Brillante's darkness

published June 1, 2009 Manila Standard Today

Truth is hardly ever good nor beautiful. But this year's Best Director at Cannes believes it is worth telling anyway.

Brillante “Dante” Mendoza used to be a film production designer. Among his work were Private Show, Takaw Tukso, Mula Paa Hanggang Ulo, Olongapo and Mga Lihim ng Kalapati, all released in mainstream cinema in the late 1980s. Being a freelancer enabled him to work with a good number of directors – Peque Gallaga, Celso Ad Castillo, Tata Esteban and Chito Roño, among others. Watching these directors at work, Mendoza sometimes imagined how he would have done the scenes if it were him on the director's chair.

Many years and bold career moves (he went into advertising, stayed there a decade and then returned to film) later, Mendoza indeed became director. His comeback was through a film called Masahista (2005), a story about a twenty-year-old masseur who deals with gay customers and fulfills his duty to visit an ailing father in the province. Beginner's luck or otherwise, participation in several international film festivals marked Mendoza's directorial debut. The film even won the Golden Leopard Award among digital films in the Locarno Film Festival in Switzerland. At that festival, a European woman told him she did not know anything about the Philippines prior to seeing the film. Through Masahista, she got a glimpse into the ways of the Filipinos. Mendoza realized he wanted to keep directing.

Succeeding films include Manoro (about an Aeta teacher; it is set against the backdrop of Philippine elections); Kaleldo (about an ailing father with three grown daughters; it is set in the lahar-stricken province of Pampanga), Foster Child (about a family giving temporary shelter to children about to be given up for adoption by a social welfare group), Tirador (about petty thieves who are at the same time devotees of the Black Nazarene in Quiapo), and Serbis, last year's entry to Cannes (about a family that runs a run-down movie house which also houses the trysts of male prostitutes and their gay customers).

The characters in these films and the situations they were in were not figments of Mendoza's imagination. Their coming to life was a result of painstaking research by the director and his team. They went to people in these settings, earned their confidence and encouraged them to speak about their lives. They had themselves invited to wedding receptions in the province. They familiarized themselves with the (more interesting) side stories that abound in such events. They went to massage parlors and talked to real masseurs on their real dilemmas. Of course, Mendoza and his group were always careful not to make these sources feel exploited. After all, the director only wanted to tell a truthful story – no embellishments, coordinated moves or predictable endings. Pretty much like life.

Mendoza shares that he has been lucky to be more “indie” (independent) than other filmmakers – for the plain reason that he has his own production company. Thus he is able to inject his ideas in all aspects of the film-- from the story, the setting, the cast down to the budget. Some filmmakers are good but have to face realities of submitting their work for approval. He says he has the luxury of asserting what he wants every step of the way – and that has made his job easier, even faster.

**

But most Filipinos did not know Mendoza from Adam until he was named Best Director at this year's Cannes Film Festival in France for his work in Kinatay (The Butchered). The film is about a criminology graduate, pressured for money so he could marry his girlfriend, who gets involved in a scheme that would pay $2,000. He accepts the job before he learned that it involved killing a woman, chopping her off and scattering her body parts over numerous places. If the mere description sounds gruesome, the actual experience of watching the film “offers viewers no relief nor redemption,” says one review.

Kinatay may be deemed a departure from Mendoza's earlier formula. Notable in its absence, according to another review, is the cultural flavor that situates the film in its country of origin. Mendoza's previous movies showed lantern festivals, religious processions, historical calamities and election habits that were peculiar to the Philippines. The implication is that while the characters in Kinatay were Filipinos, the sordid crime and the moral freefall could take place anywhere.

Mendoza says the concept of Kinatay (also known as The Execution of P) was triggered by conversations with a tormented criminology student and his own experience of fear (he did not elaborate what caused this personal experience). He wanted to recreate the terror without the aid of dialogue or visual effect. He also wanted to share the feeling a person might have when he or she does not know what would happen next.

Here perhaps in Kinatay, the realism is more psychological that environmental. Yet another review ascribes a moral angle to the movie.”[The film] a nerve-shredding exploration of crime which is both repellent and grimly compelling...it is perhaps most notable for its daring in attempting to capture the moment a young man crosses the line into irrevocable evil," Wikipedia quotes one Mike Goodridge.

**

Despite his victory in France, Mendoza's homecoming last Tuesday was relatively low-profile. There were no VIPs to welcome him, no confetti thrown his way. Mendoza says he is used to apparent lack of interest and is not anymore disappointed that there has not been support from Philippine officials for independent films in general. “Maybe the government has not yet seen the value in doing so,” he says.

It's easy to be blind to whatever value there may be if a film or any work of art for that matter does not portray the Philippines in a good light. Obviously, the thought that such butchering could in fact happen in the this country, (from a director noted for his realism, by the way) does not boost the government's bid to attract investors and tourists to the country.

But Mendoza shows no signs of compromising. “There are 90 million people in the Philippines,” he says. “Only ten percent live decently. What about the remaining 90 percent?” He adds that if he is able to let other people peek into the actual conditions of at least a miniscule part of this 90 percent, he would be happy with what he has done.

While he is not surprised at gaining notoriety for his “darkness,” Mendoza insists that a better word would be “truthfulness.” Individuals, families, societies and this country have both good and bad aspects at the same time. For instance, Filipinos can claim to be religious or pious. We are devoted to family. But that does not preclude us from being corrupt or selfish or lustful anyway. He does not agree that life should be shown as well-ordered, nor should characters be put in stereotypes. We cannot avoid complexities and contradictions. Even if we don't like them.

Honesty is what makes a director a good one, says Mendoza. Cinema should be a mirror of the non-simplicity of life. But he is quick to add that this is just what he thinks. Other directors may believe – and just as passionately – that films are for entertainment, even escape. He does not believe he is better than they are for thinking the way he does. He is not comfortable at being called “the best director”either. He says he was just lucky that at that time, a specific set of jurors had a specific set of criteria.

Ultimately, the most gratifying part of the job for Mendoza is knowing that his work has affected a viewer. “Affected” doesn't mean being moved to tears in an emotional scene only to forget about the movie altogether as one goes out of the theater. Maybe “haunted” is a better term. He wants his films to live in the viewer. He wants them to realize, perhaps,that such things could happen. Mendoza also marvels that there could be as many reactions to his work as there are as many individual viewers.

The director has traveled the world as his films have competed in dozens of international festivals. He has also been invited by some festival organizers to act as juror. Now he has this coveted award from Cannes. What more can he ask? “Well I wish I can go back to normal...no excessive attention, no more interviews. I want to work an another project – and then go back to tending my plants.”

Indeed there is a nice garden just outside the receiving area of his office. It is hardly likely that a supposed realist, a dark artist with a penchant for squalor and grime, would take up gardening for a hobby. Then again, that may just be part of the complexities in people's nature that Mendoza seeks to portray.


adellechua@gmail.com

Bubbly Bates

My dear friend Evelyn Marie Baetiong (now Del Socorro), whom I have known since kindergarten, sent me a text message on Mothers' Day. Bates is godmother to my eldest daughter Bea; I was one of two matrons of honor at her wedding. My kumare greeted me but she also relayed the news that her mom had been diagnosed with cancer of the lungs. Terminal. They received the news that day. Some Mothers' Day, indeed.

My impulse was to rush to my friend, wherever she was. I was in the office that Sunday afternoon and I asked her if she wanted to meet that same evening. Of course, the meeting did not push through. It was a critical family time for her. Good intentions notwithstanding, I was an outsider. And then came a downpour.

It was another two weeks before I finally saw her. It turned out that last Friday was also Tita Lita's last day at the hospital. I went with another friend, Grace. The guard at the main lobby -- not the clerk at the information desk -- of the Lung Center of the Philippines knew the room number of the patient and the fact that she was due to check out that day. Smart guard, I muttered. I thought he deserved a promotion.

Later, Bates told us that her mom was pretty well-known among the hospital staff. Room 3411 was noted for consistently having a standing-room only status. Well-wishers were many; nurses wondered whether Tita Lita was some sort of a celebrity.

When Grace and I arrived, Bates, her older sister and aunt were tidying up the room, preparing to leave. Tita Lita was seated on the couch, frail indeed but warm nonetheless. Grace informed her that her younger son Joaquin (born 08-08-08) was now nine months old. I showed her the latest studio portrait of myself and my kids -- she was amazed at how big my children were, already. And then she excused herself to return to her bed. We three friends were left in the receiving area. It was 1230 in the afternoon.

I knew Bates was devastated by the news. In a text message, she told me that her family was her weakest spot. So I went to the hospital expecting to console my friend. After all, Bates was one of the few girl friends who stood by me as I witnessed my own mom battle colon cancer in '92, when we were in high school. I knew, too, that she was missing work big time because of this crisis. As facilities manager and executive assistant to the country manager of a call center company, Bates' schedule was impossible. She worked long, odd hours, and that was why we have not been able to meet up that much in the last few years.

Imagine, thus, my surprise when the same jolly fellow regaled us with anecdotes that afternoon.

Of course, she told us about the events that led to the diagnosis. Those first few minutes were difficult, tentative. Bates said that the persistence of a cousin, a doctor who was practicing in Laguna, led to the discovery that what her mother had was more complicated than bronchitis. She also told us how members of their family reacted to the news, and how her mom accepted the news of her illness. Bates was floored by the concern of her mom's co-workers (Tita Lita is a chemist for the Department of Environment and Natural Resources) and other associates. Finally, Bates said that she was lucky that her boss, whom I had interviewed for an article on the business process outsourcing industry several months ago, understood her situation. He even e-mailed her the text of the song "Footprints in the sand" to encourage her to be strong.

After these stories, it was the same old Bates. Never running out of stories, always laughing before the punchline, at all times choosing to see the bright side of all things. The way she talked, it seemed as though their stay at the hospital was a string of one blooper after another. See, Bates never hesitated to take herself, and others, lightly. I was also amused at my friend's gay lingo. "Chorva", "Kembot" and "Ateng" rolled off her mouth effortlessly. She said she got it from the young people at work (they called her Mommy) and bragged that her own mom's colleagues marveled at how Tita Lita herself talked this way sometimes. Why, Bates even called her mom "Mother" (with a nasal twang).

And yes, we talked about the scandal that everybody in the Philippines was talking about last week.

By 230 in the afternoon, their sundo (fetcher), another cousin, had arrived and I realized I must also start heading for the office. I had thought the reunion would be sad, but Bates, being the way she was, showed that laughter does ease the burden.

The family remains hopeful for a miracle. But Bates said she has resigned herself to the will of God, only asking that her mom be spared of physical pain as she battles with her sickness. I believe that resignation is enabling her to carry on, day after day. Laugh and bring laughter, as she does so well. Bates' capacity for joy is indeed one of Tita Lita's greatest accomplishments.

Let's pray for a miracle. And let's thank God for the miracles that are already in our midst.

Incentives to being a victim

published 25 May 2009, Manila Standard Today

First there was Suzette Nicolas, whom the public knew only as “Nicole”. She made headlines with her story and her heavily disguised appearance. She successfully sued an American soldier, Daniel Smith, for raping her. But several months ago, Nicolas executed a sworn statement saying she was not anymore sure what happened was rape. In Smith's eventual acquittal, justices of the Court of Appeals – women all – said what happened was a “spontaneous romantic episode”. Both Smith and Nicolas are now in the US – though not necessarily together.
Then, two weeks ago, another veiled woman tearfully recounted her experience with a US serviceman to media. Her face was also concealed by a veil. She was called “Vanessa”. According to her, she met the soldier at a bar at The Fort where they exchanged mobile phone numbers. A few nights later, they met up and he invited her to a party at a hotel. She went with him – at 3:30 in the morning. There was no party at his hotel, but he did succeed in forcing himself on her. “Vanessa” said she tried to report the matter to authorities but when they found out that the alleged rapist was another US soldier, they did not pay attention to her.
Then came last week's video scandal that involved Katrina Halili and Hayden Kho. This was different; the personalities were prominent. Halili was not cloaked in a veil. Her tears –and everything else one cared to imagine – was there for the world to see.
She says she is angry at Kho because “binaboy niya ako.” (It is difficult to find an English translation for this.) But Halili's expression of anger at her erstwhile lover only fueled interest in the video. Practically everybody has heard of, if not seen, Kho's video/s, not only with her but with at least two other women. Of course, some people claim they are offended by it-- we do not know whether they have actually seen them to be offended or whether they are just pretending to be disgusted but actually delighted in viewing it, thus making Halili a victim over and over again.
A circus surrounded Halili's emergence and resolve to fight. Personalities rushed to her defense, mouthing the usual motherhood statements on protecting a woman's dignity and helping the poor victim cope with the abuse.
But for all this talk, many people remember that Katrina is first and foremost a “sexy starlet” who earns a living not from her acting prowess but on her physical attributes which she has never hesitated to flaunt. She has no qualms baring her body, even posing naked for an advertisement (with that doctor, incidentally). Because of this, we have a hard time picturing her as the “kawawa” (hapless) victim. In the same way, Vanessa and Nicole never quite came close to our profile of the virtuous victim, either. They were young women who knew how to have a good time. They frequented bars, drank alcohol, went (dirty) dancing and did not hesitate to show interest in the opposite sex.
Granted that these three women do not necessarily personify the image of the Virgin, must we automatically dismiss them as Whores who must be blamed for their situation? If they -- at least, Vanessa and Katrina –claim they are victims, must we even take them seriously?

**
Ofer Zur, Ph.D. is a consultant, licensed psychologist, writer, forensic consultant and lecturer from Sonoma, California. In an article, The Psychology of Victimhood: Rethinking “Don't blame the victim” published in 1994 in the Journal of Couple Therapy, (also available in www.zurinstitute.com), Zur refers to two prevailing attitudes towards victims of any crime, specifically intimate crimes like rape or domestic abuse. Blaming the victim is one. The other is entirely absolving her. The latter is deemed politically correct. Zur says that in this view, “the victim is always morally right, neither responsible nor accountable, and forever entitled to sympathy.”
And indeed the law is protective of the victim. Here, for example, rape trials rely mostly on testimonial evidence. The thinking is this: Why would a woman fabricate a tale about being raped and subject herself to the indignity of talking about her sordid experience in front of so many strangers? The definition of the crime has been broadened to include date rape,marital rape and that committed when the victim is intoxicated. Additionally, the Anti-Violence Against Women and Children Act enumerates several forms of abuse aside from the physical battery we know so well from telenovelas. Now there is psychological and economic abuse as well.
It's good because victims now have more grounds on which to base their complaints.
Unfortunately, this also makes it easier – and more appealing – to be a victim. Zur says that now, “everybody is leapfrogging over each other, wanting to attain victim status and be conferred with some sort of survivor image.”
**
But according to the psychologist, these two extreme approaches – blaming the victim on one hand and placing her on a pedestal of moral uprightness on another – both perpetrate and exacerbate the abusive environment. Neither really helps the victim at all.
Instead, Zur offers an approach that explores the victim's role in the situation but does not necessarily blame her, instead of extolling her “wronged” status. He says “alleviating all women and any victim from any and all responsibility to predict, prevent or even unconsciously invite abuse is to reduce them to helpless incapable creatures and in fact re-victimizes them.”
There are many incentives to being a victim. Everyone is on your side and you can do no wrong. You are a champion, a survivor. Why, in this country, you can even later run for public office. But it's also dangerous. “Victims may...likely attribute the outcome of their behavior to situational or external forces rather than to dispositional forces within themselves,” Zur says. For example, a battered woman may always complain that her husband beats her up and shows her no respect. But she chooses to stay on, exalting in her morally superior status as the aggrieved one, not knowing – worse, refusing to know, that she does have a choice. Actually, she can either demand that her husband treat her better or get out of the abusive environment altogether.
Finally, exploration of the victim's role – reflecting on what she may or may not have done that resulted, directly, indirectly, consciously or unconsciously in the abuse –– aims to “move the victim from blame to responsibility, helplessness to accountability, and from hopelessness to empowerment.”
This middle-ground approach is essentially forward looking. Nothing more can be done about the past instance of abuse. But exploring the role of the victim makes her recognize that she has the power to keep similar instance from happening in the future. She realizes that next time around, she should not allow herself to be in a compromising situation with a man she hardly knows. She should heed red flags that may tell her that the man she's dating is an exhibitionist. She should not trust somebody just because he is nice to her. She should always second-guess people's motives. Acknowledgment that she could be in control after her harrowing experience of victimization is an act of standing up after the fall and dignifying herself as a woman, as a person.
Being the victim is not a flattering title. Choosing to be a habitual victim is perhaps the most serious blow to free will and self-determination.

Slumber Party

In my previous life, I tried my hand at sales and entrepreneurship. It didn't fly.

2000. I was a stay-at-home mom. I had just given birth to Sophie. J. had just started a job in Singapore. I had been out of work for months; I'd resigned as researcher in a Makati investment house when I discovered I was pregnant with Sophie. The money flow was not stable. I adored the children but was bored. I needed to be busy with something. I needed to earn my own keep. But how?

The idea of selling pillowcases came to me in a dream. Different colors and designs. I knew my way around Bonifacio Market in Monumento and was not afraid of the dangers of Divisoria. The next morning I was in Monumento buying brightly printed cloths. Somebody from my Lola's neighborhood was a seamstress. I saw her that day, too, and we agreed on a per-pair rate, provided I give her at least three days to get the job done. I decided to do the cutting myself (I think it's called “tabas”) so I could control the raw materials.

In less than a week I was peddling the pillowcases – for regular and jumbo-sized pillows and throw pillows alike – to other moms and yayas in the kids' school, which was, by the way, where I attended my Kinder Junior to high school myself. I had to struggle with nagging thoughts that I should be doing something else. I was reminded of all the things I learned in Ateneo, the papers I wrote, all the fancy dreams I had of being a writer. But I decided I was a humble person – and practically a beggar, so I really did not have much choice.

I did make some sales. Of course they were from people who knew me. Acquaintances and co-parents, my kumares, my relatives, Lola herself. And then I went inside the gates of my old school and “visited” former teachers. Oh, we did catch up, and they asked me why I was carrying such a big and bulky bag. That would be my cue to show them what I had. “Ginang” – Mrs. Phebe Santiago, my adviser in fourth year – actually purchased several pieces for her new couch.

In fact I became so visible in OLGA those days that I received several invitations to speak. Ms. Lyn Bigaw, my adviser and math teacher in Grade Two, asked me to be a guest speaker for her TAGIM (Talented And Gifted In Math) class, despite my protestations that I majored in English literature, not math. When career day for high school students came along, I was also invited to be a speaker. The funny thing was that in those days, I did not have a career. I did not have a job and I had stopped my graduate studies (in Applied Business Economics, wouldn't you know it!) and I was really “just” a mom selling pillow cases, hoping to earn a few extra hundreds every week.

My initial luck inspired me. I expanded my product line into bedsheets and curtains. I made regular trips to Divisoria, where there were more designs to choose from. I made calling cards for myself and included one in the package of every pair I sold. I called my venture Slumber Party – “for sweet dreams and happy thoughts,” the cute pink, blue and white little card said.

A happy thought that drove me was that my business would prosper. I would get bulk orders, and I would make so much money that I would be so secure knowing I was feeding myself. I could have the freedom I did not have as a Makati worker, who had to commute (I did not like driving much) every day on top of the 830 to 530 schedule. I could spend quality time with my children. And then I could do as I pleased.

I took a pro-active stance. I would not wait for the buyers. I would bring my wares closer to them. One day I went to SM North Edsa and did the rounds of the interior design shops on the third floor. I had with me my cute calling card, my album of sample cloth designs and a practiced smile. But they were asking for track record and I did not have that.

I also made inquiries in Grand Central. I learned that the stalls cost 1 thousand pesos a day – I would have to sell my pieces for so much more to make the payments and still not break even.

Soon I was resigned to my fate. Soon, too, I knew why. Even if I succeeded there, I would have always felt mediocre. Inadequate.

After a while I went back to being an employee. Now here where I am, I am consigned to this status for a long time. Not that I mind. In fact I appreciate the stability, the certainty of having something in your bank account at the middle and at the end of every month – even though it's a pittance (hehehe), a pity. Hey, I am feeding myself. I have the freedom and flexibility – my office work here starts at 4pm. I have more time to be with the children. I do as I please. I'm in charge.

My Slumber Party may have ended, but the happy thoughts remain.

State of emergency

Monday night. I had planned on staying up. Diego Bunuel on National Geographic was in the former Yugoslavia. I had a mountain of books to wrap – it's that time of the year again. I had so many ideas in my head I also wanted to start writing them. I had recently yielded my study table to Josh on account of its being so small (pang-estudyante); I decided to return to my home office space, with the L-shaped table downstairs by the window and my executive swivel chair. Just as I was getting comfortable, contemplating whether I should go pour myself a glass of wine to celebrate some me-time, I saw 2 cockroaches chasing each other on the carpet. I raced upstairs.

All four kids were in the room. We are all bunched up there because of the aircon. Only Elmo and Bea were asleep. Josh was practicing, as usual,and Sophie was asking me to scratch her back. I lay down and we began the usual gabfest. Kids can be so talkative at whatever age. We talked about our future home. I was picturing it, believing in the power of visuals. We need at least three rooms One for me, one for the girls and another for the boys. A spare area for the helper so she has her own space. I imagined looking out into some view from my window and getting inspired enough to be as prolific as I want. I may be stuck with Pag-Ibig or some other bank loan for the next 25 years, but I would not mind. These are the things worth toiling for.

Just then, I saw a black thing crawling on Bea's side of the wall. Sophie and I immediately dunked under the blanket. Damn roaches. Josh stood up; he said he'd take care of it. He looked for the Baygon spraying can but it was downstairs. Only Lysol was at hand. He grabbed it and sprayed anyway. The roach retreated and went into hiding.

The next fifteen minutes were the worst. We succeeded in rousing Bea but Elmo was still asleep-- he was still recovering from fever. We didn't know where the roach had gone, but we were sure it was still there. How could we go to sleep knowing it could crawl and fly anytime?

By this time Josh had started turning things over. Moved my closet. Lifted the mattresses. Turned on the lights. Near-emptied the Lysol can. Gone downstairs, gotten the Baygon, and near-emptied it too. The roach was in a playful mood. It showed itself hen hid again. Josh said he wouldn't stop until he crushed it (pretty brave for somebody who had, five years ago, been threatened with a beating of he could not kill a flying roach). Sophie and I, down on the floor, remained under the blanket. Bea complained of inhaling all that poison. Elmo was still asleep.

Finally the roach climbed the wall on MY SIDE OF THE ROOM. That did it. I picked up Elmo and we girls ran outside the room, shrieking. Josh said he would probably lose a lot of weight heaving the furniture around in search of the roach. I was worried it would find its way to my half-open closet. We roused Inday, our helper, to be on lookout. Finally, we heard the sound of slippers being slapped repeatedly on the floor. Yay, heroes!

The room was a mess when we returned.It did not smell good, too. Josh said I should take out all the bedsheets because the cockroach crawled over these as it evaded the poison. It was 1130 pm already. We put the furniture back into place. Elmo went back to sleep. Bea remained in Inday's room, detesting the smell of the insecticide. Well, I would rather smell it and lie on a sheet-less bed inside a roach-less room. Fortunately Josh and Sophie felt the same.

Josh and I gabbed for yet another hour, mainly pondering the likely reason God created insects that seemed to serve no purpose on the face of the earth.

It's a quarter to one now, Tuesday morning,and I opened this laptop the moment I was sure he had fallen asleep. I need to get up in five hours to prepare for a trip to Bulacan to visit Ate Helen and her week-old Angel. So now that I have told this story, I will turn in. It was a full day, indeed. I've had my quota-- I don't think I have the energy to deal with yet another crawling object anytime soon. So I'm shutting my eyes.

An option for "maturing" women

published 18 May 2009, Manila Standard Today

Experts say hormone replacement therapy, when done at the right time, makes aging gracefully possible.

The symptoms are so well known they have been turned into jokes. Mood swings. Bouts of depression. Lack of interest in, even aversion to, intimacy. Grumpiness. If a woman in her forties or fifties is exhibiting these, there is no other explanation -- she must be menopausal.

The sad part is that it's not really a joke. It's a harsh reality women of a certain age go through,albeit in varying degrees. The heartbreaking part is that at one time or another, these women will be those dear to us: mothers, sisters, wives, aunts, colleagues, friends. Worse, the symptoms that are the subject of jokes are just some of the less serious effects of menopause. Aside from these more superficial symptoms, menopausal women are more vulnerable to osteoporosis, cardio-vascular diseases, uro-genital disorders -- a poor quality of life, overall.

Dr. Joan Tan-Garcia, who holds clinic at the women's health center of the St. Luke's Hospital and sits as president of the Philippine Society of Climacteric Medicine, says the support given to women in this stage should be holistic. She takes pride in the hospital's having the only active menopause clinic in the country – active in terms of providing information to as may women as possible. The hospital conducts a free lay forum every several months where experts speak on various aspects of menopause in an effort to help “maturing” women grow old gracefully and maintain a good quality of life.

The doctor defines menopause as that stage when a woman's monthly period has not occurred for one full year. The mean age for this is 51 worldwide but 48 in Asia. The onset is never instant; the two to four years preceding menopause is called the peri-menopausal period, when a woman's fluctuating estrogen levels occasion hot flashes, mood swings, irritability and irregular menstrual flow. Post-menopausal, on the other hand, refers to the time beyond the full year that the flow has not arrived.

Tan-Garcia is actually an infertility specialist but her familiarity with hormonal issues has led her to take up this advocacy in helping women cope with this challenging phase in their lives. The good news is that there is actually something that can be done to relieve these symptoms and ensure the quality of the years ahead. There is such a thing as hormone replacement therapy. But there is a catch: the merits of this medical recourse is clouded by confusion, and,more importantly, only a very small percentage of Filipino women are aware that such an option exists; much less are able to afford it.

Simply put, hormone replacement therapy is the infusion of estrogen or a mix of estrogen and progesterone into a women's system to address the depletion of said hormones naturally produced in the body. (Of course there are other hormones that may be injected for other purposes, but these are not relevant to women undergoing menopause.) The therapy's is more popular for its ability to address the symptoms I mentioned in the first paragraph. But a second, more lasting goal is the prevention of the long-term effects of estrogen depletion, specifically cardio-vascular diseases. According to Tan-Garcia, clogging of the arteries is a direct result of lower levels of estrogen in the body.

What's important to remember is that there is no off-the-shelf hormone replacement therapy that applies to all women. Each program is tailored according to the woman's medical profile and needs: which hormones, how much, how often, and for how long. Then, after 6 to 12 months, the doctor helps the patient decide whether more therapy is needed.

Of course, the replenishment of hormones is not supposed to be a cure-all for the symptoms and risks associated with menopause. The International Menopause Society (www.imsociety.org) emphasizes that HRT is only part of an overall strategy including lifestyle patterns involving diet, exercise and alcohol.

**

Actually, the credibility of hormone replacement therapy was put to test sometime in 2002 when data from a study being conducted by the Womens Health Institute were prematurely leaked. It was claimed that the particular brand of hormones used in the study coincided with higher incidence of breast cancer, heart attacks and strokes. Debates followed, but the popularity of hormone replacement therapy decreased..until in the succeeding years when it was subsequently “redeemed”.

The redemption came about after the IMS, alarmed by the confusion, convened several workshops to get a more balanced view on the matter, using the data from the WHI study combined with information from different countries and results of different papers. Tan-Garcia adds that while the WHI study was a good one, it had the wrong population. The mean age of participants was 63, a little too old, and majority of the participants were obese. The interpretation of this data would naturally be flawed, as well.

In its Updated (2007) Recommendations posted on its Web site, the IMS acknowledges the benefits of hormone replacement therapy. “The use of hormones in early menopause and up to age 60 has a very minor potential for harm, but may carry substantial benefits.” Indeed there are benefits to the fight against osteoporosis, cardiovascular disease and colon cancer. If started early, it can also reduce the risk of having Alzheimer's disease in the latter years. Further, according to Tan-Garcia, the risk of breast cancer associated with hormone replacement therapy is small, less than 0.1 percent. Among those included in this miniscule group, the cancer is of the less invasive type.

The IMS recommendation concludes that the safety of hormone replacement therapy largely depends on age. Women under 60 need not be too concerned with adverse effects, especially if they start the therapy soon after menopause.

“Timing is everything,” says Tan-Garcia.

**

On July 2, the Menopause Clinic of St Luke's will be hosting its next lay forum. Topics to be discussed are “Do I have thyroid disease?”; “Who will need HRT?”; ”What if I don't/ can't take HRT?” and “101 ways to enjoy retirement”.

The forum is for free and will be held from 8 am to 12 noon at the Auditorium 1, 14th floor of the Cathedral Heights Bldg., St. Luke's Hospital. For inquiries, you may call 723-0101 local 7286 or 5450.

adellechua@gmail.com

Health gap

I was at the St. Luke's Hospital this morning for an interview with a doctor who specializes in climacteric medicine, the field concerning menopausal women. No, I am absolutely not menopausal -- at least not yet -- but I am writing about the options available to women during this precarious state. The piece should have landed on my column at the Standard last Monday, a nice piece for Mother's Day, but I missed the press conference and was too cramped and under the weather over the weekend to do interviews and write. Excuses.

Anyway, I waited for my turn with Dr. Joan Tan-Garcia for about thirty minutes past our 10am appointment. Not that waiting in that hospital was an ordeal. I was rather comfortably seated in the receiving lounge of the women's health clinic on the second floor of St. Luke's. The seats -- 18 in all -- were clean and cushioned. There were soft yellow lights and a big bouquet of flowers to greet patients entering through the glass doors. The walls, floors and shelves were of a clean wooden finish. The television was on -- it was tuned to the Lifestyle Channel. The best gardens in New Zealand, Portugal and the Carribean were being shown.

And the interview was great Dr. Tan-Garcia was only too eager to talk about her advocacy (I cannot wait to sit down and write my column.) As I went out of the hospital, there was some soothing piano music playing in the lobby. I thought there was a CD playing, but no, there was a man in coat and tie in front of the grand piano. A few steps further down, there was a Delifrance outlet. I organized my notes while enjoying my favorite crabstick celery sandwich on baguette.

And then I remembered my Ate Helen, who had given birth just yesterday morning and was now recuperating in a ward in a Malolos, Bulacan hospital. I suppose the prospect of delivery through caesarian operation had always been a possibility, but Ate, 40 years old, sure was not prepared for it. All throughout her pregnancy, she only had a check-up once. The most she did to prepare for giving birth was to make sure the midwife would be on call once the labor pains started. Indeed she never anticipated giving birth in a public hospital,much less being cut up, because of her high blood pressure. Yesterday her sister was frantic because the 6 thousand pesos Ate had saved over the past 9 months was fast dwindling. They had to send somebody to Manila for additional money; Ate's boss coughed up yet another 5 thousand. They sounded grateful; too grateful -- I noted that the money which meant the world to them would probably mean only a meal in an upscale restaurant-- or little more than a consultation in one of those fancy clinics.

And then I pictured Ate in her maternity ward. I also remembered my half-sister Shelby, whom I visited in yet another maternity ward at a Pampanga hospital several years ago. All those new mothers lying on blood-soaked bedsheets, the smell of childbirth in the air! It was a disturbing thought.

The contrast is appalling. Health care is a basic human requirement,but the manner of its delivery may spell the difference between dignity and depression. I hope all those wannabe presidents, who have been gracing our air waves of late, and who probably do not know how dire conditions can be in less than ideal hospitals, can actually do something real to close the heartbreaking gap.

Kids in the Kitchen

Chef Marco with participants of the Southeast Asian Flavors class

My kid in my kitchen

In the home, the kitchen is often thought of as mom's (or manang's) turf. Children or teenagers are not expected to wander into this part of the house except to pop in to get a glass of water, grab a sandwich, ask what's cooking for dinner-- or make a request what they want to eat. Indeed, it's not uncommon to find children intimidated at the sight of a kitchen knife or the act of switching on a stove.

But some progressive-minded parents involve their children in the preparation of dishes. It's good training and good bonding time as well. And, let's face it, kids puttering about in the kitchen – apron, chef's hat and all-- look just adorable. The girls give us a glimpse of what terrific moms and homemakers they will be -- aside from excelling in their careers, of course. For boys, there's an extra incentive. Boys who know their way in the kitchen tell us that what women can do, men can, too. And trying does not make them less of a man. How encouraging that the present generation can think like this.

This summer, the Center for Culinary Arts offers kids the opportunity to take the first steps in being at home in the kitchen. Five-day courses like Baking and Pastry 101, Western Flavors and Southeast Asian Flavors take in kids between 11 and 17 while Young Upstarts are for those between 7 and 10 years old.

The baking class made muffins, scones, cookies, pan de sal, cinnamon rolls, cupcakes, mini-cakes, pastries and cold desserts. Western flavors include sandwich bar, all-day breakfast, pasta, pizza and American diner dishes. Young Upstarts include salads, tacos, paninis, burgers corn dogs, buffalo wings, fish n chips. An entire day is devoted to Japanese and Chinese dishes; yet another on Italian basics.

My own 13-year-old son Josh himself registered in Southeast Asian Flavors earlier this month. There were only five of them in the class and he was the youngest. On Day 1, they made appetizers and teasers. On Day 2 they made soups. Day 3 was noodle day; Day 4 was rice day. On the last day, they whipped up popular Filipino snacks. Students were asked to bring plastic containers so they could bring home samples of their output and let family members taste them.

Glenda Dawn Carlota, marketing manager of the CCA, says that perhaps the best result of the Boot Camp is the confidence gained by the young participants both through the hands-on experience and the exposure to ingredients, dishes and cooking methods of various cultures.

The Young Chefs Boot Camp has been in place for several years now and Carlota says it is not uncommon that kids who take up one course one summer go back the following year to take up another course. CCA has also been getting calls from parents who suggest new courses or methods. For example, there is a clamor to offer parent-child classes for education and bonding, both. Carlota says they look into these suggestions through research and development. Then a curriculum is drafted accordingly.

The Young Chefs courses also make participants more appreciative of the effort that goes into preparing a dish. They stop taking food for granted; they are not anymore items that automatically appear on the table during mealtime. Aside from this, students realize there are different approaches in preparing a dish.

For example, Katherina Vera Cruz, a nursing student who was in Josh's Asian Flavors class, says that during the one-week course they had three chef instructors with different cooking styles. The CCA assigns instructors to classes based on their specializations and their rapport with students.

Chef Marco Portugal, who took over the Filipino merienda module of the Asian course, says that teaching younger students is much tougher because of the kids' shorter attention span. Actually, he says, being a chef instructor per se is a demanding job because cooking and communicating with students are two distinct challenges, each already formidable on its own.

Portugal adds that a culinary career is not at all easy or glamorous as most people think, or how it is played out to be. After all, one has to stand up the whole time, bear with the heat and the noise. But if it is one's passion, then it must, by all means, be pursued. It helps to know one's passion early on. Portugal talks from experience – after all, while he has been cooking since he was young, he tried being a banker for a while. He has since reverted to cooking and has found his decision rewarding in all aspects.

Not a picnic, indeed, but who's talking about carers? For now, kids are just having fun feeling useful around the kitchen and proud of their new skills. For instance, Therese Francesca Tan, who has set her sights on becoming a doctor, says she enrolled in the Asian Flavors class just to learn something new. She was inspired by her own mother who also loved to cook.

Finally, Carlota adds that friendships are also formed among students even in short courses like those offered under the Young Chefs' Boot Camp. It appears there is also team work and camaraderie in the kitchen. Indeed, on that last day, after receiving their certificates and saying their goodbyes, Josh and his classmates exchanged phone numbers and email addresses, promising to add each other to their list of Facebook friends. In the end, whether a culinary career is pursued or not, the Young Chefs' Boot Camp guarantees a memorable, productive, enlightening summer experience for children and teenagers alike.

Don't Tell My Mother

No, I did not know there was snow in Pakistan. Did you?

Last night I was finally able to resume a treasured hobby: watching tv alone in the living room (okay, Elmo was with me but he was sleeping on the couch). I was happy to note that one of my favorite shows, Don't Tell My Mother, was back with a new season on National Geographic. This time, the affable Diego Bunuel was in Pakistan.

He started his journey in Karachi, a Southern city, where he visited a madrasa or a school where young men between the ages of 5 and 17 go to learn the Koran. After talking to the students, who rocked their bodies forward and backward while sitting to keep from falling asleep as they did time in the school, Diego visited an online religious advice portal where Muslims anywhere in the world could send questions of whatever nature. Two questions were picked randomly. They went: "What is the best way to have sex?" and "Is masturbation wrong?" It would have been interesting to know how the advice-givers, learned Muslim men, I suppose, responded to those questions. Interesting, too, was a tailoring shop that accepted orders from the United States and Europe. Women did the sewing, of course,but they did not make ordinary clothes. They sewed costumes of S&M (sadism and masochism) aficionados. There were masks, straitjackets, leather lingerie and what-have-you. Diego asked the business owners if they found their projects in conflict with their religious beliefs. They said no. To them, they were just that -- business orders.

I also thought that liberated women, homosexuals and cross-dressers were not allowed in that strictly religious country. But no, Diego went to this bar by the beach and went drinking and dancing with Pakistani women dressed like any party girl you might see in Makati, Taguig or Libis here. He also made friends with a gay man with long fingernails painted fire-engine red. It turned out that this fellow (I did not quite catch the name) hosted a political talk show in the city. He conducts his interviews while dressed as a girl. It's Boy Abunda, BB Gandanghari and maybe Pia Hontiveros rolled in one.

Diego next went to Hyderabad, where slavery still thrives. Diego hitched a ride with some NGO people who bought off several slaves and their families from their "owners", usually powerful politicians from the capital (Islamabad) who made their slaves toil in the fields every day without fail. Lahore was the next stop, where there were more cross-dressers. Of course, they were not seen as regular members of society, but their existence nonetheless disproves notions that there is no room for deviants in Pakistan.

I was hoping Diego would stop by Islamabad but he didn't. I guess we know too much about it from the news. It appears this is where the action is,anyway, or at least where the decisions get made. Instead he took a plane to Skardu, in the northern portion, a high-altitude area beyond which China, the Himalayas,and the Taliban camps lie.

Last night's episode ended with Diego climbing a snowy mountain. At 4,000 meters, he was having difficulty breathing. Apparently, prior to 9/11, the place was teeming with tourists. Not anymore.

Why am I blogging about a tv show? Don't Tell My Mother reminds us that our ideas about people and places are conditioned by what we see in media -- in the news, mostly. It's programing our minds to be rather simplistic, to have two-dimensional views and expectations of people. It turns out that there is more to a country and to a people than what CNN or BBC tell us.

In the same manner, I wonder how other people see Filipinos, beyond the OFWs they come across in their native countries or the rare times we are mentioned in the international news. I am sure a few surprises are in order.

I look forward to Diego's next adventure.

Wait-and-see wellness

I was in Greenhills yesterday for the first session of my Bowen therapy. A friend advised me to look up a recent article written (in another newspaper) about this detoxifying type of massage and how a girl helped her brother get rid of toxins in his body using this method. It turned out that the brother was Wanggo Gallaga, whose battle with HIV I saw in Storyline (an ANC show) several weeks back. Promptly I set an appointment with the girl, Michelle, whose contact number was mentioned in the article. See, I suffer from chronic back pains (mild-to-moderate scoliosis) and a frequent sense of bloatedness, even though I do not eat a lot at all. Despite these symptoms,I have not really gotten around to getting myself checked. Hospitals just give me the creeps.

Michelle's "clinic" was at the 23rd floor of One Beverly Place in Annapolis St. I used quotation marks because soon as I stepped into the place I saw two children running around; Michelle's kids,I later learned. Michelle led me to a room where we first talked about my main complaints and where she gave me an overview of the Bowen method.

Indeed I was a little disappointed when Michelle told me it was NOT going to be a massage. My body had been crying out for a massage for one week already. She said it was just going to be a few mild strokes which would affect the body for the next five days. I did not really believe her at first -- surely, the therapy's per-session cost (P1,500) called for more than a few light strokes, correct? But she wasn't kidding at all.

I was asked to lie on my stomach. Michelle made light pushes first on one side of my body, then on the other side, and left me there for about five or ten minutes. (She had explained the effects on the rest of the body had this lag). Then she came back in, applied pressure on yet another part, then left me again. She did this about seven or eight times. In between her "visits", I heard the children laughing and playing outside the room. Michelle apologized profusely for this -- which I waved off. Children's laughter is a good sound, and I was used to kids. Much too used.

Soon a mild ache started on the right side of my head. I had been warned about this, too. Yet I wondered whether it was really my body responding already to the deceivingly light therapy, whether I got it from the strong rains I had to go against, going there, or whether Michelle's words had simply conditioned me to THINK I had a headache.

After the session, Michelle and I spent some more time talking during which we discovered we had a lot of things in common in our personal lives. I am to go back for the second session next Saturday. I was told that the Bowen method basically resets the body to its ideal functioning level; when this state is reached, there is no further need for interference. It's a good philosophy,actually. For this, I'm sticking it out.

The rain had stopped by the time I finished. I rushed back to Greenhills to meet Bea and Joshua for our pre-Mother's Day dinner and some early school-opening shopping. Bea told me I looked different, younger. I kidded her that she did not have to tell me that because I was treating them to dinner, anyway, and that their rubber shoes had been programmed into my budget. I did sweat profusely, which was strange for me, and until now, Sunday already, occasional headaches make themselves felt. Michelle says I should just drink more water when I feel this way.

I don't really dig cure-alls much. I'm quite suspicious of these, especially the kind you have to take into your system. But since this one does not ask me to take in anything, and is so stark in its simplicity, I'm giving it a chance. Let's wait and see.

Quality time, again

Inday -- actually, Marjorie -- starts today. Before her there was Aiza, who absconded with a 2-thousand-peso advance on her salary. Aiza was with us 2 months, I reckon. Before Aiza, there was Marilyn, who worked for us from October to February. I fired Marilyn because she showed up for work whimsically - even when she was only required to do so Monday to Friday from 8am to 1pm. Sometimes she was there, sometimes she was not. It's too bad because she cleaned the house really well. Before Marilyn, there was Cristy, another 2 months, maybe. I fired her because she did not go to work for an entire week without any explanation at all. And then she shows up at my door the following Monday as though nothing had happened. She still owes me P1,800. Before Cristy, there was Merlie (see entries My Week With Andy and Ang Sorpresa Ni Merlie). I had to let Merlie go because of her son, three-year-old Andy, who was messing with our things in the house and fighting with my children. Also, Merlie's ex, who loitered outside our compound at the oddest hours, was scary.

These are all the helpers we've had in the last 12 months. (I'm not counting those we've had when we were still living in The Other House. I could not have remembered all those names and faces,much less match them. What I remember was that the children and I used to play a game called name that maid. Nobody was a runaway champion.)

Aiza, Marilyn, Cristy and Merlie did not come and go smoothly, one after the other in perfect transition. In between their engagements, guess who responded to the help wanted ad. Yes, I I stepped up to the challenge. My lola would have been proud at how domestic I could be, after all. But of course the white shirts could have been whiter and the surfaces could have been less dustier. Still, the kids and I survived. I actually liked doing housework -- because it was MY house. That's instinct, I suppose. This was one of the things that showed me one's attitude made all the difference.

Indeed survival is the operative word. We got by. I got by. There were a few hitches, I was grumpier sometimes, but...

Now, however, I am not supposed to just get by. I will have no more excuse to be lazy and disorganized and distracted. I will have the time and energy to do the things I am good at doing. There is more time to be with the children -- and less money to throw around in a spur-of-the-moment decision to order chicken inasal or pizza or pansit just because I am too tired and feel I deserve a little indulgence.

Now that life will be a little more comfortable again, there will have too be less indulgences, more results.

Chef Josh's early adventures

Today was Josh's second day in the five-day short course on Asian Cuisine at the Center for Culinary Arts along Katipunan, in front of Ateneo Grade School.

I am writing an article about the course and the school for the lifestyle section of my newspaper. It's bound to come out several weeks from now. I also have no way of knowing whether Josh is actually developing an appreciation for cooking -- even though, like the rest of us, he likes to eat. Why, I still have not tasted his take-home samples. What he brought home last night was easily gobbled up by friends.

But already I am confident that my boy has learned something this week.

Over the weekend he was concerned he may have brats for classmates. After all, these courses do not come cheap (for non-writers, hehe). Josh has little patience for English-speaking whiners. But I think he was worried, too, that he might find himself intimidated by these English speakers. See, we speak Filipino in our house. I also grew up speaking Filipino in conversations, learning English only in school.

So on Sunday night I told Josh about my own experiences in my first few weeks at the Ateneo, sixteen long years ago. I myself was culture shocked. I was not used to people around me speaking English in everyday conversation; my knowledge of the language was purely academic, even literary. It was thus easy to feel inadequate in such an environment -- especially if you are a scholar who has to commute a total of three hours every day just to get to school.

Of course, I learned eventually to adjust. I forced myself to believe that I was not being judged based on how much of a natural "Inglisera" (actually, how naturally reserved) I was. After all, Ateneo inhabitants are generally much too enlightened to fall for this false indicator of worth. Conversely, I also taught myself to see people for who they are, not because they spoke a certain language in a certain way. Each person was brought up in a certain manner, and I should not be quick to judge, as well.

Last Monday, Josh was relieved to find that there were only five of them in their class -- three boys, two girls, all teenagers. He happily reported to me that every single one of his classmates spoke Tagalog and were not snobby at all.

But Josh's greater accomplishment of the day was his commute from Katipunan to Valenzuela. I left him in the building at 2pm after helping him get settled. I had work at the other end of the city. I made sure he had enough money for the fare and a little extra just in case he got lost or hungry, or both.

I texted him directions on taking the LRT 2 to Cubao, the bus to McArthur Highway. I was frantically calling him at 530 in the afternoon, when I knew he would be on his way. See, Josh is only 13 and has not had to fend for himself from that distance, without friends or family. I relaxed only when I was sure he was home, and safe.

He did get a little mixed up, but asked around for instructions. Last night when we were having our before-bedtime-gabfest, I told him I was so worried he might get lost -- Josh looked offended. "Ano naman ang akala mo sa akin, Mommy?" he asked.

And I realized it was a blessing to have kids, Josh and Bea, both, so independent and able to deal with their own little crises their way. They might not know all the answers, but they knew how to get them. For a frantic, high-strung mom, that's a really comforting thought.

Forgiving Bea

Bea is back! She spent the last two nights (Friday and Saturday) sleeping over at her friend Jenny's house in Malabon.

Having the upstairs bedroom to just Josh and myself (the small kids were in Sagada), I noticed it was a lot quieter. Nobody talks as fast as Bea does, nobody jumps from topic to topic,nobody attempts to crack naughty jokes and then reminds herself, aloud, that her mother is right in front of her. Nobody absentmindedly tugs at the vertical bear dividers and the bamboo blinds until I tell her to stop lest it fall. Most of all, nobody plays music and, just when her companion is getting comfortable, singing along, presses the button for the next song. That's Bea for you – restless and intense, vocal and bubbly. In those two nights, she was sorely missed.

Consistent, I think, with these tendencies, Bea has a knack for bouncing back from gloomy episodes in no time at all. For example, on Easter Sunday, I found her staring at the ceiling when I arrived home from work. She was clearly upset at something-- a confrontation, an accusation – that transpired during dinner (which I nagged her not to miss, for balance) at The Other House. She vowed never to set foot there again. Why, even the smaller ones, Sophie and Elmo, bore the brunt of her grudges.

But only a little over a week after this incident, Bea seemed like herself again. She was freely going in and out of The Other House, sometimes inviting friends over, again. She has allowed herself to speak to the smaller ones (not without my urging, telling her they were not the ones at fault) after acting like they just did not exist. She even lazed around on the bed there during the afternoons until the early evening.

“It's easy,” she said. “I just stay out of X's way.”

By Tuesday last week she was convinced that the Easter Sunday confrontation was only a product of a bad day (X's part) or oversensitivity (hers). She was kin, after all. Nobody's perfect. Everybody deserves a second chance. The natural assumption was that the invitation to the trip to the North during the long weekend was open to everybody. Bea packed her things Tuesday evening (planned departure was Wednesday night), thankful that she would not miss a day at her M-W-F Theater Acting Workshop because of Labor Day.

Apparently, she was not prepared for more imperfection. This time, the confrontation was worse. Harsh words, insults, reminders of money spent on her and Josh's behalf. She bit her tongue but was consistently challenged to speak up. In the end, Bea was able to do what none of us Baconators managed to do during or previous life: answer back. (Applause).

She left in a huff and asked the maid to bring her to her friend's house, since I was still at the office. When I finally arrived, and Josh and friends brought her safely home, she told her story and made the same vows with much bitterness and hurt as any teenager could muster.

And X wonders why they stay away. Pathetic.

It has been four days since that episode and so far Bea is still singing the same tune. She has created a new email address pretty much just as Josh has purged his Facebook account of unwanted elements and changed his profile name.

Kid stuff? I don't really know. Sometimes I wonder whether there's something they are not telling me, something that must have fanned this level of response and derision. But they tell me that is all and I have just become immune to X's antics. Truth is, it's painful to see children so young and so full of resentment.

Tonight I look at Bea and wonder whether she could ever find it in her heart to forgive. It's easy to do it for a one-time offense. Everything is fresh, you start over. But when the person whose blood runs in your veins, whose name you carry (and cannot drop on a whim), who is supposed to nurture you and make you a better person makes you capable of bitterness, instead, and he does it again and again, after a while it gets...exhausting. Draining.

Believe me, I know.

Forgiveness is a decision. It cannot be rushed, demanded, or imposed. It comes at its own time. It comes with grace.

And only when we come to terms with the fact that forgiveness does not mean capitulation, nor does it give the other fellow the license to hurt us again, then it begins to sound a little less saintly and a lot more human.

A report card for leaders

published 4 May 2009, MST

What’s better than crafted speeches, practiced smiles and advertising gimmicks?

Every Saturday, my day off here at Manila Standard Today, I deliberately stay away from the local news channels and the papers. Working in the newsroom six days a week, one can become numb to the novelty of news. Of course a day's detachment is just about enough. By Sunday, when a new week starts, I feel like I “missed” being in the know and am thus ready to embrace again, with gusto, the things good and bad that go on in this country.

But foreign news and feature stories are different. Knowing events taking place in other countries, aside from being highly instructive, is comforting. One is able to gauge how worse off, or better off, one is compared to other people in other parts of the world. There is a tinge of envy, for instance, of residents of Stockholm, Sweden. That country has consistently topped transparency perception surveys and the city has just been declared the Green Capital of Europe. At the same time, we are relieved we were not born in Afghanistan, Zimbabwe or Sudan. The things we take for granted here are unthinkable to these people. Why, they hardly even have senior citizens – people there don’t live that long!

Yet amid these differences, watching international news gives us a sense of oneness with the rest of mankind. Differences are wide, in terms of appearance, culture, per capita income or political structure. But no matter where you are in the world, you will find that in the most basic things, humans are the same. The same events give us pain (loss of a loved one) or jubilation (victory in a sports event). We face the same risks (violence, terrorism). We are moved by the same passions (art forms as political expression). We just may suffer, ultimately, the same fate. (Do you think the melting of polar ice caps will only harm the Eskimos?)

One must not forget, however, that that the foreign media channels carried by our cable service providers do not define the world as it is. These networks have their own biases and constraints; what they don’t or cannot cover may even be more telling than the stuff they actually present to the public.

**

Predictably, this weekend’s main subject matter was the swine flu virus that has spread to 15 countries now. Travel, industry and the well-being of residents are under threat. Attention on the pandemic has dampened interest on the first 100 days in office of US President Barack Obama. Anyway, a White House official said, 100 was an arbitrary number, not at all different from 99 or 123.

But pandemic or not, the 100-day mark is a reckoning point of sorts not just for this president but for the many others before him. The honeymoon period is over, the novelty has worn off, and all that remains is the work that lies ahead.

Some work it is. The discussions centered, naturally, on whether Obama was able to deliver on the many promises he made during his campaign. It’s not the best of times, to be sure. There are many equally crucial fonts demanding attention: the economy, international relations, health care, the environment. The opinions are mixed, too. Some Americans think their president is taking on too much too soon. There have been a lot of bold (and risky) moves taken. Yet, some say not enough is being done.

One can only wish there was a way to periodically subject Philippine leaders to the same scrutiny – and I’m talking about objective, third-party assessments since political opponents, for obvious reasons, cannot be expected to churn out fair opinion. Likewise, the President’s delivery of her State of the Nation Address at the beginning of Congress, highlighting accomplishments and playing down failures, will not suffice, too.

The review need not be limited to the Chief Executive. Key officials in the three branches of government will be better guided if they, too, are regularly subjected to independent reviews. The way I see it, there are three main challenges to adopting a report-card method of evaluating our leaders. A crucial element is the personalities that will make the assessment. They should be individuals beyond reproach, who do not stand to gain nor lose in making their statements. They should not be identified with the persons they are supposed to evaluate.

Next is the determination of the criteria against which the leaders will be measured. What areas shall be considered – employment, gross domestic product, budget deficit/ surplus, access to basic services, investments? Number of laws passed? Decisions handed down? Shall the personal lives and lifestyles of these officials be examined? How often will the reviews be conducted?

The third challenge lies in the communication of the results to the public. Are the people inclined to receive this kind of information without dismissing it outright as too academic, preferring gimmickry and doles instead?

We can even extend the usefulness of the process to help us pick out whom to vote for in next year’s elections. We always say we get the leaders we deserve. Well, if the correct parameters are set, these evaluation method can help us pick out the truly deserving ones – or the least objectionable among the candidates. It’s time to stop whining about the leaders we have and wanting to do away with them once they start to displease us. These tendencies are infantile – and we claim we have a mature democracy?

I am sure many others have thought about putting in place such measures but have met difficulty, resistance, apathy and frustration. And maybe that’s a fourth challenge -- to our leaders, wannabe leaders and to the rest of us. How does one make the crossover from being just the bearer of bright ideas to being an instrument of change?

New old friends

(I have no photos of my and Yasmin's visit to the BftB library, but here is one from last night's dinner plus plus with some members of Graceans 93. Bea was in Starbucks when this was taken.)

Let me begin with a cliche. The Internet is a vehicle for expanding one's horizons and making new friends, wherever they may be in the world. New ideas, new products, new relationships (sadly, new risks as well) are available instantly, just as long as one has a reliable computer, a good service provider and an appreciation of the endless possibilities that the worldwide web can offer.

But social networking sites (at least the sites I am familiar with) and the easy flow of information in general serve to connect its users, not with strangers and new acquaintances but with people they already know to begin with. It's a good way, for instance, to keep in touch with best friends who now happen to be living halfway around the globe. But these are old old friends. Now there are those whom you just know are there but have not seen in many years. They are faces from way back, from when you were young, before careers and spouses and children and excess poundage -- and other affectations.

For instance, a few months ago I was surprised to receive an e-mail from Yasmin Yan (now Aspiras), a classmate in good old Our Lady of Grace Academy, which is now known as St. Mary's Academy of Caloocan City. Even though we were classmates in most years from grade school to high school, Yasmin and I never had the opportunity to be close. She had her group and I had mine.

In her first e-mail sometime in February, Yasmin asked me if I would be interested in writing about Books for the Barrios, the organization she volunteered in in California, where she was now based. She would be Manila-bound soon, she said, and would schedule a visit to one of the model libraries built by BftB.

And indeed I met her in early April, along with her husband and baby son. It was the first time I saw her since our high school graduation in March 1993, a good sixteen years ago. The tour went well and was followed by another visit to the BftB main office, a conversation with its chief overseers here as well as a Skype call with the person who started the organization. Yasmin's baby even spent his birthday here (kids and I failed to attend because I had work then). All too soon, though, Yasmin and family went back to the US. The article was published. We are back to e-mail mode. I am thankful to her for opening up this window and allowing me to meet people who are passionate about bringing education and literacy to children in poor and conflict-stricken areas in the Philippines.

And then there are other batchmates I am now friends with in Facebook (I have 75 contacts now, mostly Graceans).

Aileen Alonzo, a freshman-year classmate whom I saw again only at a dear friend's wake several months ago, was the one who invited me to the "Graceans 93 Reunion." I thought at least a dozen people would show up so I rushed to the site at the other end of town, after putting the op-ed page to bed at around 845pm last night. It turned out that there were only five of them (who only saw each other just a week ago) when I arrived at Oyster Boy in Metrowalk at nearing 10 pm. Before the evening was over, I decided the smaller group was great, as well. You could not talk and catch up with too many girls on a limited time.

I was never particularly close with any of them back then, either. Rosemarie Tan (Tunay) was a classmate in second year, but we also had a different set of friends. Marge Luna was co-staffer in The Gracean Envoy, our high school newspaper. On the other hand, I never became classmates with both Gigi Lampa (Alcantara) and Catherine Valbuena (Teng). I had started exchanging messages and blog comments with Gigi (www.embracingeveryday.net) only since January this year. In high school, I had no chance whatsoever to get to know Catherine more.

And yet when I arrived with my daughter Bea, they greeted me warmly. During the course of my meal (they had all finished eating since they started at 8pm), we caught up with what had happened in the too many years since our graduation. And while I was never the life of the party -- never had been -- they certainly were. The girls took happiness, and picture taking, I must say, to a whole new level. No wonder they looked young and merry and utterly carefree. Amazing. I should try to loosen up more.

I had to leave at midnight because Bea was dizzy, Josh was waiting for us and I had a nine-month-pregnant aunt in the house. I wanted to stay longer. I learned today they did not go home until 3:30 in the morning.

And now the photos are all over Facebook. Comments from other classmates who either missed the reunion or are out of the country are easily viewed, too. Maybe when the rest of our batchmates see the photos -- and the comments -- they will want to come to the next small-group reunion. That will be another good day. Or night.