A week ago I added a folder to these blog posts -- MST Editorials. My intention was to archive every single piece I had written, whether on a personal or official capacity. See I write my newspaper's central opinion piece three times a week and, well, I am proud of this contribution. It's a daunting task I've vowed to never take for granted.
Still, these pieces do not belong to A Resounding Yes. In recent days I open my blog and find an editorial at the top of the page, and all of a sudden my blog seems a little less warm, a little less me. After all it is the paper talking there, and I, even as author, am only a mouthpiece.
So the editorials are back where they belong: to www.manilastandardtoday.com
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Freaking long Friday
There are times when 24 hours do not seem like 24 hours. Sometimes that span of time feels longer than a day, other times shorter.
Take mine last Friday. It started quite normally-- the three younger kids and I were up later than usual because classes every Friday started at 830 instead of the usual 7am (Bea had stepped out to jog around the neighborhood). I went downstairs to make pancakes; after a while, Elmo followed me and offered to mix the batter. We took our sweet time until Sophie came downstairs and said she wanted some mixing time, as well. Elmo was telling her to take part in the cooking instead – something I objected to – when the maid at their father's house, Michelle, buzzed. Dad's calling you, she told Elmo. Actually, John (my ex) should have them Fridays, according to the judge who decided on our custody case last year. But he went out of town and only came back a few hours earlier. I told Elmo to gather his toys and prepare to hop over to the other house. It was a three-minute walk, practically next door.
But my pre-schooler, who had no classes that day, would not leave because he wanted to finish mixing and then eat his pancakes with us. I cut him a deal. I hurried up the batter and made three plump cakes immediately, poured maple syrup into a small container, sealed it and told him to eat it with his dad. I told him he could always come back when his dad left for work. So off my baby went, and grudgingly.
Bea returned from jogging and within 45 minutes she, Josh and Sophie had eaten, bathed, dressed and gone to school. My stay-out maid, Marilyn, had also arrived by then. But Friday was her day to clean the upstairs bedrooms and fold the freshly-laundered clothes so I had the living room all to myself. Perfect, I said, switching on the tv to Fox Crime. I settled on the couch; it was halfway through CSI but CSI Miami was next. My back was aching – there were three of us on my single-sized bed again the previous night – but I tried to dismiss it.
I dozed off and was awakened by the buzzer. In front of my gate was John's newly acquired two-seater, convertible BMW (one of the reasons I take pride in taking the jeep or the tricycle -- but that's beside the point). Elmo was back.
And my backache had worsened. When I told Elmo about it,he offered to rub my back provided I watch his favorite movie, Cars, with him. I swear the kid watches that movie every single morning and never gets sick of it. Okay, I said, but he got too excited that I could not relax. He was reciting the lines along with Lightning McQueen and singing “Life is a highway”. At nine thirty I decided to get professional help for my pain. I told Elmo he could finish his movie or come with me for an hour at My Playroom. He decided to come.
Nowadays there are ways for families to maximize time spent at the mall. Even if the members went out together, inside the mall they could pursue their own agenda and everybody stays happy. For instance, that morning as I visited my favorite blind masseuse Louella (a one-hour massage costs 150), I left Elmo at the playroom which is equipped with Little Tikes, a swimming pool of balls, educational toys and interactive computer games.
I felt better after the massage. But it was past 11 by the time I finished and I still had to get some lunch. Now I had promised the children that lunch would be special in anticipation of their much-improved grades that I would be seeing that afternoon. I lined up at KFC and took home a bucket meal. Again, perfect. Everything was going according to plan.
At 1230 I fetched Sophie; shortly after, my high schoolers were due to arrive. They did, and promptly, bringing home one friend each. So I had four children and two other teenagers on the dining table -- it was good I got the bucket. The chicken disappeared and I was grateful; I hate seeing food go to waste.
Joshua's friend, Prince, would be accompanying him get his ATM card at the bank after lunch. See when Josh turned 13 two weeks ago, my gift to him was a savings account where I advanced four weeks' worth of allowance. We would henceforth be seeing whether this guy can handle his finances responsibly. We agreed to deal with each other cashlessly. Later, I would learn that Josh also asked Prince to accompany him to the electronics repair shop. I had tasked him to bring a defective electric fan there.
On the other hand, Bea and her friend, Laarni, planned to spend the afternoon watching chick flicks and munching on chicharon. Sure enough,Lindsay Lohan and Anne Hathaway were all over the place.
It was already 130 and I had to go to the school for the children's report cards and parent-teacher talks. I had to finish everybody by 3pm so I could leave for work. Of course there was always the option of working online, but I did not like that and used that option sparingly. I wanted to be viewed by my colleagues as dependable, aside from competent. Even if my personal life were a telenovela.
First was the brightest news. Bea's grades were wonderful. She remained in rank 3 in her junior class but her average has gone up to 90.56. Teacher Riza, however,advised me to monitor Bea's lateness which was becoming chronic. It was embarrassing because we lived right across the street, and sometimes it was my fault too because after a late night of writing, I could not bring myself to be up at 530. Who's a morning person nowadays, anyway
?
Next stop is the pre-school. Here I spent 30 minutes waiting because Elmo's Teacher Cecille
took pains to talk at great length with each of the parents. But when my turn arrived, I was so happy (actually almost misty-eyed) at what she had to say about my six year old. Elmo's grades have improved and he has qualified for the Quiz Me contest for three subjects (Math, Language and Geography). Qualifying means being one of three highest scorers for the elimination rounds. Moreover, she said that Elmo has been exceptionally behaved. Her words on the report card: “Elmo's attitude towards school is excellent. He is dependable, cooperative and takes an active part in all our activities.” His average is 86.75.
I went back to the main campus for the rest of the grades. Josh's teacher said he would benefit from working harder. Still, his average improved from 82.75 to 83.75; he managed to remain on the tenth spot. We had agreed he would be aiming for 8th by the 3rd quarter and 6th by the end of the school year. Oh well.
Sophie's Teacher Josie was my last stop. I had been extra helpful of Sophie because she needed me most. Apparently my efforts, or at least my style, were not enough. This when I had also enrolled her in Kumon in October. The other children have actually been accusing me of playing favorites because of the disproportionate attention I was giving the girl. I realized more was needed and I hoped they would understand.
So now I was free to go to work and decided to bring Sophie and Elmo. It was a Friday, after all – my newspaper has a one-page op-ed section only every Saturday – and I just had to edit two columns and write the editorial. Hurriedly I showered and dressed; it was already 310. We hopped into a cab and I muttered a grateful prayer. Why, I could still make the 4pm story conference!
As the minutes flew by,however, I realized I had less and less things to be grateful about. First, we could hardly feel that there was an aircon in the car – and it was midafternoon. I asked the driver to turn it up and he said “lalamig din po yan maya maya. (it will get colder soon).”
We took the Malabon-Navotas route. By then I was so sleepy that I became oblivious to the children's chatter. When I opened my eyes, however, we were surrounded by cargo trucks headed for the pier (the really big ones you don't want to get next to) in god knows where. It was a narrow street, maybe in Navotas or Tondo. I was drenched in sweat and the kids had stopped talking – they had taken to fanning themselves.
The driver said he took detours to avoid the traffic on North Bay Boulevard. Obviously it was a bad decision – by then it was four o'clock. No we were not moving at all. My temper shot up and I started tsk-tsking. Worse, the meter read P162.50 --- and we were not even halfway. I usually paid that amount for the entire trip, from McArthur to Port Area.
In an effort to appease me, the driver apologized and tried to roll the car windows down. I stopped him – if there was a bad place to open your windows, Tondo was. What was the guy thinking? After a while he asked “ano, mam, babalik na ang tayo sa bahay mo? (what now, maybe we should go back to your house?)” I nearly tossed my bag at him – for crying out loud, I was going to work! When he saw how upset I was, he apologized again and promptly scratched his head. I muttered another prayer to keep my cool.
The AM radio was tuned to a station covering the ongoing House hearing on the bribery scandal involving the government's anti-drug agencies. Maybe it was a bad time for me, or maybe the officials being grilled at the hearing were especially irritating. I decided to be productive and start working even then. But then I remembered where we were and could not pull out my laptop. I had no choice but to write in longhand. The children, soaked in sweat, were asleep. They knew better than get in my way when my temper is off. They were probably hungry too, I thought. And to think I hailed a cab just so they would be comfortable!
We arrived at the office at 530.
I deposited the children to the MIS room where Sophie could surf the iCarly web site and Elmo could play with his toy laptop without it being obvious among my colleagues that it was not just me that day. I switched on my desktop and started encoding the piece I had finished under the most non-conducive of circumstances. I edited the two columns. And as it always had, my work relaxed me. Quite ironic, I know, but true. I'm at my desk, I do my stuff, and I'm in control.
I was done in 30 minutes flat, only occasionally standing up to check on the babies at the other room (MIS is outside the newsroom),bring them crackers and water. I told them we would be leaving soon and they could eat anything they wanted. By then I had recovered; I was smiling again.
By 630,Sophie, Elmo and I were on a jeep bound for SM Manila. I had a splitting headache, I suppose, from the stress and the hunger. I could eat an elephant, the way I was feeling. We decided to get combo meals at Greenwich.
The pizza did us good. The kids were perky again and the Medicol I took was starting to take effect. Soon they were asking to go to the basement, to have some rides. Tokens nowadays cost 6 pesos each – I got three for each of them.
I was in awe at their faces while they were on the three-horse carousel, or the turning chair, or the virtual race car. It was as though they had just awakened. They were beaming, as though they did not go through the same taxi ride from hell that I had. They were waving and laughing. I realized then that children would be children, and their capacity for happiness far eclipses that of adults. I felt humbled by the memory of my bitching at the cab.
Finally, we were ready to go home. We boarded a Malanday-bound jeep and hurdled another hour of traffic. I was also on the lookout for any suspicious demeanor of our co-passengers. Fortunately the ride was uneventful – they fell asleep on my lap again; Sophie had my left and Elmo had my right. Before we boarded a tricycle, the final ride on that impossibly crazy long day, we got a cup of Slurpee at 7-11: Ponkan, our favorite flavor. Three straws in a cup, three heads bent over it, and the road to their father's house – they would be with John for the weekend -- was bumpy.
I made it home and I could not even shower because there was a cockroach in the bathroom.
I freshened up at the laundry area instead. The bigger kids who, by the way,had asked for pasalubong of apple-flavored Fit n' Right, were still watching a movie, Just Like Heaven, when I arrived. Josh asked whether he could enroll at the neighborhood gym for the summer – apparently he had made his inquiries. I went upstairs and Bea followed me-- she wanted to know what time we were leaving the following day. I had forgotten I had promised I would accompany her shopping for a second-hand cell phone.
When she had drifted off to sleep and I had rested my back a little, I went downstairs to watch Revolutionary Road, for which Kate Winslet got her Best Actress award at the Golden Globes. I had been looking forward to quiet film time. I had a full week and I deserved it. There were some strawberries in the ref, waiting to be dipped in honey.
It turned out, however, that Josh was still awake. He had a request -- could I stay downstairs awhile so we could watch Bubble Gang (a gag show featuring that genius Michael V among others) together?
So that's how I ended up ending an insanely long day at the end of an insanely full week -- with a good laugh, and the thought that the following day was, halleluia, my day-off.
Take mine last Friday. It started quite normally-- the three younger kids and I were up later than usual because classes every Friday started at 830 instead of the usual 7am (Bea had stepped out to jog around the neighborhood). I went downstairs to make pancakes; after a while, Elmo followed me and offered to mix the batter. We took our sweet time until Sophie came downstairs and said she wanted some mixing time, as well. Elmo was telling her to take part in the cooking instead – something I objected to – when the maid at their father's house, Michelle, buzzed. Dad's calling you, she told Elmo. Actually, John (my ex) should have them Fridays, according to the judge who decided on our custody case last year. But he went out of town and only came back a few hours earlier. I told Elmo to gather his toys and prepare to hop over to the other house. It was a three-minute walk, practically next door.
But my pre-schooler, who had no classes that day, would not leave because he wanted to finish mixing and then eat his pancakes with us. I cut him a deal. I hurried up the batter and made three plump cakes immediately, poured maple syrup into a small container, sealed it and told him to eat it with his dad. I told him he could always come back when his dad left for work. So off my baby went, and grudgingly.
Bea returned from jogging and within 45 minutes she, Josh and Sophie had eaten, bathed, dressed and gone to school. My stay-out maid, Marilyn, had also arrived by then. But Friday was her day to clean the upstairs bedrooms and fold the freshly-laundered clothes so I had the living room all to myself. Perfect, I said, switching on the tv to Fox Crime. I settled on the couch; it was halfway through CSI but CSI Miami was next. My back was aching – there were three of us on my single-sized bed again the previous night – but I tried to dismiss it.
I dozed off and was awakened by the buzzer. In front of my gate was John's newly acquired two-seater, convertible BMW (one of the reasons I take pride in taking the jeep or the tricycle -- but that's beside the point). Elmo was back.
And my backache had worsened. When I told Elmo about it,he offered to rub my back provided I watch his favorite movie, Cars, with him. I swear the kid watches that movie every single morning and never gets sick of it. Okay, I said, but he got too excited that I could not relax. He was reciting the lines along with Lightning McQueen and singing “Life is a highway”. At nine thirty I decided to get professional help for my pain. I told Elmo he could finish his movie or come with me for an hour at My Playroom. He decided to come.
Nowadays there are ways for families to maximize time spent at the mall. Even if the members went out together, inside the mall they could pursue their own agenda and everybody stays happy. For instance, that morning as I visited my favorite blind masseuse Louella (a one-hour massage costs 150), I left Elmo at the playroom which is equipped with Little Tikes, a swimming pool of balls, educational toys and interactive computer games.
I felt better after the massage. But it was past 11 by the time I finished and I still had to get some lunch. Now I had promised the children that lunch would be special in anticipation of their much-improved grades that I would be seeing that afternoon. I lined up at KFC and took home a bucket meal. Again, perfect. Everything was going according to plan.
At 1230 I fetched Sophie; shortly after, my high schoolers were due to arrive. They did, and promptly, bringing home one friend each. So I had four children and two other teenagers on the dining table -- it was good I got the bucket. The chicken disappeared and I was grateful; I hate seeing food go to waste.
Joshua's friend, Prince, would be accompanying him get his ATM card at the bank after lunch. See when Josh turned 13 two weeks ago, my gift to him was a savings account where I advanced four weeks' worth of allowance. We would henceforth be seeing whether this guy can handle his finances responsibly. We agreed to deal with each other cashlessly. Later, I would learn that Josh also asked Prince to accompany him to the electronics repair shop. I had tasked him to bring a defective electric fan there.
On the other hand, Bea and her friend, Laarni, planned to spend the afternoon watching chick flicks and munching on chicharon. Sure enough,Lindsay Lohan and Anne Hathaway were all over the place.
It was already 130 and I had to go to the school for the children's report cards and parent-teacher talks. I had to finish everybody by 3pm so I could leave for work. Of course there was always the option of working online, but I did not like that and used that option sparingly. I wanted to be viewed by my colleagues as dependable, aside from competent. Even if my personal life were a telenovela.
First was the brightest news. Bea's grades were wonderful. She remained in rank 3 in her junior class but her average has gone up to 90.56. Teacher Riza, however,advised me to monitor Bea's lateness which was becoming chronic. It was embarrassing because we lived right across the street, and sometimes it was my fault too because after a late night of writing, I could not bring myself to be up at 530. Who's a morning person nowadays, anyway
?
Next stop is the pre-school. Here I spent 30 minutes waiting because Elmo's Teacher Cecille
took pains to talk at great length with each of the parents. But when my turn arrived, I was so happy (actually almost misty-eyed) at what she had to say about my six year old. Elmo's grades have improved and he has qualified for the Quiz Me contest for three subjects (Math, Language and Geography). Qualifying means being one of three highest scorers for the elimination rounds. Moreover, she said that Elmo has been exceptionally behaved. Her words on the report card: “Elmo's attitude towards school is excellent. He is dependable, cooperative and takes an active part in all our activities.” His average is 86.75.
I went back to the main campus for the rest of the grades. Josh's teacher said he would benefit from working harder. Still, his average improved from 82.75 to 83.75; he managed to remain on the tenth spot. We had agreed he would be aiming for 8th by the 3rd quarter and 6th by the end of the school year. Oh well.
Sophie's Teacher Josie was my last stop. I had been extra helpful of Sophie because she needed me most. Apparently my efforts, or at least my style, were not enough. This when I had also enrolled her in Kumon in October. The other children have actually been accusing me of playing favorites because of the disproportionate attention I was giving the girl. I realized more was needed and I hoped they would understand.
So now I was free to go to work and decided to bring Sophie and Elmo. It was a Friday, after all – my newspaper has a one-page op-ed section only every Saturday – and I just had to edit two columns and write the editorial. Hurriedly I showered and dressed; it was already 310. We hopped into a cab and I muttered a grateful prayer. Why, I could still make the 4pm story conference!
As the minutes flew by,however, I realized I had less and less things to be grateful about. First, we could hardly feel that there was an aircon in the car – and it was midafternoon. I asked the driver to turn it up and he said “lalamig din po yan maya maya. (it will get colder soon).”
We took the Malabon-Navotas route. By then I was so sleepy that I became oblivious to the children's chatter. When I opened my eyes, however, we were surrounded by cargo trucks headed for the pier (the really big ones you don't want to get next to) in god knows where. It was a narrow street, maybe in Navotas or Tondo. I was drenched in sweat and the kids had stopped talking – they had taken to fanning themselves.
The driver said he took detours to avoid the traffic on North Bay Boulevard. Obviously it was a bad decision – by then it was four o'clock. No we were not moving at all. My temper shot up and I started tsk-tsking. Worse, the meter read P162.50 --- and we were not even halfway. I usually paid that amount for the entire trip, from McArthur to Port Area.
In an effort to appease me, the driver apologized and tried to roll the car windows down. I stopped him – if there was a bad place to open your windows, Tondo was. What was the guy thinking? After a while he asked “ano, mam, babalik na ang tayo sa bahay mo? (what now, maybe we should go back to your house?)” I nearly tossed my bag at him – for crying out loud, I was going to work! When he saw how upset I was, he apologized again and promptly scratched his head. I muttered another prayer to keep my cool.
The AM radio was tuned to a station covering the ongoing House hearing on the bribery scandal involving the government's anti-drug agencies. Maybe it was a bad time for me, or maybe the officials being grilled at the hearing were especially irritating. I decided to be productive and start working even then. But then I remembered where we were and could not pull out my laptop. I had no choice but to write in longhand. The children, soaked in sweat, were asleep. They knew better than get in my way when my temper is off. They were probably hungry too, I thought. And to think I hailed a cab just so they would be comfortable!
We arrived at the office at 530.
I deposited the children to the MIS room where Sophie could surf the iCarly web site and Elmo could play with his toy laptop without it being obvious among my colleagues that it was not just me that day. I switched on my desktop and started encoding the piece I had finished under the most non-conducive of circumstances. I edited the two columns. And as it always had, my work relaxed me. Quite ironic, I know, but true. I'm at my desk, I do my stuff, and I'm in control.
I was done in 30 minutes flat, only occasionally standing up to check on the babies at the other room (MIS is outside the newsroom),bring them crackers and water. I told them we would be leaving soon and they could eat anything they wanted. By then I had recovered; I was smiling again.
By 630,Sophie, Elmo and I were on a jeep bound for SM Manila. I had a splitting headache, I suppose, from the stress and the hunger. I could eat an elephant, the way I was feeling. We decided to get combo meals at Greenwich.
The pizza did us good. The kids were perky again and the Medicol I took was starting to take effect. Soon they were asking to go to the basement, to have some rides. Tokens nowadays cost 6 pesos each – I got three for each of them.
I was in awe at their faces while they were on the three-horse carousel, or the turning chair, or the virtual race car. It was as though they had just awakened. They were beaming, as though they did not go through the same taxi ride from hell that I had. They were waving and laughing. I realized then that children would be children, and their capacity for happiness far eclipses that of adults. I felt humbled by the memory of my bitching at the cab.
Finally, we were ready to go home. We boarded a Malanday-bound jeep and hurdled another hour of traffic. I was also on the lookout for any suspicious demeanor of our co-passengers. Fortunately the ride was uneventful – they fell asleep on my lap again; Sophie had my left and Elmo had my right. Before we boarded a tricycle, the final ride on that impossibly crazy long day, we got a cup of Slurpee at 7-11: Ponkan, our favorite flavor. Three straws in a cup, three heads bent over it, and the road to their father's house – they would be with John for the weekend -- was bumpy.
I made it home and I could not even shower because there was a cockroach in the bathroom.
I freshened up at the laundry area instead. The bigger kids who, by the way,had asked for pasalubong of apple-flavored Fit n' Right, were still watching a movie, Just Like Heaven, when I arrived. Josh asked whether he could enroll at the neighborhood gym for the summer – apparently he had made his inquiries. I went upstairs and Bea followed me-- she wanted to know what time we were leaving the following day. I had forgotten I had promised I would accompany her shopping for a second-hand cell phone.
When she had drifted off to sleep and I had rested my back a little, I went downstairs to watch Revolutionary Road, for which Kate Winslet got her Best Actress award at the Golden Globes. I had been looking forward to quiet film time. I had a full week and I deserved it. There were some strawberries in the ref, waiting to be dipped in honey.
It turned out, however, that Josh was still awake. He had a request -- could I stay downstairs awhile so we could watch Bubble Gang (a gag show featuring that genius Michael V among others) together?
So that's how I ended up ending an insanely long day at the end of an insanely full week -- with a good laugh, and the thought that the following day was, halleluia, my day-off.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
The "sure" in insurance
The PDIC needs to communicate better with distraught depositors of closed rural banks.
published 26 Jan 2009, MST
It's one thing to read the business pages and learn, as we did last month, that a chain of rural banks belonging to one Celso delos Angeles' Legacy Group first declared a bank holiday, then closed shop and was eventually taken over by the Philippine Deposit Insurance Corporation.
It's one thing to hear the central bank governor saying that the Legacy case was “isolated” and that the rest of the rural banking system -- nay the entire Philippine banking system -- was otherwise sound and stable.
It's also one thing to know about the PDIC's pronouncements that depositors of the closed banks need not worry since their claims would be processed, and soon. According to newspaper reports, the PDIC has deployed half its workforce to the field to attend to the concerns of depositors of the just-closed banks. Last week it was reported to have engaged the services of KPMG Manabat Sanagustin & Co. to screen depositors’ claims. If all goes well, payout can begin by the middle of next month.
But it's quite another to have your life savings and your retirement money in one of these banks without any idea when exactly you will recover them. The Christmas holidays came and went, and now it’s the New Year, even the Chinese New Year, and the uncertainty hangs over your head.
When you go to the PDIC offices to file your claim, hear the front liners tell you that there has yet been no memo from the president (PDIC president Jose Nograles) instructing them to release claim forms. You ask when the forms – numbered, they say, as this was “an unusual situation” -- would be made available. Heck, it's not like you're asking for your money back at once. You know there are processes to be observed. For crying out loud, you just want a claim form.
Receive the employees' answer: “Tawag-tawag na lang kayo. (Just call us every so often)” Go back week after week and hear the same answer every time. To additional questions you may come up with, you will be met with “we do not know” or “it is confidential.”
If it's a particularly bad day, some unthinking PDIC employee may ask: “Bakit naman ho kasi sa rural bank kayo naglalagay ng pera? (Why place your money in a rural bank in the first place)?” insinuating you are somehow at fault.
In the meantime, life goes on. You have bills to pay, a family to feed, tuition to settle. Maybe a dear uncle, cancer-stricken, needs your help. Where do you turn for answers?
**
Distraught would be a good way to describe two ladies, Mrs. P and Mrs. M, when I met them at a San Juan fastfood one morning. Both retired, they are depositors of the Rural Bank of Parañaque, one of the banks that were closed in December. ”Nagkakasakit na nga kami sa kakaisip, (we're getting sick just thinking about this)” they tell me.
The ladies don't belong to the “small depositors” category (below P100,000) whose claims the PDIC said it would service first. After all, both were successful professionals during their active years: one was an IT executive for a universal bank and the other a top marketing director of a distribution firm. They decided to invest their money in the rural bank because aside from having been around for decades, it offered double-your-money-in-six-years schemes. They figured it was prudent -- there were no risks because the bank, as all banks were, was under the regulation and supervision of the Bangko Sentral. Should anything untoward happen, their money is insured with the PDIC anyway. Now they are learning first-hand that reality is always more complicated than theory.
Mrs. M laments they are prevented from taking the first step in claiming their funds which they so unsuspectingly placed in the rural bank. At the time she opened her account, she did not know delos Angeles from Adam. Her masteral studies now on hold, she surfs the Internet regularly for developments on the situation.
She finds, for instance, that there is no dearth of official announcements from the PDIC saying claims would be processed as soon as it can. The company Web site (www.pdic.gov.ph) is complete with step-by-step procedures on claiming deposits. She has also just recently discovered that claim forms are actually available at the Web site, for downloading and printing. But for what? She recalls the words of the PDIC employees: these have to be numbered, and they are not yet accepting claims from those with deposits in excess of P100,000.
To console herself, Mrs. M thinks about the depositors of other rural banks in far-flung places. At least she could surf the Internet and know what's going on, helpless as she now feels.
**
Mrs. P, on the other hand, has to rein in her imagination. Not only she but several family members, including a daughter abroad, have placed their savings in the bank. She says she cannot be blamed for entertaining worst-case scenarios in her head. Who knows whatever became of their money? Elections were a year away, anyway. What if the PDIC itself invested in foreign funds and companies brought down by the global economic crunch? What if the money had been loaned to fictitious borrowers or any other form of money laundering scheme?
She says it takes a lot for her to keep her faith in the PDIC. Unfortunately, the feedback that she's getting from its employees every time she calls or goes to its offices are not reassuring.
The ladies are prepared to give the PDIC some time with which to process their claims, even as their need for their money is urgent as well. They are, however, entitled to answers, now. Timelines, requirements, next-step advisories -- all delivered in a compassionate tone. Maybe Mr. Nograles and his team need to remind their staff to at least try to sound compassionate when communicating with the likes of Mrs. M and Mrs. P.
Given depositors’ unfortunate situation, this isn’t really too much to ask.
published 26 Jan 2009, MST
It's one thing to read the business pages and learn, as we did last month, that a chain of rural banks belonging to one Celso delos Angeles' Legacy Group first declared a bank holiday, then closed shop and was eventually taken over by the Philippine Deposit Insurance Corporation.
It's one thing to hear the central bank governor saying that the Legacy case was “isolated” and that the rest of the rural banking system -- nay the entire Philippine banking system -- was otherwise sound and stable.
It's also one thing to know about the PDIC's pronouncements that depositors of the closed banks need not worry since their claims would be processed, and soon. According to newspaper reports, the PDIC has deployed half its workforce to the field to attend to the concerns of depositors of the just-closed banks. Last week it was reported to have engaged the services of KPMG Manabat Sanagustin & Co. to screen depositors’ claims. If all goes well, payout can begin by the middle of next month.
But it's quite another to have your life savings and your retirement money in one of these banks without any idea when exactly you will recover them. The Christmas holidays came and went, and now it’s the New Year, even the Chinese New Year, and the uncertainty hangs over your head.
When you go to the PDIC offices to file your claim, hear the front liners tell you that there has yet been no memo from the president (PDIC president Jose Nograles) instructing them to release claim forms. You ask when the forms – numbered, they say, as this was “an unusual situation” -- would be made available. Heck, it's not like you're asking for your money back at once. You know there are processes to be observed. For crying out loud, you just want a claim form.
Receive the employees' answer: “Tawag-tawag na lang kayo. (Just call us every so often)” Go back week after week and hear the same answer every time. To additional questions you may come up with, you will be met with “we do not know” or “it is confidential.”
If it's a particularly bad day, some unthinking PDIC employee may ask: “Bakit naman ho kasi sa rural bank kayo naglalagay ng pera? (Why place your money in a rural bank in the first place)?” insinuating you are somehow at fault.
In the meantime, life goes on. You have bills to pay, a family to feed, tuition to settle. Maybe a dear uncle, cancer-stricken, needs your help. Where do you turn for answers?
**
Distraught would be a good way to describe two ladies, Mrs. P and Mrs. M, when I met them at a San Juan fastfood one morning. Both retired, they are depositors of the Rural Bank of Parañaque, one of the banks that were closed in December. ”Nagkakasakit na nga kami sa kakaisip, (we're getting sick just thinking about this)” they tell me.
The ladies don't belong to the “small depositors” category (below P100,000) whose claims the PDIC said it would service first. After all, both were successful professionals during their active years: one was an IT executive for a universal bank and the other a top marketing director of a distribution firm. They decided to invest their money in the rural bank because aside from having been around for decades, it offered double-your-money-in-six-years schemes. They figured it was prudent -- there were no risks because the bank, as all banks were, was under the regulation and supervision of the Bangko Sentral. Should anything untoward happen, their money is insured with the PDIC anyway. Now they are learning first-hand that reality is always more complicated than theory.
Mrs. M laments they are prevented from taking the first step in claiming their funds which they so unsuspectingly placed in the rural bank. At the time she opened her account, she did not know delos Angeles from Adam. Her masteral studies now on hold, she surfs the Internet regularly for developments on the situation.
She finds, for instance, that there is no dearth of official announcements from the PDIC saying claims would be processed as soon as it can. The company Web site (www.pdic.gov.ph) is complete with step-by-step procedures on claiming deposits. She has also just recently discovered that claim forms are actually available at the Web site, for downloading and printing. But for what? She recalls the words of the PDIC employees: these have to be numbered, and they are not yet accepting claims from those with deposits in excess of P100,000.
To console herself, Mrs. M thinks about the depositors of other rural banks in far-flung places. At least she could surf the Internet and know what's going on, helpless as she now feels.
**
Mrs. P, on the other hand, has to rein in her imagination. Not only she but several family members, including a daughter abroad, have placed their savings in the bank. She says she cannot be blamed for entertaining worst-case scenarios in her head. Who knows whatever became of their money? Elections were a year away, anyway. What if the PDIC itself invested in foreign funds and companies brought down by the global economic crunch? What if the money had been loaned to fictitious borrowers or any other form of money laundering scheme?
She says it takes a lot for her to keep her faith in the PDIC. Unfortunately, the feedback that she's getting from its employees every time she calls or goes to its offices are not reassuring.
The ladies are prepared to give the PDIC some time with which to process their claims, even as their need for their money is urgent as well. They are, however, entitled to answers, now. Timelines, requirements, next-step advisories -- all delivered in a compassionate tone. Maybe Mr. Nograles and his team need to remind their staff to at least try to sound compassionate when communicating with the likes of Mrs. M and Mrs. P.
Given depositors’ unfortunate situation, this isn’t really too much to ask.
A preposition can change your life
Central-desk occupants of the newsroom have two hobbies: Comment on the copy submitted by reporters,and comment on the front pages and headlines of other newspapers.
Today's fare was an especially amusing headline in one of the tabloids. "Stay away with my wife," it said. The other editors could not get over the glaring error in this one, at least, that's what they thought it was. "Must be an ugly wife!" one of them hissed, and everybody laughed; it should have been "Must be a stupid editor!". I was equally amused but kept my silence; I was working on my column so I could get it out of the way and relax this weekend.
Later on in the evening, when the workload had eased, Nonoy (deskman) took the trouble to get the tabloid out of the corkboard and actually read the story behind the odd title. Imagine then his surprise upon learning that the headline was actually the exact text message sent by a husband to another man. What he meant, of course, was for this other man to keep his distance FROM his wife.
He should have texted in the vernacular. Sana nagtagalog na lang sya.
Who knows whether the wife and the other man went gallivanting afterwards, thinking they had the husband's permission? LOL!
Zero profound value except to serve as a reminder on what we editors hold sacred in our trade: Mind your prepositions!
Today's fare was an especially amusing headline in one of the tabloids. "Stay away with my wife," it said. The other editors could not get over the glaring error in this one, at least, that's what they thought it was. "Must be an ugly wife!" one of them hissed, and everybody laughed; it should have been "Must be a stupid editor!". I was equally amused but kept my silence; I was working on my column so I could get it out of the way and relax this weekend.
Later on in the evening, when the workload had eased, Nonoy (deskman) took the trouble to get the tabloid out of the corkboard and actually read the story behind the odd title. Imagine then his surprise upon learning that the headline was actually the exact text message sent by a husband to another man. What he meant, of course, was for this other man to keep his distance FROM his wife.
He should have texted in the vernacular. Sana nagtagalog na lang sya.
Who knows whether the wife and the other man went gallivanting afterwards, thinking they had the husband's permission? LOL!
Zero profound value except to serve as a reminder on what we editors hold sacred in our trade: Mind your prepositions!
Monday, January 19, 2009
This Obama girl
It's one of those times when I feel I must do NOTHING for a change. I had just punctuated tomorrow's editorial; while waiting for Mang Dario (the cartoonist) to finish his drawing so I could review the laid-out page 4 (page 5 had gone up the board an hour earlier), I decided to just...do nothing. I tinkered with my Facebook profile. I saw that my friend Jennie in Canada became a fan of Jollibee and my daughter Bea became a fan of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Hmmm...could I be anybody's fan, as well?
It was not difficult. Within twenty minutes I had viewed and registered at the fan sites of Ralph Fiennes, Sting, Christ Botti...and Barack Obama.
Yes, Barack, the one who promised to bring that oft-used but oft-missed word, Change. He will be President of the United States of America in 24 hours thereabouts.
Last week I finished Dreams From My Father, Obama's memoir from the first years of his life. In an earlier blog entry (Restless, Dec 31), I spoke about its three main headings: Origins, Chicago and Kenya. The emotions he tried to capture in Chicago resounded well with me...he was then only a twentysomething and not yet in law school. And yet he saw many things he wanted to do something about -- with only a vague notion as to how.
It's a combination of deliberation and grace. He wrote to various groups because even though he was then already working as a financial writer for a New York firm, he wanted to do more. A response from one of the Chicago-based organizers started him off. The rest, as they say, is history. What history, as we now know.
One recalls a scene when he was new in town. Quite lost, he wandered into a barber shop near Hyde Park. It was the same Hyde Park where he would, many years later, address his supporters during his victory speech. It was almost poetic, his life. His prose, impeccable.
Now I get a kick out of seeing him on tv addressing his countrymen on bailouts and Gaza and every imaginable issue. That same person, that same mind, describing his awe during a safari trip in Africa and talking about the largely-absent-ominously-present father. Whom he has, by the way, only seen for a brief month when he was ten years old.
I've been around long enough to know that real life is nowhere as poetic as how we would prefer to have it. The magic will not last forever with this new President. Magic never does last. Mr. Obama has real issues to attend to, and they are formidable. The whole world looks on whether he can really deliver or whether he is just an eloquent speaker who might as well be a rock star.
This week I will start with a second Obama book, The Audacity of Hope, given me as a Christmas present by a dear friend. I look forward to reading it -- and being inspired just a little more.
I'll be at the inaugurals. I got my tickets through Facebook, too.
It was not difficult. Within twenty minutes I had viewed and registered at the fan sites of Ralph Fiennes, Sting, Christ Botti...and Barack Obama.
Yes, Barack, the one who promised to bring that oft-used but oft-missed word, Change. He will be President of the United States of America in 24 hours thereabouts.
Last week I finished Dreams From My Father, Obama's memoir from the first years of his life. In an earlier blog entry (Restless, Dec 31), I spoke about its three main headings: Origins, Chicago and Kenya. The emotions he tried to capture in Chicago resounded well with me...he was then only a twentysomething and not yet in law school. And yet he saw many things he wanted to do something about -- with only a vague notion as to how.
It's a combination of deliberation and grace. He wrote to various groups because even though he was then already working as a financial writer for a New York firm, he wanted to do more. A response from one of the Chicago-based organizers started him off. The rest, as they say, is history. What history, as we now know.
One recalls a scene when he was new in town. Quite lost, he wandered into a barber shop near Hyde Park. It was the same Hyde Park where he would, many years later, address his supporters during his victory speech. It was almost poetic, his life. His prose, impeccable.
Now I get a kick out of seeing him on tv addressing his countrymen on bailouts and Gaza and every imaginable issue. That same person, that same mind, describing his awe during a safari trip in Africa and talking about the largely-absent-ominously-present father. Whom he has, by the way, only seen for a brief month when he was ten years old.
I've been around long enough to know that real life is nowhere as poetic as how we would prefer to have it. The magic will not last forever with this new President. Magic never does last. Mr. Obama has real issues to attend to, and they are formidable. The whole world looks on whether he can really deliver or whether he is just an eloquent speaker who might as well be a rock star.
This week I will start with a second Obama book, The Audacity of Hope, given me as a Christmas present by a dear friend. I look forward to reading it -- and being inspired just a little more.
I'll be at the inaugurals. I got my tickets through Facebook, too.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Executive session
published 2 Feb 2009, MST
It was a not-so-typical Sunday family lunch. I was with my older children Bea, 14 and Josh, 13, but instead of the usual light banter and storytelling among the three of us, I had an agenda. On that day I had 10 talking points on a page of my planner—and up to the last minute I was worried I may have missed an item or two. While the topics were listed in no particular order, I intended to cover every single one of them.
1. Observing curfew (7 p.m. school nights, 9 p.m. all others) and informing me of their whereabouts;
2. Assignment of specific household chores (we only had a stay-out maid who worked four days a week from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m.);
3. Time with their father;
4.Their behavior towards the younger ones (Sophie, 8 and Elmo, 6 whom they occasionally bullied);
5. Their behavior toward their Ninang Helen (my elderly single aunt who lived with us and who had been complaining of being talked back to);
6. Expectations in terms of grades, college courses and eventual career;
7. Nature of time spent with friends— experimentation, if any, with cigarettes, alcohol, drugs or (gasp!) sex;
8. Their resolutions for 2009;
9. Our schedule for going to church together; and
10. Avoiding the mistakes of my generation
Events of the past few days prompted me to call that meeting. I knew they were just growing pains—anecdotes we would perhaps laugh about someday. I also could not say I did not expect these. Still, I believed an occasional formal calling of attention was in order.
I have always prided myself in being a democratic parent, valuing empowerment instead of punishment. I have been trying to lead by example and to accord my children, in all their ages, respect by not dictating on them what to do. Instead I have been giving them ample breathing space to figure out a few things for themselves, to follow a rule because they know why it was made a rule in the first place and to be accountable for their words, actions, and omissions, big or small.
It’s all nice on paper but it doesn’t go that well every day. Believe me.
When I announced the meeting the day before it was to take place, the kids were eager to find out what we would be talking about.
Me: Papagalitan ko kayo (I will give you a scolding).
Bea: Why do it over lunch?
(She pointed out that punishing naughty children normally meant depriving them of food.)
Me: I’m doing reverse psychology.
Lunch was at Shakey’s. We each had a chicken-and-pasta combo meal plus a large thin crust pepperoni crrunch (note the two Rs) and a single serving of mojos. They had shakes; I settled for water. I took a gulp and then started with the Big Talk, taking extra care to avoid sounding pompous or preachy. I did not want to lose them at hello.
We must have spent a good hour-and-a-half talking and eating. Then we stood up to go to our respective destinations. I had work, so I crossed the street to get my ride. Josh said he was playing basketball with his friends; Bea said she might watch a chick flick with her classmates.
On my way to the office, I felt relieved and scared at the same time. I was glad to have communicated on that level—they knew I meant business and it’s not for my own good, either—but I was worried, too. They appeared receptive, but that was now. What about tomorrow? How can parents—single parents, especially, with half the resources (not necessarily financial) and twice the pressure—make sure children will be content to learn their lessons second hand and not get where they are meant to be the hard way?
I willed myself to be content with the environment of openness which was at least present. It does help to be a young mom here. I hoped they ingested more than the pizza. It would be a good idea to do this every once in a while, maybe on a quarterly basis.
I have a better answer for Bea now: These sessions are best done over meals, because like food, they are meant to nourish. And my, do I want to nourish them well.
***
Reacting to last week’s column “The ‘sure’ in insurance,” an officer of the Philippine Deposit Insurance Corp.’s corporate communications unit sent me an e-mail saying “key officers” wished to clarify some points I raised in my article.
In that piece, I interviewed two distraught depositors of the just-closed Rural Bank of Parañaque who said they felt they were being prevented from filing their claims and that they were now entertaining worst-case scenarios in their heads.
The meeting was supposed to take place last Friday. I had my questions, on claims filing and many other issues, ready… but the interview was postponed.
I am not the only one looking forward to the meeting and hearing what the agency’s officials have to say. I hope next week’s column will be on the answers finally offered by the PDIC.
It was a not-so-typical Sunday family lunch. I was with my older children Bea, 14 and Josh, 13, but instead of the usual light banter and storytelling among the three of us, I had an agenda. On that day I had 10 talking points on a page of my planner—and up to the last minute I was worried I may have missed an item or two. While the topics were listed in no particular order, I intended to cover every single one of them.
1. Observing curfew (7 p.m. school nights, 9 p.m. all others) and informing me of their whereabouts;
2. Assignment of specific household chores (we only had a stay-out maid who worked four days a week from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m.);
3. Time with their father;
4.Their behavior towards the younger ones (Sophie, 8 and Elmo, 6 whom they occasionally bullied);
5. Their behavior toward their Ninang Helen (my elderly single aunt who lived with us and who had been complaining of being talked back to);
6. Expectations in terms of grades, college courses and eventual career;
7. Nature of time spent with friends— experimentation, if any, with cigarettes, alcohol, drugs or (gasp!) sex;
8. Their resolutions for 2009;
9. Our schedule for going to church together; and
10. Avoiding the mistakes of my generation
Events of the past few days prompted me to call that meeting. I knew they were just growing pains—anecdotes we would perhaps laugh about someday. I also could not say I did not expect these. Still, I believed an occasional formal calling of attention was in order.
I have always prided myself in being a democratic parent, valuing empowerment instead of punishment. I have been trying to lead by example and to accord my children, in all their ages, respect by not dictating on them what to do. Instead I have been giving them ample breathing space to figure out a few things for themselves, to follow a rule because they know why it was made a rule in the first place and to be accountable for their words, actions, and omissions, big or small.
It’s all nice on paper but it doesn’t go that well every day. Believe me.
When I announced the meeting the day before it was to take place, the kids were eager to find out what we would be talking about.
Me: Papagalitan ko kayo (I will give you a scolding).
Bea: Why do it over lunch?
(She pointed out that punishing naughty children normally meant depriving them of food.)
Me: I’m doing reverse psychology.
Lunch was at Shakey’s. We each had a chicken-and-pasta combo meal plus a large thin crust pepperoni crrunch (note the two Rs) and a single serving of mojos. They had shakes; I settled for water. I took a gulp and then started with the Big Talk, taking extra care to avoid sounding pompous or preachy. I did not want to lose them at hello.
We must have spent a good hour-and-a-half talking and eating. Then we stood up to go to our respective destinations. I had work, so I crossed the street to get my ride. Josh said he was playing basketball with his friends; Bea said she might watch a chick flick with her classmates.
On my way to the office, I felt relieved and scared at the same time. I was glad to have communicated on that level—they knew I meant business and it’s not for my own good, either—but I was worried, too. They appeared receptive, but that was now. What about tomorrow? How can parents—single parents, especially, with half the resources (not necessarily financial) and twice the pressure—make sure children will be content to learn their lessons second hand and not get where they are meant to be the hard way?
I willed myself to be content with the environment of openness which was at least present. It does help to be a young mom here. I hoped they ingested more than the pizza. It would be a good idea to do this every once in a while, maybe on a quarterly basis.
I have a better answer for Bea now: These sessions are best done over meals, because like food, they are meant to nourish. And my, do I want to nourish them well.
***
Reacting to last week’s column “The ‘sure’ in insurance,” an officer of the Philippine Deposit Insurance Corp.’s corporate communications unit sent me an e-mail saying “key officers” wished to clarify some points I raised in my article.
In that piece, I interviewed two distraught depositors of the just-closed Rural Bank of Parañaque who said they felt they were being prevented from filing their claims and that they were now entertaining worst-case scenarios in their heads.
The meeting was supposed to take place last Friday. I had my questions, on claims filing and many other issues, ready… but the interview was postponed.
I am not the only one looking forward to the meeting and hearing what the agency’s officials have to say. I hope next week’s column will be on the answers finally offered by the PDIC.
The gullible's travails
published 19 Jan 2009, MST
Intelligence and rationality are two different things. This explains why even people with high IQ can be duped.
Stephen Greenspan, PhD is emeritus professor of educational psychology at the University of Connecticut and clinical professor of psychiatry at the University of Colorado. He recently published a book entitled Annals of Gullibility: Why We are Duped and How to Avoid It after years of studying why people, even intelligent ones, fall into traps because of their gullibility. He defines gullibility as a “sub-type of foolish (or stupid) action which is induced; it always occurs in the presence of pressure or deception by other people.”
Greenspan has a related essay at the Wall Street Journal (wwww.wsj.com) and likewise at www.skeptic.com. This piece has a personal, poignant touch. Here it's not just Greenspan the psychologist speaking. It's also the same Greenspan who invested part of his retirement fund (amount has not been disclosed) in Rye Prime Bond Fund, a feeder fund that was managed by the now-notorious, self-confessed schemer, Bernard Madoff. The essay is entitled Fooled by Ponzi (and Madoff): How Bernard Madoff Made Off With My Money.
Who has not heard of Madoff by now? He's the 70-year-old fellow who might pass for Santa Claus but has brought anything but gifts and good tidings. The founder of Bernard L. Madoff Investment Securities (which he put up in 1960) was arrested last month for securities fraud. He is now on house arrest at his luxurious penthouse in New York City.
We know that Madoff's clients were mostly high-profile institutions, charities and individuals, and that investing with him was purely by invitation only. He himself said he had duped his clients to the tune of $50 billion. Many of his clients' fortunes and reputations crumbled; a French aristocrat who had been doing business with and on behalf of Madoff committed suicide before Christmas.
What many of us don't know is that as early as 2005, somebody by the name of Harry Markopolos wrote the US Securities and Exchange Commission citing 29 red flags in Madoff’s activities. The SEC did conduct an investigation and found nothing. There were also reputable audit firms that looked at Madoff's business, but “KPMG, PricewaterhouseCoopers, BDO Seidman and McGladrey & Pullen all gave clean bills of health to the numerous funds that invested with Bernard Madoff and his asset-management firm,” Time Magazine said.
That Madoff was able to keep his show running for decades is a feat. Why has he gotten away with all this? Why did it take massive redemptions due to the financial crisis (people needed their money) to expose he had nothing after all? How was he or his representatives able to sway a psychologist studying people's gullibility (Greenspan), a pessimistic Wall Street economist (Henry Kaufman, also known as Dr. Doom) and many other people you'd expect to know better and convince them to trust him with their money? Is Bernie Madoff a psychological genius?
**
A sobered Greenspan says that in Ponzi schemes, investors who wish to redeem their money are actually paid out of proceeds from new investors. “As long as new investments are expanding at a healthy rate, the schemer is able to keep the fraud going. Once investments begin to contract, as through a run on the company, the house of cards quickly collapses.”
For many years, that Madoff's house was one of cards was not apparent. He had a record of payouts that, while deemed relatively modest at 10 to 17 percent were steady (they were later on described as unnaturally consistent.) They were big enough to entice clients but not too big as to arouse suspicion from regulators. This, according to Greenspan, helped conceal the irregularity in Madoff's activities. The truly greedy people, looking for higher returns, would not have paid any attention to the offer.
The financial scheme, i.e., how the funds are supposed to make money, is also difficult to understand. The language used to convey the how-to of the funds sounds too sophisticated to non-financial experts so that the only validation available is how other people have thus far responded (i.e., positively) to the invitation and how steadily they have made their money. Greenspan himself admits that at one point, even he felt that it would be silly not to invest and hence pass up this great opportunity.
Madoff knew how to stroke egos. One cannot be a walk-in investor; one had to be invited. As a result, people became more agreeable and receptive knowing that not all were induced to participate in the fund. They were probably tickled pink at the thought.
Finally, Madoff was known for his philanthropic activities. Maybe the do-gooder factor helped quash any doubts -- “no, he couldn't possibly do something bad.”
And yet, as the world now knows, he could.
**
In his book, Greenspan offers a multi-dimensional theory that defines a person's gullibility -- the factors of situation (a person is presented with a social challenge he has to solve), cognition (laziness to be skeptical and reliance on others' behavior), personality (trust and nice-ness accompanied by an occasional tendency towards risk-taking and impulsive decision-making) and emotion come into play.
Actually, the interplay is not just true for making financial decisions. Gullibility is seen in many facets of life: in war, politics, relationships, medicine.
Still, Greenspan's bravery to come forward and embrace his own gullibility is noteworthy, given his stature and authority in his field of expertise -- even though towards the end of the essay, he gets defensive and says there must be a little skepticism left in him since he only invested a third of his retirement fund with Madoff.
Some lessons are learned vicariously. That goes for the rest of us who only read about these things and, at most, empathize – or blame. Some, however, have to be educated the painful way. I said earlier on that Greenspan identified gullibility as a sub-type of stupidity. But it comes as no surprise that there should be a higher form of stupidity that applies to all, expert or dull, rich or poor, man or woman – forgetting these lessons altogether and being gullible yet again.
Intelligence and rationality are two different things. This explains why even people with high IQ can be duped.
Stephen Greenspan, PhD is emeritus professor of educational psychology at the University of Connecticut and clinical professor of psychiatry at the University of Colorado. He recently published a book entitled Annals of Gullibility: Why We are Duped and How to Avoid It after years of studying why people, even intelligent ones, fall into traps because of their gullibility. He defines gullibility as a “sub-type of foolish (or stupid) action which is induced; it always occurs in the presence of pressure or deception by other people.”
Greenspan has a related essay at the Wall Street Journal (wwww.wsj.com) and likewise at www.skeptic.com. This piece has a personal, poignant touch. Here it's not just Greenspan the psychologist speaking. It's also the same Greenspan who invested part of his retirement fund (amount has not been disclosed) in Rye Prime Bond Fund, a feeder fund that was managed by the now-notorious, self-confessed schemer, Bernard Madoff. The essay is entitled Fooled by Ponzi (and Madoff): How Bernard Madoff Made Off With My Money.
Who has not heard of Madoff by now? He's the 70-year-old fellow who might pass for Santa Claus but has brought anything but gifts and good tidings. The founder of Bernard L. Madoff Investment Securities (which he put up in 1960) was arrested last month for securities fraud. He is now on house arrest at his luxurious penthouse in New York City.
We know that Madoff's clients were mostly high-profile institutions, charities and individuals, and that investing with him was purely by invitation only. He himself said he had duped his clients to the tune of $50 billion. Many of his clients' fortunes and reputations crumbled; a French aristocrat who had been doing business with and on behalf of Madoff committed suicide before Christmas.
What many of us don't know is that as early as 2005, somebody by the name of Harry Markopolos wrote the US Securities and Exchange Commission citing 29 red flags in Madoff’s activities. The SEC did conduct an investigation and found nothing. There were also reputable audit firms that looked at Madoff's business, but “KPMG, PricewaterhouseCoopers, BDO Seidman and McGladrey & Pullen all gave clean bills of health to the numerous funds that invested with Bernard Madoff and his asset-management firm,” Time Magazine said.
That Madoff was able to keep his show running for decades is a feat. Why has he gotten away with all this? Why did it take massive redemptions due to the financial crisis (people needed their money) to expose he had nothing after all? How was he or his representatives able to sway a psychologist studying people's gullibility (Greenspan), a pessimistic Wall Street economist (Henry Kaufman, also known as Dr. Doom) and many other people you'd expect to know better and convince them to trust him with their money? Is Bernie Madoff a psychological genius?
**
A sobered Greenspan says that in Ponzi schemes, investors who wish to redeem their money are actually paid out of proceeds from new investors. “As long as new investments are expanding at a healthy rate, the schemer is able to keep the fraud going. Once investments begin to contract, as through a run on the company, the house of cards quickly collapses.”
For many years, that Madoff's house was one of cards was not apparent. He had a record of payouts that, while deemed relatively modest at 10 to 17 percent were steady (they were later on described as unnaturally consistent.) They were big enough to entice clients but not too big as to arouse suspicion from regulators. This, according to Greenspan, helped conceal the irregularity in Madoff's activities. The truly greedy people, looking for higher returns, would not have paid any attention to the offer.
The financial scheme, i.e., how the funds are supposed to make money, is also difficult to understand. The language used to convey the how-to of the funds sounds too sophisticated to non-financial experts so that the only validation available is how other people have thus far responded (i.e., positively) to the invitation and how steadily they have made their money. Greenspan himself admits that at one point, even he felt that it would be silly not to invest and hence pass up this great opportunity.
Madoff knew how to stroke egos. One cannot be a walk-in investor; one had to be invited. As a result, people became more agreeable and receptive knowing that not all were induced to participate in the fund. They were probably tickled pink at the thought.
Finally, Madoff was known for his philanthropic activities. Maybe the do-gooder factor helped quash any doubts -- “no, he couldn't possibly do something bad.”
And yet, as the world now knows, he could.
**
In his book, Greenspan offers a multi-dimensional theory that defines a person's gullibility -- the factors of situation (a person is presented with a social challenge he has to solve), cognition (laziness to be skeptical and reliance on others' behavior), personality (trust and nice-ness accompanied by an occasional tendency towards risk-taking and impulsive decision-making) and emotion come into play.
Actually, the interplay is not just true for making financial decisions. Gullibility is seen in many facets of life: in war, politics, relationships, medicine.
Still, Greenspan's bravery to come forward and embrace his own gullibility is noteworthy, given his stature and authority in his field of expertise -- even though towards the end of the essay, he gets defensive and says there must be a little skepticism left in him since he only invested a third of his retirement fund with Madoff.
Some lessons are learned vicariously. That goes for the rest of us who only read about these things and, at most, empathize – or blame. Some, however, have to be educated the painful way. I said earlier on that Greenspan identified gullibility as a sub-type of stupidity. But it comes as no surprise that there should be a higher form of stupidity that applies to all, expert or dull, rich or poor, man or woman – forgetting these lessons altogether and being gullible yet again.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Sometimes it's just me
Friday is my favorite day.
I like the feeling of capping off a week, most likely maddening. I try to be superhuman on most other days. I try to be the best friend, tutor, model, guidance counselor and law enforcer to my four children. I strive to be the most efficient, organized, democratic yet firm household manager. In the newsroom, I consistently aspire to be a good editor and a brilliant editorial writer. Judicious ego dampener,at times. I set quite high quotas for myself in terms of written output, quantitatively and qualitatively, for for my weekly column and my blog. I try to orient my everydays to my personal mission: to make a difference, although at this time I can't yet answer “for whom.”
In the evenings, my goal is to remain chirpy even after sitting for more than an hour of traffic,smog and the constant guardedness against Manila's darker elements (I work in Port Area, pass through the entire Avenida Rizal and go home to Valenzuela –in a jeepney). But my back starts bothering me and I cannot stand straight immediately, alighting from the jeep. I arrive home to my kids, or a permutation of them (if some are spending the night with their father) to unfinished homework, petty fights and the rivalry for attention. Sometimes they talk all at once and I don't even hear them because I'm famished, and only then I remember it's way past dinnertime. Sometimes too i learn that Josh, my thirteener, is still at the studio hanging out with his band. It drives me crazy but I am reminded I have to do things differently from the conventional approaches I know too well could fail.
I can't even watch the news on my comfort channel, CNN, because my aunt is watching one or other teleserye over ABS CBN – that is, if she's not having PMS herself or is not on mute after a fight with either or both the big children. If we are lucky she cooks the planned dinner, according to the matrix on my white board, and doesn't let the dishes pile up. Ah, single blessedness. Hers, not mine.
I look forward to going upstairs to my other half of the bedroom and lying on my brand new orthopedic mattress. But surprise, one or other of the kids is sprawled there, asleep already, and I can't even lie flat on my back. It's a single-size bed and sometimes there are three of us sharing it. Not exactly a crowd, but it's just a bit uncomfortable.
These concerns can make me feel cramped, big time. Sometimes I feel like crying out for some personal space.
But on some Fridays, like tonight, I have the bed and the entire room – and not just my half of it. Bea is on a sleepover at her friend's house – yes, I've spoken with the mother and she says it's ok, she'll supervise the fifteeners. Sophie is in school for an official sleepover with the rest of the third grade population. It's close to midnight but from my bedroom window I can still hear the squealing and the laughter...did I say my house was right in front of the school? Josh is asleep downstairs and Elmo is with his dad.
So it's just me tonight and I can't – don't want to – sleep yet. I am sleepy and tired but the solitude is lovely. There is some white wine and Danish cheese in the ref, but I choose to pass for now. Tonight I have things to write and clothes to put back in closets and lists to make – and the little successes of the just-passed week to celebrate.
Then tomorrow, day off, a blissful break. Time with Sophie, a much needed massage, perhaps a movie and a nice book. And grilled fish for dinner. I have less to worry about as I have written Monday's column in advance.
By the time Sunday sets in, I will be ready to take on anything again, as I have always done.
I like the feeling of capping off a week, most likely maddening. I try to be superhuman on most other days. I try to be the best friend, tutor, model, guidance counselor and law enforcer to my four children. I strive to be the most efficient, organized, democratic yet firm household manager. In the newsroom, I consistently aspire to be a good editor and a brilliant editorial writer. Judicious ego dampener,at times. I set quite high quotas for myself in terms of written output, quantitatively and qualitatively, for for my weekly column and my blog. I try to orient my everydays to my personal mission: to make a difference, although at this time I can't yet answer “for whom.”
In the evenings, my goal is to remain chirpy even after sitting for more than an hour of traffic,smog and the constant guardedness against Manila's darker elements (I work in Port Area, pass through the entire Avenida Rizal and go home to Valenzuela –in a jeepney). But my back starts bothering me and I cannot stand straight immediately, alighting from the jeep. I arrive home to my kids, or a permutation of them (if some are spending the night with their father) to unfinished homework, petty fights and the rivalry for attention. Sometimes they talk all at once and I don't even hear them because I'm famished, and only then I remember it's way past dinnertime. Sometimes too i learn that Josh, my thirteener, is still at the studio hanging out with his band. It drives me crazy but I am reminded I have to do things differently from the conventional approaches I know too well could fail.
I can't even watch the news on my comfort channel, CNN, because my aunt is watching one or other teleserye over ABS CBN – that is, if she's not having PMS herself or is not on mute after a fight with either or both the big children. If we are lucky she cooks the planned dinner, according to the matrix on my white board, and doesn't let the dishes pile up. Ah, single blessedness. Hers, not mine.
I look forward to going upstairs to my other half of the bedroom and lying on my brand new orthopedic mattress. But surprise, one or other of the kids is sprawled there, asleep already, and I can't even lie flat on my back. It's a single-size bed and sometimes there are three of us sharing it. Not exactly a crowd, but it's just a bit uncomfortable.
These concerns can make me feel cramped, big time. Sometimes I feel like crying out for some personal space.
But on some Fridays, like tonight, I have the bed and the entire room – and not just my half of it. Bea is on a sleepover at her friend's house – yes, I've spoken with the mother and she says it's ok, she'll supervise the fifteeners. Sophie is in school for an official sleepover with the rest of the third grade population. It's close to midnight but from my bedroom window I can still hear the squealing and the laughter...did I say my house was right in front of the school? Josh is asleep downstairs and Elmo is with his dad.
So it's just me tonight and I can't – don't want to – sleep yet. I am sleepy and tired but the solitude is lovely. There is some white wine and Danish cheese in the ref, but I choose to pass for now. Tonight I have things to write and clothes to put back in closets and lists to make – and the little successes of the just-passed week to celebrate.
Then tomorrow, day off, a blissful break. Time with Sophie, a much needed massage, perhaps a movie and a nice book. And grilled fish for dinner. I have less to worry about as I have written Monday's column in advance.
By the time Sunday sets in, I will be ready to take on anything again, as I have always done.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Extra
Believe it or not, I appeared in a movie once.
The movie was an action-drama flick, Ben Tumbling, shown in 1985. The lead role was played by Lito Lapid, who is now – and I'm saying this with a straight face – a senator of the republic. Ben Garcia (Tumbling was just a nickname, depicting his favorite stunts evading authorities) was supposed to be a difficult-to-catch thief who gave his proceeds to the poor people in his native Malabon, Robin Hood style. Other members of the cast included Vivian Velez, Eddie Garcia, Deborah Sun, Carmen Enriquez and Lucita Soriano.
I was Thea, the magnanimously inconsequential nine-year-old niece.
Actually,I don't even think there was a Thea in real life. On the contrary I think my being in the film was a mere accommodation by the director of my mom's insane request to put me in a film, kahit extra lang.
Then again I earned a grand total of nine hundred pesos after three shooting days. Two in Barrio Ugong, Pasig and one in Porac, Pampanga, where a sedan-ful of my eager relatives tagged along to have photos taken with Mr. Lapid. My mom and I were in a separate car, and we learned later that the vehicle which my uncle borrowed for the family excursion nearly got hit by a speeding truck on what is now known as the NLEX. Would not have been worth it.
I don't even remember mouthing anything aside from a "Mano Po" which I supposedly muttered in one of the scenes. Come to think of it, I never even saw the movie in its entirety.
I did appear on TV on other occasions -- on the set of Eat Bulaga when I joined Little Miss Philippines 1984 and lipsynched the now-deceased Eartha Kitt's version of Waray Waray (see Early Works/ Pageant) and on two children's shows which I participated in with my schoolmates. When I was a freshman in high school, I was chosen as Lysin Super Bulilit of the Day for the other noontime show, Lunch Date, at a time when I did not anymore look or feel like a bulilit (tot). But movie-wise,Ben Tumbling was my first and only exposure.
(On the contrary it was my mom who later on found herself part-timing in movies to augment her income as a -- you guessed it right -- journalist. She was in the movie "Huwag Kang Hahalik Sa Dyablo" as a housemaid who took care of That's Entertainment Regal stars like Jean Garcia, Isabel Granada, Chuckie Dreyfuss, etc. I don't know about her talent fee, but she got to kiss then-matinee idol Gabby Concepcion,yes, KC's dad. Our relatives still have a picture of that kiss-- I have it too in an album somewhere in the house.)
Not that I harbored any illusions of stardom. Or anything like it.It was a wrong fit from the very beginning.
The movie was an action-drama flick, Ben Tumbling, shown in 1985. The lead role was played by Lito Lapid, who is now – and I'm saying this with a straight face – a senator of the republic. Ben Garcia (Tumbling was just a nickname, depicting his favorite stunts evading authorities) was supposed to be a difficult-to-catch thief who gave his proceeds to the poor people in his native Malabon, Robin Hood style. Other members of the cast included Vivian Velez, Eddie Garcia, Deborah Sun, Carmen Enriquez and Lucita Soriano.
I was Thea, the magnanimously inconsequential nine-year-old niece.
Actually,I don't even think there was a Thea in real life. On the contrary I think my being in the film was a mere accommodation by the director of my mom's insane request to put me in a film, kahit extra lang.
Then again I earned a grand total of nine hundred pesos after three shooting days. Two in Barrio Ugong, Pasig and one in Porac, Pampanga, where a sedan-ful of my eager relatives tagged along to have photos taken with Mr. Lapid. My mom and I were in a separate car, and we learned later that the vehicle which my uncle borrowed for the family excursion nearly got hit by a speeding truck on what is now known as the NLEX. Would not have been worth it.
I don't even remember mouthing anything aside from a "Mano Po" which I supposedly muttered in one of the scenes. Come to think of it, I never even saw the movie in its entirety.
I did appear on TV on other occasions -- on the set of Eat Bulaga when I joined Little Miss Philippines 1984 and lipsynched the now-deceased Eartha Kitt's version of Waray Waray (see Early Works/ Pageant) and on two children's shows which I participated in with my schoolmates. When I was a freshman in high school, I was chosen as Lysin Super Bulilit of the Day for the other noontime show, Lunch Date, at a time when I did not anymore look or feel like a bulilit (tot). But movie-wise,Ben Tumbling was my first and only exposure.
(On the contrary it was my mom who later on found herself part-timing in movies to augment her income as a -- you guessed it right -- journalist. She was in the movie "Huwag Kang Hahalik Sa Dyablo" as a housemaid who took care of That's Entertainment Regal stars like Jean Garcia, Isabel Granada, Chuckie Dreyfuss, etc. I don't know about her talent fee, but she got to kiss then-matinee idol Gabby Concepcion,yes, KC's dad. Our relatives still have a picture of that kiss-- I have it too in an album somewhere in the house.)
Not that I harbored any illusions of stardom. Or anything like it.It was a wrong fit from the very beginning.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Axe Falling
published 12 Jan 2009,MST
My late grandmother used to warn me against laughing too much. “Merong kapalit yan, [that has a counterpoint],” she told me, referring to an eventual crying episode that would neutralize my glee.
Even now that I’m all grown up, my Lola’s words keep me in check against indulgences of whatever kind. Laughing too much, feeling so free, getting high on my accomplishments—even having too much ice cream.
I’m still working on totally eradicating these notions. They have the effect of curtailing one’s capacity for happiness. And my, don’t I want to be happy. But the words come back, nonetheless.
For instance, several weeks ago I was out with my 14-year-old daughter Bea. We decided to have dinner and see a movie afterwards. She had been busy with her subjects, extra-curricular activities, her friends, and all the things that define the worlds of teenagers.
Over sisig and stuffed squid, she told me that she was worried because her life had been close to perfect in the last few days. Following the law of averages, was something bad about to happen then? I told her free will made all the difference. Through your words and actions, you decide the course your life eventually takes. Then we dropped the Big Talk and ate pistachio ice cream.
We went to the book store until the time we had to be in the cinema for the last full show. After the movie, we hailed a taxi whose driver did not think it was a big deal bringing us in the northernmost part of the city. There was no traffic at all and we were in front of our gate in 15 minutes flat.
I pressed the buzzer but our housemates were all asleep. Not wanting to be a bother, I tried fishing for my keys from my bag. But my bag was full and it was dark—the street was practically deserted, maybe because it was a weekend and well past midnight. I had to sit down so I could rummage through my bag better. Bea also bent over in an attempt to help me. For a brief moment she took out her cell phone from her hoodie’s pocket to check the time.
Then some guy sprung from behind us, grabbed her phone and ran away.
I swear there is nothing more frustrating than the sight of a thief running away with your possession. You feel as though your extremities were made of jelly. You are rooted to the spot, aware that you cannot catch up however fast you run after him. You feel so helpless as your attacker’s image becomes smaller and smaller until it disappears completely. He is gone and there is nothing you can do.
It was Bea who shouted after the thief and called for help. There was a barangay outpost just a few meters ahead and the thief was sure to pass it as he escaped. “Barangay! Barangay! Tulong!!!” my daughter and I shouted. There was only the sound of our own voices, desperate.
And yes, the outpost itself was dark and deserted. Why was I not surprised?
My daughter became inconsolable and had difficulty getting hold of herself, even sitting on the pavement for several minutes. "I was right, I was right," she kept chanting. I tried to be the voice of calm and reason and hoped my input, shaken as I was, as well, would help. Foremost, I had to convince her to go into the house. By that time, the family was awake and even the nursing students renting the door next to ours were looking on.
She alternated between rage, worry and frustration that her cell phone and all it contained—messages, music, contact numbers—would nevermore return. She attempted to console herself that the cell phone’s keypad was defective, that its charger was not easy to find,
and that it had no load. We even sent the thief a nasty message or two. But of course the joke was on us.
Hours hence, and Bea still could not sleep. I’d been wanting to be alone so I could sit down in front of the computer and write about what just happened. But she beat me to it. She typed away furiously, too. She was my daughter, after all. Writing helped us make sense of the world. And then she sobbed herself to sleep. I patted her back repeatedly, hoping the gesture would ease her pain. I did not stand up until I was sure she was deep in slumber.
Still, I do not wish to acknowledge that my grandmother had been correct all along. I would prefer to think of this as a coincidence, unfortunate as it may be. The law I choose to recognize is more basic and more just. If you do something bad, something bad will come upon you. If you let down your guard, even just a little, somebody might just pounce on and take advantage of you.
And if you lose something dear to you, but learn the right lessons from that loss, you are bound to find something that’s a hundred times more valuable.
My late grandmother used to warn me against laughing too much. “Merong kapalit yan, [that has a counterpoint],” she told me, referring to an eventual crying episode that would neutralize my glee.
Even now that I’m all grown up, my Lola’s words keep me in check against indulgences of whatever kind. Laughing too much, feeling so free, getting high on my accomplishments—even having too much ice cream.
I’m still working on totally eradicating these notions. They have the effect of curtailing one’s capacity for happiness. And my, don’t I want to be happy. But the words come back, nonetheless.
For instance, several weeks ago I was out with my 14-year-old daughter Bea. We decided to have dinner and see a movie afterwards. She had been busy with her subjects, extra-curricular activities, her friends, and all the things that define the worlds of teenagers.
Over sisig and stuffed squid, she told me that she was worried because her life had been close to perfect in the last few days. Following the law of averages, was something bad about to happen then? I told her free will made all the difference. Through your words and actions, you decide the course your life eventually takes. Then we dropped the Big Talk and ate pistachio ice cream.
We went to the book store until the time we had to be in the cinema for the last full show. After the movie, we hailed a taxi whose driver did not think it was a big deal bringing us in the northernmost part of the city. There was no traffic at all and we were in front of our gate in 15 minutes flat.
I pressed the buzzer but our housemates were all asleep. Not wanting to be a bother, I tried fishing for my keys from my bag. But my bag was full and it was dark—the street was practically deserted, maybe because it was a weekend and well past midnight. I had to sit down so I could rummage through my bag better. Bea also bent over in an attempt to help me. For a brief moment she took out her cell phone from her hoodie’s pocket to check the time.
Then some guy sprung from behind us, grabbed her phone and ran away.
I swear there is nothing more frustrating than the sight of a thief running away with your possession. You feel as though your extremities were made of jelly. You are rooted to the spot, aware that you cannot catch up however fast you run after him. You feel so helpless as your attacker’s image becomes smaller and smaller until it disappears completely. He is gone and there is nothing you can do.
It was Bea who shouted after the thief and called for help. There was a barangay outpost just a few meters ahead and the thief was sure to pass it as he escaped. “Barangay! Barangay! Tulong!!!” my daughter and I shouted. There was only the sound of our own voices, desperate.
And yes, the outpost itself was dark and deserted. Why was I not surprised?
My daughter became inconsolable and had difficulty getting hold of herself, even sitting on the pavement for several minutes. "I was right, I was right," she kept chanting. I tried to be the voice of calm and reason and hoped my input, shaken as I was, as well, would help. Foremost, I had to convince her to go into the house. By that time, the family was awake and even the nursing students renting the door next to ours were looking on.
She alternated between rage, worry and frustration that her cell phone and all it contained—messages, music, contact numbers—would nevermore return. She attempted to console herself that the cell phone’s keypad was defective, that its charger was not easy to find,
and that it had no load. We even sent the thief a nasty message or two. But of course the joke was on us.
Hours hence, and Bea still could not sleep. I’d been wanting to be alone so I could sit down in front of the computer and write about what just happened. But she beat me to it. She typed away furiously, too. She was my daughter, after all. Writing helped us make sense of the world. And then she sobbed herself to sleep. I patted her back repeatedly, hoping the gesture would ease her pain. I did not stand up until I was sure she was deep in slumber.
Still, I do not wish to acknowledge that my grandmother had been correct all along. I would prefer to think of this as a coincidence, unfortunate as it may be. The law I choose to recognize is more basic and more just. If you do something bad, something bad will come upon you. If you let down your guard, even just a little, somebody might just pounce on and take advantage of you.
And if you lose something dear to you, but learn the right lessons from that loss, you are bound to find something that’s a hundred times more valuable.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Editor's Note
I am learning that routine is not altogether a bad thing. Nowadays, I know more or less what I would be doing on any given day, at any given hour; where I would be, who I would be with. I take comfort at the sight of a full page in my planner with a long list of things to do (each page has two columns: the left for my writing, the right for domestic concerns). I feel good when I tick off as many items on this list as I humanly can.
Then again, if you have my job, no two days are ever really the same. Not even when you're sitting on the same end of the same little-roach infested long table in a run down single-story building six days a week.
Outwardly, my schedule seems monotonous. I show up at the newsroom at four thereabouts in the afternoon after my hour-long tricycle-jeep-LRT-jeep commute from home. If I'm early, I fix my hair in the bathroom and apply a hint of a blush on my cheeks. Then I open my Yahoo inbox and the opinion folder in the office network and see whether my columnists have submitted their pieces for the following day. If they have, I skim over their essays and make a one-sentence summary for the office story conference, “Showtime” as Francis (news editor) calls it. If they are late, I have Tonton (gofer) call them or text them myself(A very non-pressuring “Hi! I haven't seen your column yet...?”). Storycon takes place between 4 and 415; my role is to basically inform my colleagues what tomorrow's columns will look like,content-wise. The guys cut me some slack; most of the time the space after “Editorial” where I am supposed to say what I'm writing about (I do this for Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday) remains blank. Sir Ray (business editor) takes Mondays and Chin (my seatmate,associate editor) takes Wednesdays and Fridays. The meetings happen over Yahoo Messenger. After storycon, the real work begins.
But first I must have some coffee, courtesy of the librarian's makeshift store right there in her turf, amid magazines, books, and archives. A favorite companion on baon-less days is Sky Flakes, Plain Fita, or Ribonnette Mamon Tostado. Ding Dong Mixed Nuts helps get my juices flowing, too, or so I think. I can normally consume 6 small packs a day – that is, if Chin doesn't wipe out the librarian's stock. I see he's a Ding Dong guy as well. When the librarian took a long leave during the Christmas holidays, Chin and I subsisted by bringing our own nuts. Tough to crack, really.
I tackle the columns then. My job is really simple: locate errors in form and correct them. Sometimes they are not really wrong, just weak. And so I try to make them stronger. Content-wise,I don't meddle much since it's an opinion piece anyway, except when I think it would get the paper into trouble. Form-wise, some are easy jobs while others are a handful (you're talking about a big hand, haha). But since I have come to feel protective of my columnists, that's really all I am going to say here even if I would have wanted to characterize each writer's styles, habits, pet topics,ego sizes, occasional insane requests and eccentricities. Like a mom, maybe, with children of disparate temperaments. Bottom line is, they are my brood.
And since they write on topics that are different from each other and each columnist writes on a different subject matter every time, there is always an element of novelty just in reading their pieces.
All the more so that I have to write myself. The writing (editorials) that I have to do is redeeming. It almost feels like a reward after being constricted by the rules of style and grammar during the editing part of the job.
I don't know how it works in other newspapers, but in mine I am given much discretion by the desk and the editorial board on the topic for the editorial, the content or the stand I would advance and the manner in which I would say it. I think they are now secure I wont screw up or put them in trouble. I clear my pieces with at least two higher-ups,anyway.
I've tried to be more organized about the whole thing. I've planned on writing about government on Tuesdays, business or the economy on Thursdays, social issues or foreign topics on Saturdays. I must say, however, that I haven't been strict with this schedule. Editorials have an element of proximity, immediacy. You can't write too much in advance and on too-alien subject matters. So what normally happens is I go with the flow. By grace it's been more than two years (that's almost 350 pieces I've written thus far, and I'm having my clippings book-bound today) and I've never run out of subjects. My radar is almost always on, anyway, since I like watching the news both local and foreign. It's hard work but I do enjoy writing editorials. Imagine getting paid to comment on greedy or incompetent fools in the bureaucracy. I love this job!
Of course I've more or less found a style which I can characterize as subtle, or at least not obviously hard-hitting. I have the greatest respect for the readers of our newspaper and I do not want to force my ideas on them through brash language. There are print organizations who specialize on doing that,seeing that brashness as a selling point of their broad sheets or tabloids. For my part,I take pains to say something original,sensible and meaningful. So meaningful that it does not need to come with trimmings.
(It's a style I've pretty much adopted for myself as well – low profile,subtle, not much fanfare. And yet underneath there is all that substance,which existence i don't have to get loud about. I have great respect too, for the people around me.)
I am generally isolated in my work. My interaction with others is limited to the storycon, or when i have to tell my layout artist that this column has been edited and may be placed on the page already, or when go over the full page and tell the proofreader “ok” or “this-or-that needs changing”,or when I have my editorials cleared by Chin or Sir Mon (managing editor) or Sir Vic (chairman, editorial board). Other than that, I work on my own, at my own pace. Again it's maddening, but I like it.
I put in, on the average, four hours in the office each day. Like a part-time job, I know. Truth be told, the four hours don't feel like four hours. At the end of the day, I too am exhausted (from the intensity of the concentration required) and drained--- and fulfilled,nonetheless. I board a jeep that takes me straight to Valenzuela. It's a long, sweaty ride, hardly a cruise especially if you pass by Avenida Rizal. During the commute I sometimes have to make an effort to stop obsessing whether I could have done a better editing job. In this field, you are only as good as today's issue. The good news is that you are also only as bad. Nowhere does a fresh opportunity come so easily and so soon.
I work Sundays to Fridays. Some days are more relaxed than others. On Sunday, for instance, especially when I've written my column in advance, I breeze through the editing and just wait for the cartoon. I'm normally out of the office before 7.
The toughest days are Mondays to Wednesdays. In these days, there are many columnists who need extra attention -- plus I have to write in 2 of these days too. But by the time I leave the office on Wednesday night, there is a semblance of weekend mode already. Thursdays and Fridays are light. Saturday is my day off.
When I am sick or can't leave the kids for a particular reason or want to take a break, I work off site. Meaning, I don't show up at the office -- but work anyway. Thank God for the Internet. Being completely absent means dumping the work in some other editor's lap, and I don't want that, too. Anyway, it's like my day isn't complete if I don't attend to the op-ed page. My system has absorbed these habits.
Because of all these I have a fairly good idea how my days look like. I also am able to plan for meeting friends, going out with the kids, or simply enjoying time for myself. Thus the days go by, and fast.
I love my career. And my balance. And the fact that I am, finally, in charge.
Then again, if you have my job, no two days are ever really the same. Not even when you're sitting on the same end of the same little-roach infested long table in a run down single-story building six days a week.
Outwardly, my schedule seems monotonous. I show up at the newsroom at four thereabouts in the afternoon after my hour-long tricycle-jeep-LRT-jeep commute from home. If I'm early, I fix my hair in the bathroom and apply a hint of a blush on my cheeks. Then I open my Yahoo inbox and the opinion folder in the office network and see whether my columnists have submitted their pieces for the following day. If they have, I skim over their essays and make a one-sentence summary for the office story conference, “Showtime” as Francis (news editor) calls it. If they are late, I have Tonton (gofer) call them or text them myself(A very non-pressuring “Hi! I haven't seen your column yet...?”). Storycon takes place between 4 and 415; my role is to basically inform my colleagues what tomorrow's columns will look like,content-wise. The guys cut me some slack; most of the time the space after “Editorial” where I am supposed to say what I'm writing about (I do this for Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday) remains blank. Sir Ray (business editor) takes Mondays and Chin (my seatmate,associate editor) takes Wednesdays and Fridays. The meetings happen over Yahoo Messenger. After storycon, the real work begins.
But first I must have some coffee, courtesy of the librarian's makeshift store right there in her turf, amid magazines, books, and archives. A favorite companion on baon-less days is Sky Flakes, Plain Fita, or Ribonnette Mamon Tostado. Ding Dong Mixed Nuts helps get my juices flowing, too, or so I think. I can normally consume 6 small packs a day – that is, if Chin doesn't wipe out the librarian's stock. I see he's a Ding Dong guy as well. When the librarian took a long leave during the Christmas holidays, Chin and I subsisted by bringing our own nuts. Tough to crack, really.
I tackle the columns then. My job is really simple: locate errors in form and correct them. Sometimes they are not really wrong, just weak. And so I try to make them stronger. Content-wise,I don't meddle much since it's an opinion piece anyway, except when I think it would get the paper into trouble. Form-wise, some are easy jobs while others are a handful (you're talking about a big hand, haha). But since I have come to feel protective of my columnists, that's really all I am going to say here even if I would have wanted to characterize each writer's styles, habits, pet topics,ego sizes, occasional insane requests and eccentricities. Like a mom, maybe, with children of disparate temperaments. Bottom line is, they are my brood.
And since they write on topics that are different from each other and each columnist writes on a different subject matter every time, there is always an element of novelty just in reading their pieces.
All the more so that I have to write myself. The writing (editorials) that I have to do is redeeming. It almost feels like a reward after being constricted by the rules of style and grammar during the editing part of the job.
I don't know how it works in other newspapers, but in mine I am given much discretion by the desk and the editorial board on the topic for the editorial, the content or the stand I would advance and the manner in which I would say it. I think they are now secure I wont screw up or put them in trouble. I clear my pieces with at least two higher-ups,anyway.
I've tried to be more organized about the whole thing. I've planned on writing about government on Tuesdays, business or the economy on Thursdays, social issues or foreign topics on Saturdays. I must say, however, that I haven't been strict with this schedule. Editorials have an element of proximity, immediacy. You can't write too much in advance and on too-alien subject matters. So what normally happens is I go with the flow. By grace it's been more than two years (that's almost 350 pieces I've written thus far, and I'm having my clippings book-bound today) and I've never run out of subjects. My radar is almost always on, anyway, since I like watching the news both local and foreign. It's hard work but I do enjoy writing editorials. Imagine getting paid to comment on greedy or incompetent fools in the bureaucracy. I love this job!
Of course I've more or less found a style which I can characterize as subtle, or at least not obviously hard-hitting. I have the greatest respect for the readers of our newspaper and I do not want to force my ideas on them through brash language. There are print organizations who specialize on doing that,seeing that brashness as a selling point of their broad sheets or tabloids. For my part,I take pains to say something original,sensible and meaningful. So meaningful that it does not need to come with trimmings.
(It's a style I've pretty much adopted for myself as well – low profile,subtle, not much fanfare. And yet underneath there is all that substance,which existence i don't have to get loud about. I have great respect too, for the people around me.)
I am generally isolated in my work. My interaction with others is limited to the storycon, or when i have to tell my layout artist that this column has been edited and may be placed on the page already, or when go over the full page and tell the proofreader “ok” or “this-or-that needs changing”,or when I have my editorials cleared by Chin or Sir Mon (managing editor) or Sir Vic (chairman, editorial board). Other than that, I work on my own, at my own pace. Again it's maddening, but I like it.
I put in, on the average, four hours in the office each day. Like a part-time job, I know. Truth be told, the four hours don't feel like four hours. At the end of the day, I too am exhausted (from the intensity of the concentration required) and drained--- and fulfilled,nonetheless. I board a jeep that takes me straight to Valenzuela. It's a long, sweaty ride, hardly a cruise especially if you pass by Avenida Rizal. During the commute I sometimes have to make an effort to stop obsessing whether I could have done a better editing job. In this field, you are only as good as today's issue. The good news is that you are also only as bad. Nowhere does a fresh opportunity come so easily and so soon.
I work Sundays to Fridays. Some days are more relaxed than others. On Sunday, for instance, especially when I've written my column in advance, I breeze through the editing and just wait for the cartoon. I'm normally out of the office before 7.
The toughest days are Mondays to Wednesdays. In these days, there are many columnists who need extra attention -- plus I have to write in 2 of these days too. But by the time I leave the office on Wednesday night, there is a semblance of weekend mode already. Thursdays and Fridays are light. Saturday is my day off.
When I am sick or can't leave the kids for a particular reason or want to take a break, I work off site. Meaning, I don't show up at the office -- but work anyway. Thank God for the Internet. Being completely absent means dumping the work in some other editor's lap, and I don't want that, too. Anyway, it's like my day isn't complete if I don't attend to the op-ed page. My system has absorbed these habits.
Because of all these I have a fairly good idea how my days look like. I also am able to plan for meeting friends, going out with the kids, or simply enjoying time for myself. Thus the days go by, and fast.
I love my career. And my balance. And the fact that I am, finally, in charge.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Photo shoot
Growing up has never been as interesting to track! Here are the last four years blown up, framed and hung over our shoe racks on the wall of our living room.
Today the children and I went to a photography studio at a nearby mall and had our picture taken. In one shot, it's just the four of them. In another, I am right there, at the middle. We do this annually during their Christmas break -- this is our fourth year.
The first time, in 2005, it was just for fun. It was Christmas evening and the five of us had just come from dinner at a friend's (Bea's ninang's) house. We did not want to go home yet so we went to SM, which, at that time, was barely two months from opening day. We thought having our picture taken was a good way to pass the time.
It's a habit we've kept. This year's photo shoot was marked by disagreement (on which shot to have developed), teasing (we were dressed to the nines), bullying (Josh could not kick off his habit of making the small ones cry, though he promises to work on it this year) and an eclectic lunch at the food court where we ordered whatever it was we craved from the stalls that stood side by side.
I've kept the wallet-size photos from every year and I will have them blown up, put them in a series, and put them up the wall. This early it has been nice looking at how much the kids have grown already. Imagine if we can keep doing this for the next twenty, thirty, forty years!
I suppose I'll age gracefully in these pictures, too.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
'Justice so-and-so will issue a TRO'
published 5 Jan 2009, MST
Blurb: Such claims undermine the judiciary's drive to purge the Court of Appeals of corrupt magistrates.
It's business as usual for the commercial tenants of 4M Square building,a four-storey edifice sitting right along busy Quirino Hi-Way in Barangay Greater Lagro, Novaliches. There is a dental clinic, branch of a commercial bank, a clothes shop, food stalls, a security agency, a realty company, a manpower and consultancy office, among others. The owners of the building, family members comprising Four M Square Corporation, have advised the tenants they are now in charge, and that it is their priority that these individual businesses are insulated, as much as possible, from the legal battle they are currently fighting.
It should have been a legal victory already, given that on December 15, 2008, Branch 100 of the Quezon City Regional Trial Court Court issued a Writ of Execution for Four M Square Corporation to take possession of the building. The writ gave one Mario San Andres three days to vacate the building and remit over P28 million in unlawfully collected rental payments he had been getting from tenants since August 2003.
Two years earlier, or on December 15, 2006, Branch 33 of the Metropolitan Trial Court of Quezon City declared Four Square Corporation as the rightful owner of the building. San Andres' motion for reconsideration was subsequently denied.
What is sad is that San Andres is a son-in-law of the family patriarch (the other officers of the building are his sisters-in-law) who helped him learn the rudiments of entrepreneurship and expanded his network. But that's really another story – a human interest piece on ingratitude and the depths one can sink into because of greed.
Now San Andres seems to have decided to adopt a new tack in asserting his claim on the building – and the rental payments. He is now on extended vacation, but his building administrator who goes by the name of Lea Roxas now allegedly tells the tenants San Andres would soon be back – with a temporary restraining order that would block Four M officers from taking over the building. And since the tenants have been dealing with the San Andres team for the longest time, why deal with their adversaries now?
But what is most appalling is that Roxas reportedly says her boss is a “close ally” of Court of Appeals Justice Normandie Pizarro, who would eventually end up handling the case and then issuing said restraining order. Just how confidently somebody can make this claim – and with a straight face – should bother anybody remotely concerned with the country's justice system.
Four M Square officers do agree that the justice is linked a little too closely with their prodigal in-law. Pizarro and San Andres go a long way, they claim, into the days when the former was still a trial court judge in Quezon City. When he was appointed to to the appellate court, Pizarro dismissed a perjury case filed by a brother-in-law against San Andres. This case is presently pending consideration by the said court.
**
Actually, the petition for temporary restraining order Roxas reportedly brags about is still nonexistent. The family thinks San Andres' lawyers have been working on it during the holidays and would file it this month.
But the fact that nothing has yet been filed should heighten one’s incredulity at how Roxas, speaking on behalf of her boss, can make such claims. From where comes her certainty that the case would get assigned to the justice she names? That the petition would be ruled on this way or that?
This early, Justice Pizarro should dissociate himself from these individuals who may be advancing their interests by mere threats and name-dropping. By all means, let the prayer for TRO be filed. But let it be evaluated on its merits alone.
Judges and justices are subject to higher ethical standards than the average citizen is. They should not only be beyond irregularity; they should be beyond the perception
of such. Pizarro must know that his association with San Andres does not help his image at all.
Nor does it help dispel the notion that some justices of the Court of Appeals are corrupt, or at least corruptible. Finally, it only validates the public view that previous efforts to purge the court of dishonest elements are inadequate and half-baked.
adelle_chua@gmail.com
**
READERS' REACTIONS
This is in reply to your January 5, 2009 Article, “Justice so-and-so will issue a TRO” in the Manila Standard Today.
Though it is a practice of those in the bench not to respond to such articles, I felt that I should reply to the allegations raised in your column as they caused undue hurt to my name and family.
In your article, you stated that in the case involving one Mario San Andres against the Four M Square Corp. [I] would eventually end up handling the case and then [1 would issue a] [temporary] restraining order.”
First of all, a case is never assigned to a particular justice. It is raffled among the Justices in a station. The raffle is conducted by three (3) Justices along with the Raffle Staff in the presence
of the public. Thus, no “rigging” would ever be possible. To further strengthen the system, the three (3) Justices who are part of the raffle for the day are precluded from being assigned cases for that day. Considering the safeguards, it is near-high impossible for a case to be assigned to a specific Justice at the instance of the party-litigant.
Secondly, the Court of Appeals is a collegiate court. All three (3) members of a Division must concur. Thus it is incorrect to say that only Justice X issued a TRO considering that the two (2) other Justices of the Division must concur. Failing unanimity, a TRO cannot be issued.
Thirdly, upon due reflection, I have recalled that I have acted upon the said case (Civil Case No. Q-03-50551) in October 2003 as the Presiding judge of the Regional Trial Court of Quezon City, Branch 101, by denying the grant of a TRO/WPI in favor of a party thereof. This being so, in the unlikely instance of the case being raffled to me among the present forty-five (45) Justices assigned to the City of Manila, it will be mandatory for me to inhibit from any related case.
Contrary to what your goodself wrote, I do not personally know or have any dealings with Mr.Mario San Andres, or his building administrator, Ms. Lea Roxas. I am not therefore a “close ally” of Mr. Andres, as reportedly said by Ms. Roxas. Also, I don't remember dismissing a perjury case filed by a brother-in-law against Mr. San Andres.
I understand your show of interest on the matter. Rest assured that I will always take good care of my hard-earned reputation as a member of the judiciary.
Normandie B.Pizarro
Associate Justice, COurt of Appeals
**
I came across the article 'Justice so-and-so will issue a TRO' in your blog A Resounding Yes at Blogger.com. It is very well written and interesting. I like how you have explored the topic. If you are interested, I would like to extend an invitation to join www.allvoices.com. It’s a citizen journalist site. We discuss, debate and write about everything under the sun here.The site has a lot of people who are passionate about writing and use this as a tool to make a difference.
Allvoices also has an incentive programme for writers who can earn up to $10,000 cash. You can visit http://www.allvoices.com/journalism for more details and do register if you are interested.
Thanks,
Tara
Blurb: Such claims undermine the judiciary's drive to purge the Court of Appeals of corrupt magistrates.
It's business as usual for the commercial tenants of 4M Square building,a four-storey edifice sitting right along busy Quirino Hi-Way in Barangay Greater Lagro, Novaliches. There is a dental clinic, branch of a commercial bank, a clothes shop, food stalls, a security agency, a realty company, a manpower and consultancy office, among others. The owners of the building, family members comprising Four M Square Corporation, have advised the tenants they are now in charge, and that it is their priority that these individual businesses are insulated, as much as possible, from the legal battle they are currently fighting.
It should have been a legal victory already, given that on December 15, 2008, Branch 100 of the Quezon City Regional Trial Court Court issued a Writ of Execution for Four M Square Corporation to take possession of the building. The writ gave one Mario San Andres three days to vacate the building and remit over P28 million in unlawfully collected rental payments he had been getting from tenants since August 2003.
Two years earlier, or on December 15, 2006, Branch 33 of the Metropolitan Trial Court of Quezon City declared Four Square Corporation as the rightful owner of the building. San Andres' motion for reconsideration was subsequently denied.
What is sad is that San Andres is a son-in-law of the family patriarch (the other officers of the building are his sisters-in-law) who helped him learn the rudiments of entrepreneurship and expanded his network. But that's really another story – a human interest piece on ingratitude and the depths one can sink into because of greed.
Now San Andres seems to have decided to adopt a new tack in asserting his claim on the building – and the rental payments. He is now on extended vacation, but his building administrator who goes by the name of Lea Roxas now allegedly tells the tenants San Andres would soon be back – with a temporary restraining order that would block Four M officers from taking over the building. And since the tenants have been dealing with the San Andres team for the longest time, why deal with their adversaries now?
But what is most appalling is that Roxas reportedly says her boss is a “close ally” of Court of Appeals Justice Normandie Pizarro, who would eventually end up handling the case and then issuing said restraining order. Just how confidently somebody can make this claim – and with a straight face – should bother anybody remotely concerned with the country's justice system.
Four M Square officers do agree that the justice is linked a little too closely with their prodigal in-law. Pizarro and San Andres go a long way, they claim, into the days when the former was still a trial court judge in Quezon City. When he was appointed to to the appellate court, Pizarro dismissed a perjury case filed by a brother-in-law against San Andres. This case is presently pending consideration by the said court.
**
Actually, the petition for temporary restraining order Roxas reportedly brags about is still nonexistent. The family thinks San Andres' lawyers have been working on it during the holidays and would file it this month.
But the fact that nothing has yet been filed should heighten one’s incredulity at how Roxas, speaking on behalf of her boss, can make such claims. From where comes her certainty that the case would get assigned to the justice she names? That the petition would be ruled on this way or that?
This early, Justice Pizarro should dissociate himself from these individuals who may be advancing their interests by mere threats and name-dropping. By all means, let the prayer for TRO be filed. But let it be evaluated on its merits alone.
Judges and justices are subject to higher ethical standards than the average citizen is. They should not only be beyond irregularity; they should be beyond the perception
of such. Pizarro must know that his association with San Andres does not help his image at all.
Nor does it help dispel the notion that some justices of the Court of Appeals are corrupt, or at least corruptible. Finally, it only validates the public view that previous efforts to purge the court of dishonest elements are inadequate and half-baked.
adelle_chua@gmail.com
**
READERS' REACTIONS
This is in reply to your January 5, 2009 Article, “Justice so-and-so will issue a TRO” in the Manila Standard Today.
Though it is a practice of those in the bench not to respond to such articles, I felt that I should reply to the allegations raised in your column as they caused undue hurt to my name and family.
In your article, you stated that in the case involving one Mario San Andres against the Four M Square Corp. [I] would eventually end up handling the case and then [1 would issue a] [temporary] restraining order.”
First of all, a case is never assigned to a particular justice. It is raffled among the Justices in a station. The raffle is conducted by three (3) Justices along with the Raffle Staff in the presence
of the public. Thus, no “rigging” would ever be possible. To further strengthen the system, the three (3) Justices who are part of the raffle for the day are precluded from being assigned cases for that day. Considering the safeguards, it is near-high impossible for a case to be assigned to a specific Justice at the instance of the party-litigant.
Secondly, the Court of Appeals is a collegiate court. All three (3) members of a Division must concur. Thus it is incorrect to say that only Justice X issued a TRO considering that the two (2) other Justices of the Division must concur. Failing unanimity, a TRO cannot be issued.
Thirdly, upon due reflection, I have recalled that I have acted upon the said case (Civil Case No. Q-03-50551) in October 2003 as the Presiding judge of the Regional Trial Court of Quezon City, Branch 101, by denying the grant of a TRO/WPI in favor of a party thereof. This being so, in the unlikely instance of the case being raffled to me among the present forty-five (45) Justices assigned to the City of Manila, it will be mandatory for me to inhibit from any related case.
Contrary to what your goodself wrote, I do not personally know or have any dealings with Mr.Mario San Andres, or his building administrator, Ms. Lea Roxas. I am not therefore a “close ally” of Mr. Andres, as reportedly said by Ms. Roxas. Also, I don't remember dismissing a perjury case filed by a brother-in-law against Mr. San Andres.
I understand your show of interest on the matter. Rest assured that I will always take good care of my hard-earned reputation as a member of the judiciary.
Normandie B.Pizarro
Associate Justice, COurt of Appeals
**
I came across the article 'Justice so-and-so will issue a TRO' in your blog A Resounding Yes at Blogger.com. It is very well written and interesting. I like how you have explored the topic. If you are interested, I would like to extend an invitation to join www.allvoices.com. It’s a citizen journalist site. We discuss, debate and write about everything under the sun here.The site has a lot of people who are passionate about writing and use this as a tool to make a difference.
Allvoices also has an incentive programme for writers who can earn up to $10,000 cash. You can visit http://www.allvoices.com/journalism for more details and do register if you are interested.
Thanks,
Tara
Name Drop
My column appears every Monday at the Manila Standard Today. I have been writing pieces for Chasing Happy for two years, independently of my daily editing job for the op-ed page and my thrice-a-week chore of writing editorials for the same. But tomorrow, the first Monday of 2009, I will no longer be published as "Adelle Chua Tulagan." I will be writing under my old name, "Adelle Chua."
Actually, the heading of the op-ed page which bears my name as editor has already undergone such change beginning Thursday of last week, January 1. But I don't suppose people notice this as much as they would one's column box.
I am relieved, but I'm sad as well, and a little concerned that the change in name would invite questions from just about anybody -- as if the name you use is more important than the stuff you produce.
And no, being single does not mean I would henceforth be entertaining.
I am relieved because dropping my erstwhile (not legally--yet-- but I will get to that) last name is symbolic, and that is self-explanatory. Chua is, of course, the last name of my mother (I am an illegitimate child, and I can say that without wincing now), but it is the name I grew up with.
It speaks, too, of the finality of my decision to end my marriage.
But I, too, am sad, because I know the children will ask questions and feel just a little defensive that I am dropping their father's -- and their own -- name. The little ones, especially, are still hoping I would come back, and I break their hearts everytime I respond with a firm, redundant, resounding No. Oh, well, they will grow up and maybe understand later.
I am sad, too, because whoever's fault the breakup was, a failed marriage is not the exclusive failure of your partner. It is yours, too. And mine was a consequence of many factors which drove me to make decisions with eyes half open.
Sigh. There is no turning back. But at a steep price these lessons now come!
My readers, those who have thus far cared to write back, have often said I was like a breath of fresh air. I will still try to be that. More than ever. Because hey, it's still me.
Or maybe I'm even more me now than I ever was the whole time I was with John.
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