ones.
But then again, it’s just one piece. Good writing is not defined by a single piece; it’s an attitude of diligence and pursuit of excellence. It’s the ability to say something in a way that’s purely your own. It’s recognizing you can’t be brilliant every day—but that you can constantly try.
I didn’t quite make that last point very clear with those students, but I hope they stay long in the business, enough to discover that gem of a fact on their own.
Moving up and Carrying on
published 31 Mar 2008, mst
My youngest son Elmo’s pre-school had scheduled a “Moving Up Ceremony” tomorrow, the first of April, so that every non-graduating little boy and girl would have the opportunity to get up on stage, receive a piece of rolled-up paper, have a recognition ribbon pinned to his or her chest and take a bow, alongside a beaming mom or dad.
Unfortunately, chicken pox downed most of the kids in the six sections of the three-level (Junior Casa, Senior Casa and Advanced Casa) school. Elmo, who is in Senior Casa, himself stayed home for an entire week and missed parts of his final exam. Administrators then had to scrap the Moving Up Day for the two lower batches and settled only for the traditional graduation rites for those who would be moving on to the first grade. The cute recognition ribbons were then only distributed to the children during their farewell party. Elmo was named Most Humble and Most Improved.
Sayang. The Moving Up Ceremony sounded like a really nice idea.
It is the first I’ve heard that attempted to recognize anybody who finished the school year, not necessary pre-school, elementary, high school or college. Of course it may just as well be consuelo de bobo for the little ones and a photo-op for their excited parents.
I’m glad I only have to go to one graduation rite this year—my sixth grader's. These ceremonies, and it doesn’t matter what school you are talking about, have become predictable and trite.
It’s the same year after year as it has been during my time. Maybe public schools have it worse, because they get to suffer the inordinately long speeches of city or municipal officials who say, as if we didn’t know it already, “ang kabataan ay ang pag-asa ng bayan.” I wonder whether they realize that’s unthinkingly burdening children with the task of undoing the follies of those that came before them. Us included.
Over the years, these practices have demoted a genuine cause for celebration (not just for the college graduates and their relieved parents) into a mere matter of course. These have led many to dismiss the occasion’s significance.
At least vacation is here, and most parents greet it with relief. Sure, we complain about the heat and all, but generally we are thankful that we get to rest as well from the daily grind of fretting about what to feed them, how to make them adopt better study habits, when the next tuition installment is due, what activity is coming up, and the list goes on.
In a sense it’s also vacation time for parents, even if they are working ones.
But what do you do on vacation? The treats, big or small, are a given. And so are the summer activities that you hope would turn them into better-rounded persons. It is also a good time to evaluate what went well (and what went wrong) in the school year that ended. Graduation is not limited to senior kinder, grade six, and fourth year students. Every year, kids graduate from their own levels and pause awhile before embarking on something new, something a notch more difficult. It’s vacation all right but it’s also Moving Up Period.
***
I do not purport to be getting chummy with a prominent family, but last week, when the news broke out that former President Cory Aquino had been diagnosed with colon cancer, I was more interested than I would have been had it concerned any other personality.
I found it an unfortunate twist of fate. Sometime in 1990 or 1991, the former President herself visited my own mother, sick—with the same disease—at the Chinese General Hospital.
I must have been in first or second year high school then. No I wasn’t around. I was in school, but when I arrived at the hospital later that day, the nurses were still abuzz with excitement. “Sikat kayo,” they said. “Cory was here.”
That was not surprising. My mom was a reporter for this newspaper and the Palace was her beat. She was a member of the Malacañang Press Corps and naturally was at the President’s heels all the time. She took pride in her job. In fact, the most prominent photo in our house then was an enlarged one of her and Aquino. You would not miss it as you entered the door.
I remember thinking then, how kind of President Cory to visit. She didn’t have to. Somebody else had started covering Malacañang when my mom’s confinements had become more regular and prolonged. We did not know whether she would ever be able to get back to work. (She never did, she died in October 1992).
But anyway. Last week, another newspaper’s banner said: “Nation prays for Cory.” But when we pray for persons who are sick, what exactly do we ask God to do?
Immediate family members would of course be praying that their loved one be cured. No doubt, the Aquinos would have no difficulty having access to the most sophisticated treatments available. They would not have to bear the extra burden of wondering whether they would be able to exhaust all means to get the former President back to good health.
But prayers take on different forms and then evolve. Some pray that the person be able to accept his or her situation and remain optimistic and productive. Some pray that they carry out with whatever it is they are doing—a profession, a relationship, an advocacy—in spite of the uncertainties that lie ahead.
Some pray, like we did towards the end, that the physical sufferings of our loved one end and that they make peace with themselves.
On the other hand, some family members may pray for themselves, for the strength to be resigned to the will of the Almighty, whatever that maybe. Others ask for the perseverance—and the constancy—to care for the sick well.
At any rate, they say there are no unanswered prayers. Sometimes, we ask for one thing, believing it to be the best. And then we get another answer. It turns out that what we initially asked for was not the best, after all. It’s not our fault we didn’t know it.
How comforting there’s Somebody who’s more than human to figure it out for us.
My youngest son Elmo’s pre-school had scheduled a “Moving Up Ceremony” tomorrow, the first of April, so that every non-graduating little boy and girl would have the opportunity to get up on stage, receive a piece of rolled-up paper, have a recognition ribbon pinned to his or her chest and take a bow, alongside a beaming mom or dad.
Unfortunately, chicken pox downed most of the kids in the six sections of the three-level (Junior Casa, Senior Casa and Advanced Casa) school. Elmo, who is in Senior Casa, himself stayed home for an entire week and missed parts of his final exam. Administrators then had to scrap the Moving Up Day for the two lower batches and settled only for the traditional graduation rites for those who would be moving on to the first grade. The cute recognition ribbons were then only distributed to the children during their farewell party. Elmo was named Most Humble and Most Improved.
Sayang. The Moving Up Ceremony sounded like a really nice idea.
It is the first I’ve heard that attempted to recognize anybody who finished the school year, not necessary pre-school, elementary, high school or college. Of course it may just as well be consuelo de bobo for the little ones and a photo-op for their excited parents.
I’m glad I only have to go to one graduation rite this year—my sixth grader's. These ceremonies, and it doesn’t matter what school you are talking about, have become predictable and trite.
It’s the same year after year as it has been during my time. Maybe public schools have it worse, because they get to suffer the inordinately long speeches of city or municipal officials who say, as if we didn’t know it already, “ang kabataan ay ang pag-asa ng bayan.” I wonder whether they realize that’s unthinkingly burdening children with the task of undoing the follies of those that came before them. Us included.
Over the years, these practices have demoted a genuine cause for celebration (not just for the college graduates and their relieved parents) into a mere matter of course. These have led many to dismiss the occasion’s significance.
At least vacation is here, and most parents greet it with relief. Sure, we complain about the heat and all, but generally we are thankful that we get to rest as well from the daily grind of fretting about what to feed them, how to make them adopt better study habits, when the next tuition installment is due, what activity is coming up, and the list goes on.
In a sense it’s also vacation time for parents, even if they are working ones.
But what do you do on vacation? The treats, big or small, are a given. And so are the summer activities that you hope would turn them into better-rounded persons. It is also a good time to evaluate what went well (and what went wrong) in the school year that ended. Graduation is not limited to senior kinder, grade six, and fourth year students. Every year, kids graduate from their own levels and pause awhile before embarking on something new, something a notch more difficult. It’s vacation all right but it’s also Moving Up Period.
***
I do not purport to be getting chummy with a prominent family, but last week, when the news broke out that former President Cory Aquino had been diagnosed with colon cancer, I was more interested than I would have been had it concerned any other personality.
I found it an unfortunate twist of fate. Sometime in 1990 or 1991, the former President herself visited my own mother, sick—with the same disease—at the Chinese General Hospital.
I must have been in first or second year high school then. No I wasn’t around. I was in school, but when I arrived at the hospital later that day, the nurses were still abuzz with excitement. “Sikat kayo,” they said. “Cory was here.”
That was not surprising. My mom was a reporter for this newspaper and the Palace was her beat. She was a member of the Malacañang Press Corps and naturally was at the President’s heels all the time. She took pride in her job. In fact, the most prominent photo in our house then was an enlarged one of her and Aquino. You would not miss it as you entered the door.
I remember thinking then, how kind of President Cory to visit. She didn’t have to. Somebody else had started covering Malacañang when my mom’s confinements had become more regular and prolonged. We did not know whether she would ever be able to get back to work. (She never did, she died in October 1992).
But anyway. Last week, another newspaper’s banner said: “Nation prays for Cory.” But when we pray for persons who are sick, what exactly do we ask God to do?
Immediate family members would of course be praying that their loved one be cured. No doubt, the Aquinos would have no difficulty having access to the most sophisticated treatments available. They would not have to bear the extra burden of wondering whether they would be able to exhaust all means to get the former President back to good health.
But prayers take on different forms and then evolve. Some pray that the person be able to accept his or her situation and remain optimistic and productive. Some pray that they carry out with whatever it is they are doing—a profession, a relationship, an advocacy—in spite of the uncertainties that lie ahead.
Some pray, like we did towards the end, that the physical sufferings of our loved one end and that they make peace with themselves.
On the other hand, some family members may pray for themselves, for the strength to be resigned to the will of the Almighty, whatever that maybe. Others ask for the perseverance—and the constancy—to care for the sick well.
At any rate, they say there are no unanswered prayers. Sometimes, we ask for one thing, believing it to be the best. And then we get another answer. It turns out that what we initially asked for was not the best, after all. It’s not our fault we didn’t know it.
How comforting there’s Somebody who’s more than human to figure it out for us.
Some Good News for Easter
published 24 Mar 2008
Under Article IV of the International Monetary Fund’s Articles of Agreement, the IMF holds bilateral discussions with its members, usually every year. A staff team visits the country, collects economic and financial information and discusses with the country’s officials their economic development and policies.
Upon return to headquarters, the staff then prepares a report, which forms the basis for discussion by the Fund’s Executive Board. At the conclusion of the discussions, the managing director, as Chairman of the Board, summarizes the views of executive directors. This summary is transmitted to the country’s authorities.
The latest Article IV consultations for the Philippines were concluded last March 12. In the summary, the Fund said that the country’s economic performance “has improved markedly over the past few years.”
The Executive Board’s assessment said that the Philippines’ impressive showing was due to strong growth, low inflation, sustained fiscal consolidation and improved investor confidence. The health of the banking sector also improved considerably as a result of tighter supervision.
Further, the IMF praised the tax reforms in recent years, the government’s plan to achieve a balanced budget, to manage foreign exchange inflows well and privatize power sector assets. According to the report, Philippine authorities expressed commitment to remain vigilant, given inflationary threats and other unfavorable global developments.
All these indicate the Fund’s stamp of approval on the way the country’s economy is being managed. Finally, we get opinions from those outside our borders that the improvements are neither imagined nor trumped up.
Now what?
Fortunately, the three-page report was more than a rave review of the performance of Philippine economic managers . While the Fund acknowledged the substantial gains made in recent years and as a result of deliberate and conscious efforts to keep the house in order, so to speak, it also pointed out some areas that needed more attention.
For example, the Fund said there was need to reduce the remaining large stock of non-performing assets. It also noted that banks had a significant amount of government debt that was sensitive to changes in sovereign spreads. It encouraged authorities to work for the passage of the Bangko Sentral Charter Amendment which is “essential to lift the threat of legal action against supervisors, facilitate the operation of monetary policy and improve economic surveillance of the non-bank sector.” Last, the Fund also called for the adoption of legislation such as the Corporate Recovery Act and the Credit Information Systems Act to further improve bank profitability and lending.
While there was no explicit mention of transparency issues that seem to be hounding the government and business sectors in the country, the Fund said that public-private partnerships “can be useful but require close monitoring.” Finally, it also talked about addressing the “remaining challenges and vulnerabilities, including infrastructure bottlenecks, social needs, and further strengthening of the financial sector, which would help the Philippines weather the ongoing financial turmoil.”
The Fund projected a gross domestic product growth rate of 6 percent this year and inflation rate of 4.4 percent, more modest than the actual 2007 figures of 7.3 percent and 2.8 percent, respectively.
***
Then again, the IMF is one of the two international financial organizations (the other one being the World Bank) most bedeviled by people with “progressive” tendencies. It has often been portrayed as a shark that takes advantage of the country’s dire need of financial assistance, burdening us with outlandish interest rates and burying several generations of Filipinos in debt. In the meantime, their officials and staff come and go, telling us how to run the economy, and judging us whether we are doing it right or not (a thumbs-up or –down, much like those oh-so-difficult-to-please judges of “American Idol”). Of course, compliance with their prescriptions would bear on future accessibility to funds if and when the need arises.
This criticism of the IMF is not peculiar to the Philippines. Those from other countries resent this “meddling,” too—and their talk is not mere emotional outburst.
Oh, sure, the Fund, which now has 184 members, was created to foster international monetary cooperation and stability among nations. Its core responsibility is to provide loans to countries experiencing balance of payments problems. This financial assistance enables countries to rebuild their international reserves, stabilize their currencies, continue paying for imports and restore conditions for economic growth. Aside from lending, the IMF also offers policy advice and technical assistance.
But these things can be found on Web sites and press releases. What’s not mentioned are the plethora of criticism that centers specifically on the Fund’s insistence on the country’s adoption of a Superpolicy—time-tested measures (at least, according to the IMF) of free exchange rates and fiscal surplus, for instance, for each and every country no matter its peculiar economic features. It’s pretty much like prescribing a cure-all drug to combat all illnesses, never mind the varying symptoms, the degrees of affliction and the medical histories of the patients.
What’s also not mentioned are the clout—in most cases political—of countries with the biggest Special Drawing Rights. SDRs, countries’ economic position relative to those of the other members, are the unit of currency in IMF-lingo. It’s computed using a formula that deducts current account transactions and official reserves from GDP. As of last year, the largest member is the United States, with SDR of 37.1 billion ($54.2 billion) while the smallest member is Palau, SDR 3.1 million ($4.5 million)
***
Despite all these not-so-ideal realities about the Fund, it nevertheless continues to enjoy ascendancy in matters of economic and financial fundamentals, as perceived by the rest of the world. Some might say that we are slaving away for the approval of this international agency when its staff—who fly here, spend a few weeks or days talking to top government officials and reading volumes of documents and then go back to headquarters—are ignorant of the quirks of the Philippine setting nor the sensibilities of its people, much less its markets. The foreign-based members of the Executive Board rely only on reports furnished them by the staff. They don’t know a thing or two—heck, they probably haven’t heard of “moderating greed” —so how come they have the power to give us the thumbs-up or the contrary? Shall we even take these seriously?
And yet, it is precisely this disinterestedness that lends credence to the Fund’s assessment. Here, administration officials say the economy is getting better while the opposition says it’s all a spin and that more people remain desolate. The ordinary citizen thus is not able to sift the real news from the propaganda.
Still all these acknowledged gains will remain in the realm of nebulous macroeconomics—fancy jargon and not much else—unless it is translated into tangible improvements in the lives of most Filipinos, whether they know what GDP stands for or not. Here is the challenge to the government, and the Fund does not miss it, either. This is precisely why its “remaining challenges and vulnerabilities” are political, not economic, in character.
This year, there are new factors challenging the soundness and the sustainability of decisions made in the past. The United States continues to flirt with the “R” word. Everybody is trying to contend with rising oil prices as well as basic items in our basket of goods like rice and other staples. There is foreign investment, yes, but we want and need more. Last, our leaders need to show that curbing corruption is not mere lip service. There’s a lot of real work, and gimmickry is not part of it.
***
I know it’s quite a challenge reverting to the daily grind after several days of vacation. It may not be a bad idea to look at this first day back as a Real Day One. Follies of the past have died and been buried. Our old selves have perished. In the meantime, there is so much more to look forward to, live for and toil for. Happy Easter, all.
Under Article IV of the International Monetary Fund’s Articles of Agreement, the IMF holds bilateral discussions with its members, usually every year. A staff team visits the country, collects economic and financial information and discusses with the country’s officials their economic development and policies.
Upon return to headquarters, the staff then prepares a report, which forms the basis for discussion by the Fund’s Executive Board. At the conclusion of the discussions, the managing director, as Chairman of the Board, summarizes the views of executive directors. This summary is transmitted to the country’s authorities.
The latest Article IV consultations for the Philippines were concluded last March 12. In the summary, the Fund said that the country’s economic performance “has improved markedly over the past few years.”
The Executive Board’s assessment said that the Philippines’ impressive showing was due to strong growth, low inflation, sustained fiscal consolidation and improved investor confidence. The health of the banking sector also improved considerably as a result of tighter supervision.
Further, the IMF praised the tax reforms in recent years, the government’s plan to achieve a balanced budget, to manage foreign exchange inflows well and privatize power sector assets. According to the report, Philippine authorities expressed commitment to remain vigilant, given inflationary threats and other unfavorable global developments.
All these indicate the Fund’s stamp of approval on the way the country’s economy is being managed. Finally, we get opinions from those outside our borders that the improvements are neither imagined nor trumped up.
Now what?
Fortunately, the three-page report was more than a rave review of the performance of Philippine economic managers . While the Fund acknowledged the substantial gains made in recent years and as a result of deliberate and conscious efforts to keep the house in order, so to speak, it also pointed out some areas that needed more attention.
For example, the Fund said there was need to reduce the remaining large stock of non-performing assets. It also noted that banks had a significant amount of government debt that was sensitive to changes in sovereign spreads. It encouraged authorities to work for the passage of the Bangko Sentral Charter Amendment which is “essential to lift the threat of legal action against supervisors, facilitate the operation of monetary policy and improve economic surveillance of the non-bank sector.” Last, the Fund also called for the adoption of legislation such as the Corporate Recovery Act and the Credit Information Systems Act to further improve bank profitability and lending.
While there was no explicit mention of transparency issues that seem to be hounding the government and business sectors in the country, the Fund said that public-private partnerships “can be useful but require close monitoring.” Finally, it also talked about addressing the “remaining challenges and vulnerabilities, including infrastructure bottlenecks, social needs, and further strengthening of the financial sector, which would help the Philippines weather the ongoing financial turmoil.”
The Fund projected a gross domestic product growth rate of 6 percent this year and inflation rate of 4.4 percent, more modest than the actual 2007 figures of 7.3 percent and 2.8 percent, respectively.
***
Then again, the IMF is one of the two international financial organizations (the other one being the World Bank) most bedeviled by people with “progressive” tendencies. It has often been portrayed as a shark that takes advantage of the country’s dire need of financial assistance, burdening us with outlandish interest rates and burying several generations of Filipinos in debt. In the meantime, their officials and staff come and go, telling us how to run the economy, and judging us whether we are doing it right or not (a thumbs-up or –down, much like those oh-so-difficult-to-please judges of “American Idol”). Of course, compliance with their prescriptions would bear on future accessibility to funds if and when the need arises.
This criticism of the IMF is not peculiar to the Philippines. Those from other countries resent this “meddling,” too—and their talk is not mere emotional outburst.
Oh, sure, the Fund, which now has 184 members, was created to foster international monetary cooperation and stability among nations. Its core responsibility is to provide loans to countries experiencing balance of payments problems. This financial assistance enables countries to rebuild their international reserves, stabilize their currencies, continue paying for imports and restore conditions for economic growth. Aside from lending, the IMF also offers policy advice and technical assistance.
But these things can be found on Web sites and press releases. What’s not mentioned are the plethora of criticism that centers specifically on the Fund’s insistence on the country’s adoption of a Superpolicy—time-tested measures (at least, according to the IMF) of free exchange rates and fiscal surplus, for instance, for each and every country no matter its peculiar economic features. It’s pretty much like prescribing a cure-all drug to combat all illnesses, never mind the varying symptoms, the degrees of affliction and the medical histories of the patients.
What’s also not mentioned are the clout—in most cases political—of countries with the biggest Special Drawing Rights. SDRs, countries’ economic position relative to those of the other members, are the unit of currency in IMF-lingo. It’s computed using a formula that deducts current account transactions and official reserves from GDP. As of last year, the largest member is the United States, with SDR of 37.1 billion ($54.2 billion) while the smallest member is Palau, SDR 3.1 million ($4.5 million)
***
Despite all these not-so-ideal realities about the Fund, it nevertheless continues to enjoy ascendancy in matters of economic and financial fundamentals, as perceived by the rest of the world. Some might say that we are slaving away for the approval of this international agency when its staff—who fly here, spend a few weeks or days talking to top government officials and reading volumes of documents and then go back to headquarters—are ignorant of the quirks of the Philippine setting nor the sensibilities of its people, much less its markets. The foreign-based members of the Executive Board rely only on reports furnished them by the staff. They don’t know a thing or two—heck, they probably haven’t heard of “moderating greed” —so how come they have the power to give us the thumbs-up or the contrary? Shall we even take these seriously?
And yet, it is precisely this disinterestedness that lends credence to the Fund’s assessment. Here, administration officials say the economy is getting better while the opposition says it’s all a spin and that more people remain desolate. The ordinary citizen thus is not able to sift the real news from the propaganda.
Still all these acknowledged gains will remain in the realm of nebulous macroeconomics—fancy jargon and not much else—unless it is translated into tangible improvements in the lives of most Filipinos, whether they know what GDP stands for or not. Here is the challenge to the government, and the Fund does not miss it, either. This is precisely why its “remaining challenges and vulnerabilities” are political, not economic, in character.
This year, there are new factors challenging the soundness and the sustainability of decisions made in the past. The United States continues to flirt with the “R” word. Everybody is trying to contend with rising oil prices as well as basic items in our basket of goods like rice and other staples. There is foreign investment, yes, but we want and need more. Last, our leaders need to show that curbing corruption is not mere lip service. There’s a lot of real work, and gimmickry is not part of it.
***
I know it’s quite a challenge reverting to the daily grind after several days of vacation. It may not be a bad idea to look at this first day back as a Real Day One. Follies of the past have died and been buried. Our old selves have perished. In the meantime, there is so much more to look forward to, live for and toil for. Happy Easter, all.
Concoctions
published 17 Mar 2008, mst
‘Home” was the theme of my lunch meeting with a friend two Fridays ago.
My buddy Jenny Ortuoste and I agreed that beginning this year, we would choose the venue of our quarterly four-hour lunches (or dinners) more deliberately. The conversation was always rewarding— she and I shared strikingly similar family backgrounds, relationship patterns and literary interests. We figured a novel dining experience would be a nice backdrop to the girl talk.
That day, my friend said she had a surprise. She asked me to meet her in front of the Mile Long Center, at the ground floor of the Amorsolo Mansions. “I know Germany meant a lot to you since your trip there inspired you to make some crucial decisions. Today you might want to feel a little nostalgic,” she said, leading me to the door of Donau Gourmet.
An hour later, there was another surprise: The food, it turned out, went with an equally good story from the chef/owner.
That Marietta Sager personally concocted her guests’ orders was a dead giveaway. She was the only one among the staff who was foreign-looking—and she still had her apron on. She greeted us with a smile. With that, Jenny engaged her in conversation. We were correct to have assumed the restaurant was newly opened.
What we did not expect to hear was Marietta’s crisp Tagalog as she gave instructions to the waitresses. “My father is Dutch. My mother is Indonesian. My husband is German. I have an Indonesian passport. But I count myself a Filipino. This is my home,” she said.
Before long, Marietta was alternating between preparing the other guests’ meals in her kitchen and sitting at our table, happily watching us wolf down our goulash soup, Donau house salad, curry sausage and sauerkraut (my friend opted for the white spiral sausage) and telling us her story and why she would always choose to stay in the Philippines.
According to Marietta, it was in 1964 when her father, an insurance executive in Jakarta, moved the whole family to the Philippines because of the volatile business and political climate in Indonesia. She was then nine years old. She grew up here and attended Philippine schools. She went to St. Scholastica’s College and finished tourism at the University of the Philippines in Diliman. But dancing was Marietta’s first love. After college, she became part of the dance group called Pacifica, competitor of the Bayanihan Dancers. Her group performed Filipino folk and Polynesian dances, going all over the country and dancing even for the Marcoses, in the early ’80s, aboard the presidential yacht. Then she went into hotel sales, and met her German husband, Roland Sager, at the InterCon, where he was working as chef.
The professional dancer then became a homemaker who dutifully tried to keep house for somebody who was a master of food preparation. She was at first insecure about making her husband happy with the dishes she served at home. She took cooking lessons on every type of cuisine. But soon enough, she discovered that he was not difficult to please after all. While he was professionally more inclined to prepare Western food, he was charmed by the flavors of Asia. Roland’s job took them to Hong Kong and South Korea, but they ended up coming back to Manila.
Now, their two grown sons are living in Berlin, pursuing lives of their own.
And Marietta is more confident of her cooking. “Practice makes perfect might be a cliché, but it’s true nonetheless,” she says.
This restaurant carries sausages and cold cuts made by the Sagers’ butchery, Donau Deli, which they also distribute to various supermarkets in Metro Manila. On the shelves are wines, sauces, condiments and other German grocery items. There is also a bread section; pretty soon there will be a stand for various cheeses.
Marietta is banking on Filipinos’ openness and natural willingness to accept the practices and preference of other cultures. Donau Gourmet’s clientele is composed of expatriates and German nationals (“the embassy people know we’re here”) but she’s hoping more Filipinos would also take notice.
Actually, this receptiveness is one Filipino trait that stands out for Marietta. “Filipinos are friendly to everyone. Color, race, clothing and all the rest do not matter. They take you for who you are, without question, and that’s enough to make you feel like you belong.”
***
What makes columnists write about certain topics?
The most common reason would be to comment on the most pressing political issues of the day. Writers are in a position to sway public opinion. They can also act as a mouthpiece of the greater lot who would otherwise have no means to make their voices heard.
It may also be to further an advocacy. Issues on the environment, women’s rights, gay rights, corporate governance or accountability of public officials are discussed and analyzed in several square inches of column space. The writer hopes that his or her piece will be able to push authorities to act in one way or another to advance the cause.
Sharing an inspiring story is also a good reason. There’s a lot of bad news going around nowadays. It is thus refreshing to read about a person who overcame all odds to succeed or who mustered enough courage to rise above his or her adverse situation. Stories like these make you feel all is not lost. Optimism is crucial to nation-building.
Yet another reason would be to bring to fore stories of real injustice done to real people.
For example, somebody hears of unfair labor practices or malicious accusations hurled at one’s friends and former colleagues. It’s one thing to listen as a matter of conversation, to appreciate the details of the story as disinterested third party or friend would.
It’s another thing to write about the matter in a newspaper column. This would mean due diligence. The writer has to make sure the story did not come from one person only. He or she refers to affidavits, counter-affidavits, and actual decisions rendered by courts. Financial statements also tell their own story—no matter what the official yarn is.
The point of the exercise is to highlight the unjust acts being done so that steps would be taken to correct them. The aim is not to destroy anybody. On the contrary, it’s the what (the acts that go against public interest) and not the who (the institution or the personalities, even if they carried a prominent last name) that matters.
The point, too, is to make available a means for the other party to make its side of the story known. That’s why letters to the editor are there in the first place. In the interest of fairness, one could refute, point by point, any accusations one feels is thrown his way.
But what is truly jarring is an assault on the writer’s motives coupled with a brazen threat of a lawsuit – never mind, indeed, if the fundamental elements of the supposed crime are absent. Intimidation denigrates press freedom.
‘Home” was the theme of my lunch meeting with a friend two Fridays ago.
My buddy Jenny Ortuoste and I agreed that beginning this year, we would choose the venue of our quarterly four-hour lunches (or dinners) more deliberately. The conversation was always rewarding— she and I shared strikingly similar family backgrounds, relationship patterns and literary interests. We figured a novel dining experience would be a nice backdrop to the girl talk.
That day, my friend said she had a surprise. She asked me to meet her in front of the Mile Long Center, at the ground floor of the Amorsolo Mansions. “I know Germany meant a lot to you since your trip there inspired you to make some crucial decisions. Today you might want to feel a little nostalgic,” she said, leading me to the door of Donau Gourmet.
An hour later, there was another surprise: The food, it turned out, went with an equally good story from the chef/owner.
That Marietta Sager personally concocted her guests’ orders was a dead giveaway. She was the only one among the staff who was foreign-looking—and she still had her apron on. She greeted us with a smile. With that, Jenny engaged her in conversation. We were correct to have assumed the restaurant was newly opened.
What we did not expect to hear was Marietta’s crisp Tagalog as she gave instructions to the waitresses. “My father is Dutch. My mother is Indonesian. My husband is German. I have an Indonesian passport. But I count myself a Filipino. This is my home,” she said.
Before long, Marietta was alternating between preparing the other guests’ meals in her kitchen and sitting at our table, happily watching us wolf down our goulash soup, Donau house salad, curry sausage and sauerkraut (my friend opted for the white spiral sausage) and telling us her story and why she would always choose to stay in the Philippines.
According to Marietta, it was in 1964 when her father, an insurance executive in Jakarta, moved the whole family to the Philippines because of the volatile business and political climate in Indonesia. She was then nine years old. She grew up here and attended Philippine schools. She went to St. Scholastica’s College and finished tourism at the University of the Philippines in Diliman. But dancing was Marietta’s first love. After college, she became part of the dance group called Pacifica, competitor of the Bayanihan Dancers. Her group performed Filipino folk and Polynesian dances, going all over the country and dancing even for the Marcoses, in the early ’80s, aboard the presidential yacht. Then she went into hotel sales, and met her German husband, Roland Sager, at the InterCon, where he was working as chef.
The professional dancer then became a homemaker who dutifully tried to keep house for somebody who was a master of food preparation. She was at first insecure about making her husband happy with the dishes she served at home. She took cooking lessons on every type of cuisine. But soon enough, she discovered that he was not difficult to please after all. While he was professionally more inclined to prepare Western food, he was charmed by the flavors of Asia. Roland’s job took them to Hong Kong and South Korea, but they ended up coming back to Manila.
Now, their two grown sons are living in Berlin, pursuing lives of their own.
And Marietta is more confident of her cooking. “Practice makes perfect might be a cliché, but it’s true nonetheless,” she says.
This restaurant carries sausages and cold cuts made by the Sagers’ butchery, Donau Deli, which they also distribute to various supermarkets in Metro Manila. On the shelves are wines, sauces, condiments and other German grocery items. There is also a bread section; pretty soon there will be a stand for various cheeses.
Marietta is banking on Filipinos’ openness and natural willingness to accept the practices and preference of other cultures. Donau Gourmet’s clientele is composed of expatriates and German nationals (“the embassy people know we’re here”) but she’s hoping more Filipinos would also take notice.
Actually, this receptiveness is one Filipino trait that stands out for Marietta. “Filipinos are friendly to everyone. Color, race, clothing and all the rest do not matter. They take you for who you are, without question, and that’s enough to make you feel like you belong.”
***
What makes columnists write about certain topics?
The most common reason would be to comment on the most pressing political issues of the day. Writers are in a position to sway public opinion. They can also act as a mouthpiece of the greater lot who would otherwise have no means to make their voices heard.
It may also be to further an advocacy. Issues on the environment, women’s rights, gay rights, corporate governance or accountability of public officials are discussed and analyzed in several square inches of column space. The writer hopes that his or her piece will be able to push authorities to act in one way or another to advance the cause.
Sharing an inspiring story is also a good reason. There’s a lot of bad news going around nowadays. It is thus refreshing to read about a person who overcame all odds to succeed or who mustered enough courage to rise above his or her adverse situation. Stories like these make you feel all is not lost. Optimism is crucial to nation-building.
Yet another reason would be to bring to fore stories of real injustice done to real people.
For example, somebody hears of unfair labor practices or malicious accusations hurled at one’s friends and former colleagues. It’s one thing to listen as a matter of conversation, to appreciate the details of the story as disinterested third party or friend would.
It’s another thing to write about the matter in a newspaper column. This would mean due diligence. The writer has to make sure the story did not come from one person only. He or she refers to affidavits, counter-affidavits, and actual decisions rendered by courts. Financial statements also tell their own story—no matter what the official yarn is.
The point of the exercise is to highlight the unjust acts being done so that steps would be taken to correct them. The aim is not to destroy anybody. On the contrary, it’s the what (the acts that go against public interest) and not the who (the institution or the personalities, even if they carried a prominent last name) that matters.
The point, too, is to make available a means for the other party to make its side of the story known. That’s why letters to the editor are there in the first place. In the interest of fairness, one could refute, point by point, any accusations one feels is thrown his way.
But what is truly jarring is an assault on the writer’s motives coupled with a brazen threat of a lawsuit – never mind, indeed, if the fundamental elements of the supposed crime are absent. Intimidation denigrates press freedom.
Relevance
published 3 Mar 2008, mst
Living at the northernmost tip of the metro, I was a stranger to the now-thriving cluster of seafood restaurants that had sprouted along Macapagal Avenue, a road leading to that mammoth of a mall that is now known as MoA. (You’re hopelessly out of it if you think I am talking about a memorandum of agreement.)
Admittedly, last Friday, 29 February, was not the best time to explore the place. After all, at about 8:30 pm, the thousands who had converged at Ayala Avenue for the inter-faith rally were starting to disperse. It was no surprise then that the taxi that agreed to bring me from Port Area to the dinner venue was the 12th I had flagged down.
But a little inconvenience was nothing. My former boss, Roque Fortu, was on a rare visit to the Philippines. I, fresh out of college, was one of Tong’s (he scoffed at anybody who addressed him more formally) two analysts when he headed the planning and research unit of a local investment house 11 years ago. In 2002, however, he moved to Australia and started working at the state treasury department of Sydney. Eventually he obtained dual citizenship. This was only his second vacation, and I was intent on going. I had missed the first reunion they organized three years ago and it would be another three years until Tong came home again.
The minute I entered the restaurant and saw my friends’ faces, I knew it was going to be a great evening. Of course some of us have stayed in touch—two of them in fact became my kumares—and had lunch or dinner once or twice a year, but a reunion was different. It was a long table we occupied. There were about seven of us who showed up, and all, except the secretaries, were with other offices already.
The food was great—but the company was even better. We did not notice the passing of the hours because we were taken up with remembering old times. Those who were still with the company lamented that the office ambience was now more sober, almost clinical, whereas during our time, it was very much alive. According to them, the office was making more money now but it isn’t as much fun. Oh well.
Then, we were indefatigable twentysomethings with energy levels that could not be dampened by the workload nor the tempers of our executives. We worked hard but after 5:30, we always found time to discover quaint restaurants, exchange gossip (of course!) and organize summer outings that outdid the previous ones.
But the recollections comprised only half the reunion’s agenda. The rest of the time, we caught up with developments in each other’s lives. We described our present jobs, marveled at how our children had grown and dissected relationships that had worked —and failed.
And then, maybe because I had told him I was now working for a newspaper, Tong asked me how the Philippines was doing. Believe it or not, I had trouble coming up with a concise yet fairly accurate answer. I ended up saying “magulo pa rin” which I now think is a dull and uninspiring description. I also wondered whether my answer was relevant. It was not much comfort that Tong seemed to understand perfectly what I meant and then moved on to juicer questions about our former officemates.
***
“Relevant,” of course, was last week’s buzzword. The anti-administration group, Black and White Movement, said that by refusing to call for the resignation of President Arroyo, the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines had “chosen to be irrelevant.”
But I read the pastoral letter, heard interviews of CBCP officials and read a firsthand account of the meeting through the Bishop Ted Bacani’s column that came out on this paper last Saturday. And I thought that the bishops’ opinion, especially in the matter of Executive Order 464, was relevant enough.
So what does it mean to be relevant?
Probably one of the worst things that can be said about somebody whose life work has a social ring to it is that he or she is irrelevant. For instance, in this column, I sometimes agonize over the topics I take up, always careful not to alienate readers with topics that may be perceived as too “out of it.”
But then relevance always has something to do with the essence of one’s job and the objectives one wishes to achieve. So even if you write about the most personal things or deal with issues that are rarely brought up, as long as you keep your readers reading until your last punctuation and evoke in them emotions, reactions, reflections or more importantly, action, then you are, by all means, relevant.
If you are a man of the cloth, or more specifically, a group of bishops, your objective is not to determine the people who will or will not run the government. That’s not your job. Your responsibility is to your flock. The faithful must be conscious of their role in determining their nation’s affairs and guide them in their actions, which would hopefully be those that would bring out the full potential of their humanity.
If you are a businessman, you would be relevant if you take into consideration the concerns of your stakeholders – your principals, your creditors, clients and employees. You would want to make sure that the environment in which your business operates is as predictable, stable and promising as possible.
If you are an educator, you would be relevant if you inspire your students enough to study more and more of the subject you are teaching even without the pain of a failing grade in their class cards. You would be relevant if the children look up to you and regard you as a second parent, open up to you and consult you on their dilemmas of whatever nature. You would be relevant if you encourage them not to take in all that is fed them – yes, even what you or the books say — at face value and instead process the input before arriving at their own conclusions.
If you are a student, you would be relevant if you recognize that it does not serve you or your country if you remain in your comfort zone of music, fashion, technological developments and your conflicting feelings while growing up. There is a bigger world, and it needs you—your energy, your idealism, your perspective and your slate that is, as yet, clean.
And yet there is something more important than branding people as irrelevant or calling them names just because they don’t share our views or aren’t as passionate about certain issues as we are. It’s called respect.
Relevance is relative. Perhaps. But the need to respect other people’s views is basic. It paves the way for a healthy exchange of ideas. It enables us to be constructive instead of degenerative. It’s mature. And it’s absolute.
Living at the northernmost tip of the metro, I was a stranger to the now-thriving cluster of seafood restaurants that had sprouted along Macapagal Avenue, a road leading to that mammoth of a mall that is now known as MoA. (You’re hopelessly out of it if you think I am talking about a memorandum of agreement.)
Admittedly, last Friday, 29 February, was not the best time to explore the place. After all, at about 8:30 pm, the thousands who had converged at Ayala Avenue for the inter-faith rally were starting to disperse. It was no surprise then that the taxi that agreed to bring me from Port Area to the dinner venue was the 12th I had flagged down.
But a little inconvenience was nothing. My former boss, Roque Fortu, was on a rare visit to the Philippines. I, fresh out of college, was one of Tong’s (he scoffed at anybody who addressed him more formally) two analysts when he headed the planning and research unit of a local investment house 11 years ago. In 2002, however, he moved to Australia and started working at the state treasury department of Sydney. Eventually he obtained dual citizenship. This was only his second vacation, and I was intent on going. I had missed the first reunion they organized three years ago and it would be another three years until Tong came home again.
The minute I entered the restaurant and saw my friends’ faces, I knew it was going to be a great evening. Of course some of us have stayed in touch—two of them in fact became my kumares—and had lunch or dinner once or twice a year, but a reunion was different. It was a long table we occupied. There were about seven of us who showed up, and all, except the secretaries, were with other offices already.
The food was great—but the company was even better. We did not notice the passing of the hours because we were taken up with remembering old times. Those who were still with the company lamented that the office ambience was now more sober, almost clinical, whereas during our time, it was very much alive. According to them, the office was making more money now but it isn’t as much fun. Oh well.
Then, we were indefatigable twentysomethings with energy levels that could not be dampened by the workload nor the tempers of our executives. We worked hard but after 5:30, we always found time to discover quaint restaurants, exchange gossip (of course!) and organize summer outings that outdid the previous ones.
But the recollections comprised only half the reunion’s agenda. The rest of the time, we caught up with developments in each other’s lives. We described our present jobs, marveled at how our children had grown and dissected relationships that had worked —and failed.
And then, maybe because I had told him I was now working for a newspaper, Tong asked me how the Philippines was doing. Believe it or not, I had trouble coming up with a concise yet fairly accurate answer. I ended up saying “magulo pa rin” which I now think is a dull and uninspiring description. I also wondered whether my answer was relevant. It was not much comfort that Tong seemed to understand perfectly what I meant and then moved on to juicer questions about our former officemates.
***
“Relevant,” of course, was last week’s buzzword. The anti-administration group, Black and White Movement, said that by refusing to call for the resignation of President Arroyo, the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines had “chosen to be irrelevant.”
But I read the pastoral letter, heard interviews of CBCP officials and read a firsthand account of the meeting through the Bishop Ted Bacani’s column that came out on this paper last Saturday. And I thought that the bishops’ opinion, especially in the matter of Executive Order 464, was relevant enough.
So what does it mean to be relevant?
Probably one of the worst things that can be said about somebody whose life work has a social ring to it is that he or she is irrelevant. For instance, in this column, I sometimes agonize over the topics I take up, always careful not to alienate readers with topics that may be perceived as too “out of it.”
But then relevance always has something to do with the essence of one’s job and the objectives one wishes to achieve. So even if you write about the most personal things or deal with issues that are rarely brought up, as long as you keep your readers reading until your last punctuation and evoke in them emotions, reactions, reflections or more importantly, action, then you are, by all means, relevant.
If you are a man of the cloth, or more specifically, a group of bishops, your objective is not to determine the people who will or will not run the government. That’s not your job. Your responsibility is to your flock. The faithful must be conscious of their role in determining their nation’s affairs and guide them in their actions, which would hopefully be those that would bring out the full potential of their humanity.
If you are a businessman, you would be relevant if you take into consideration the concerns of your stakeholders – your principals, your creditors, clients and employees. You would want to make sure that the environment in which your business operates is as predictable, stable and promising as possible.
If you are an educator, you would be relevant if you inspire your students enough to study more and more of the subject you are teaching even without the pain of a failing grade in their class cards. You would be relevant if the children look up to you and regard you as a second parent, open up to you and consult you on their dilemmas of whatever nature. You would be relevant if you encourage them not to take in all that is fed them – yes, even what you or the books say — at face value and instead process the input before arriving at their own conclusions.
If you are a student, you would be relevant if you recognize that it does not serve you or your country if you remain in your comfort zone of music, fashion, technological developments and your conflicting feelings while growing up. There is a bigger world, and it needs you—your energy, your idealism, your perspective and your slate that is, as yet, clean.
And yet there is something more important than branding people as irrelevant or calling them names just because they don’t share our views or aren’t as passionate about certain issues as we are. It’s called respect.
Relevance is relative. Perhaps. But the need to respect other people’s views is basic. It paves the way for a healthy exchange of ideas. It enables us to be constructive instead of degenerative. It’s mature. And it’s absolute.
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