My Day One

Yesterday I learned that the petition for the nullity of my marriage had been granted by Judge Nancy Rivas-Palmones, Branch 172, Valenzuela Regional Trial Court. The decision was handed down two years and seven months from the day I filed it.

I was on massage break at Nuat Thai when I received my lawyer's text message. There, in the half-darkness, with the scent of peppermint oil and the sound of traditional Thai music, I had a little time to ponder the implications of the decision, and, well, to just let the news sink in.

Did I feel like jumping up and down and ordering pizza and beer? Not really.

A failed relationship is one's own failure -- not just the partner's. Indeed it was my decision to leave, and my petition to nullify the union. But these decisions were arrived at as a last resort. Who does not want the complete package: the house, the cars, the kids, the cute dog, the white picket fences?

My efforts to try, stay and stick it out were deemed superhuman by my closest friends. But I am neurotic, and far from immaculate myself, so for a long time I wondered: how much of it was my own doing? Could I have tried harder?

Of course, in those days, I was under a wholly different environment. The air was dense, the tension constant. I can understand why other women in similarly-natured relationships fail to leave. It is not that they are stupid. It may not even be because of love. It is rather because they operate from a different plane, where the rules of the game are much different. They could not conceive of leaving -- it is simply not an option.

What is superhuman is snapping out and thinking from the outside. It is seeing that this is not what a marriage is supposed to be -- no matter what he says, and no matter how convincingly, or forcefully, he says it.

And no, you are not "sablay" just because you disagree with him.

So yeah, I guess in a way I was superwoman. I will forever count myself blessed for this. The support of my awesome friends (you know who you are!) and my dad (only family I've got left, everybody else is dead) was invaluable. It still is.

My mood today is more sober than celebratory. No fireworks, really, just a clearer vision of the road ahead.

So this is how Day One feels.

Disproportionate Me

I love this photo of myself. This was taken in Cebu last year, during the Media Nation conference. Love the typewriter shirt as well.

(Following is an assignment for my creative writing class under Mr. Ramon "Rayvi" Sunico -- author or Bruise, a book of poems I absolutely loved many years ago! We were asked to write a physical/concrete description of ourselves.)

I stand 5 feet 2 and weigh 150 lbs. I used to be thinner, but now I am ripe, plump – and unapologetic.

My shoulder-length hair is thin. I make an effort to keep my hair down for a feminine touch, but I get impatient. When travel or work, I put my hair up in a ponytail. This usually reveals a pair of small white or peach pearl earrings. Lately I have been sporting side-swept bangs.

I am fair – more adult yellow than baby pink, I think.

My eyes are brown, my nose big and prominent, and my mouth skews to the left when I smile. I have a mole on my right cheek. When I pose for pictures, I suck my cheeks a bit so my face does not look too fleshy. I sport dark-rimmed glasses for two purposes: to appear more serious (I sound younger than I am) and to avoid that full-face look.

My mild-to-moderate scoliosis shows: If you look at me closely, you will wonder why something seems odd about my posture. My right shoulder is higher than my left; the right side of my back is fuller.

I normally sport a pair of jeans and ballet flats. I play around with t-shirts (folded at the sleeves, 80s style), blouses and collared shirts. I keep a jacket in my office drawer for when it gets too cold or when I need to look more corporate. On special days I put on a skirt, preferably one that swooshes around my legs. On weekends I am brave enough to wear shorts. I have equal preference for color and neutral tones.

I am not model-thin or commercial pretty. But I rather like the jagged ends, the highs and lows, and their overall effect.

Ode to Karen

1095-A Karen was where we lived for four and a half years. Note the hanging bears by the window. Beyond them was my home office, adjacent to the living room. The carport was for our landlady's vehicle.


View of our house from the kids' school just across the street. Note that it is part of a compound. The gate looks so much better now than when we first moved in.


I took this on January 7, just as we were taking the last of our things away. What was once so familiar, now so bare.


Our landlady's mother sells great-tasting native rice cakes -- bico and suman. I took this when I dropped by this week. It is heartwarming to be told you are missed! I noticed only now that her bilao lies on top of my old white board where I used to make a meal matrix, good for an entire week. The rows and columns are still visible.

The kids and I lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment on Karen Avenue from July 25, 2007 to January 6, 2012 -- roughly four and a half years.

We were all so excited about moving to a better address that the pangs of nostalgia did not really sink in until much later, when we were bidding our neighborhood goodbye.

The Karen apartment would always be special because it served as my transition house -- from my old life to the new.

When I moved in, I had practically nothing, not even a light bulb of my own. I had a folding bed, but that one we lent to my then-pregnant sister who lived with us briefly.

I remember many things about Karen. In the beginning, when it was just Bea, Josh and I sharing the bigger room, we took turns using the folding bed while the other two slept on the floor. It took me five months to get us beds.

We shared the same zip-up closet. It was only in 2010 that everybody had his or her own closet.

Our television set was the smallest and the cheapest -- a 14-inch Promac. It served us well until it conked out, terminally, in June 2011.

I remember having no couch aside from two monobloc school desks. It took me six months to get a faux-leather sofa set.

I remember haggling with a junkshop owner for a worn-out electric fan. He wanted to get it for 40, I was selling it for 70. I needed the extra to cover my back and forth jeepney fare going to the newsroom in Port Area.

I remember shopping for Josh's masquerade ball outfit at an ukay-ukay. He became a finalist for masquerade prince, anyway. Nasa nagdadala lang yan.

I remember Josh's 12th birthday. He requested an ube cake from Red Ribbon. I asked him how many friends he would have over -- he told me three. Actually, 22 kids and one teacher showed up. I had to slice the cake so thin so everybody could have a piece.

I remember playing host to the children's many friends. For instance, after an 18th birthday party they attended, a dozen of their friends slept over. Actually, several of them liked sleeping over -- for several days at a time.

The summers were scorching, and especially so because of the wall that was exposed to the sun all day.

I remember being so desperate for personal space that I did not mind not staying up until 2 or 3 in the morning just so I could have some me-time downstairs, watching NatGeo, or CNN, or BBC, or Fox Crime. That is, until a cockroach comes flying or crawling by and pierces my bubble.

And remember the time Bea and I were fishing for keys at midnight, straight from the last full show of High School Musical 3? Somebody just came from behind and snatched her cell phone away.

In another instance, somebody threw a sizable rock to our window. It cracked.

I will always have these, and many other memories.

Where we live now is bigger. The neighborhood is safer. I can imagine where else life will take me and my children -- together, and eventually, to our different directions.

But I doubt whether we will ever forget that house just across the street from the school.

Poison in your "pasta"

Dentist Lilian Lasaten Ebuen is a crusader of sorts. For at least two years now, she has been trying to go around warning people that mercury-based dental amalgams (what is more popularly known as “pasta”) are bad for the health.

One “pasta” is 50-54 percent mercury. Mercury is a toxic chemical—more toxic than lead, according to Ebuen. It causes long-term neurological disorders although the reaction varies from person to person.

In fact, mercury-containing devices in hospitals such as thermometers and sphygmomanometers have been phased out from the healthcare industry, through an administrative order of the Department of Health.

So if we don’t want mercury in simple, everyday hospital devices, why do we tolerate them in our mouths? Cavities in the teeth of generations of Filipinos have been filled with amalgams in our dentists’ attempt to halt the decay. It is even provided free by HMO-accredited dentists. But Ebuen says anecdotal evidence points to poorer total health among persons with such amalgams. People over 50 suddenly become prone to all kinds of illness. They develop Alzheimer’s or Parkinsons. They do not respond well to treatment.

The practice goes on to date. It is cheap, it is popular, and as many people like to say: “I’ve had this thing in my teeth for a long time, and I am still okay!”

And thus, so far, Ebuen’s crusade has been lonely. The Professional Regulation Commission has told her that the use of amalgams is “perfectly safe.” Some have recognized that the amalgams do contain the toxic substance, but their position is that the mercury should stay where it is—right inside the mouth. She has tried convincing her colleagues at the Philippine Dental Association. They are receptive but have misgivings. The practice of using amalgams has been there for so long. And in the absence of any hard evidence to convince them otherwise, why should they break the status quo? Indeed, the present crop of PDA officials insists that amalgams have “no toxic effect” on the patient.

Ebuen is an associate of the International Academy of Oral Medicine and Toxicology, a US-based group that provides scientific evidence to support the banning of mercury in oral medicine. Studies have been conducted in other countries.

“That is just what we need here in the Philippines,” Ebuen says. True— without a local study, decision makers will not listen, much less act. Without a study, she would continue to be a voice in the wilderness.

That voice certainly comes from the gut—a potent driving force.

When Ebuen’s son was two years old, a doctor advised the family that the child was autistic. Ebuen felt her world collapse. She had been wondering why her son appeared slow in talking and walking. As time passed, the child did catch up, and the only explanation Ebuen could come up with for the arrested development was her exposure to mercury as a dental student.

In dental school, she touched mercury and mixed it for the amalgam. Some of the chemical stuck to her watch and her clothes and shoes, some spilled on the floor. Who knows how much of the chemical found its way into her system?

Ebuen’s son is now a high school senior who is a varsity swimmer and who plays the guitar in their school band. And now he wants to go to dental school.

This is why she is in a hurry to talk to the association of dental school deans and other decision makers, to convince them that they should not expose their students to the harmful chemical whose consequences may be long term and irreversible.

She is starting a campaign to ask the Department of Health to ban dental amalgams. Will anybody share Ebuen’s advocacy? Maybe. For now, her goal is to at least get people to listen and rethink old practices—even when they seem to have been there forever.

adellechua@gmail.com

Elemental

Seth and his mother, Juliet -- they are each other's life.

(I will write about Seth's case in greater detail for my newspaper column. This is just the back story.)

Today I trooped to Las Pinas City, at the other tip of the metro, to visit the home of a formidable mother-and-son tandem.

I spent two and a half hours on the road (one way), got lost, found my way back -- all in the noontime heat. When I got to the Cerillos' in Gatchalian Subdivision, all the trouble melted away. I found a gem of a story.

This story started nearly six years ago. Seth was an ordinary 14-year-old high school freshman. But in science class, held in an air-conditioned classroom, his teacher passed around a beaker -- without seal or even a cover -- containing the element mercury, which we know now to be highly toxic.

His life has never been the same. Today he is a man of 20, but he has stopped going to school and spends his days at home. He has been diagnosed with neuropathy and Parkinsonism, he is constantly plagued with tremors and unnaturally high fever, and has difficulty moving about like he has lost his balance. His immune system has become so weak that he easily catches cough, colds, and any kind of infection.

Juliet, a small, feisty woman of 41, says their lives have never been the same. She also knows that Seth's condition is irreversible and his future would thus look different from the ones being pondered by his friends. Gainful employment is likely out of the picture. So does marriage and family. "I do not think I can assume any responsibilities," he tells me.

Mother and child have filed a suit against the school that until now refuses to acknowledge any culpability in the unfortunate life-altering incident.

Seth is an only child and his parents have been separated for as many years that he has been alive. He is Juliet's life. It is revolting to think that an accident, arising from the negligence of others, has caused an otherwise healthy, active and promising young man to be confined to his house day after day for the rest of his life.

What I find most compelling is Juliet's devotion to make Seth's life as normal as possible even though they both know it is not.

The picture says a lot about their relationship. I think it is love at its elemental form.

Boo for bullies

It’s a relief, however small, to know that Congress was able to act on some legislative measures in recent days even as it appears to be preoccupied with impeaching the Chief Justice and other related events.

This month, the House of Representatives approved on third and final reading House Bill 5496 or the Anti-Bullying Act of 2012.  It was endorsed for the approval of the plenary by Rep. Salvador Escudero, chairman of the House committee on basic education and culture.

While the anti-bullying measure may not have the same historic, monumental significance as the events taking place at the Senate these days, it could spell the difference between normalcy and hell for young people in schools.

We have heard reports of children in other countries committing suicide because they were being bullied. Some kids get picked on because they look or talk or act different from the rest, and that they seem unable or even unwilling to defend themselves.

Even the television series Glee, which became popular two years ago, dealt with the issue of bullying in a high school where beautiful cheerleaders and athletic hunks were perceived to be the gods and goddesses on campus.  If one were gay, or extremely talented, or unnaturally studious, or simply weak, one would almost certainly be bullied.  The others will push them against lockers, throw them into the trash, or pour drinks on them.

The tragic part is that the children are led to believe that they are "bully-able", that they deserve the treatment they are getting, that they have no means to get back and thus must suffer in silence.

But that’s the US, one might say.  Children in a developing country like the Philippines have bigger problems than getting teased in school. Whoever says this is talking above his head or is in denial. 

Bullying is real. I know kids who have been bullied and I know kids who bully.  In October 2010 I wrote a column called “Child’s (power) play” and talked about a fifth grader, who somehow managed to get everybody to elect him class president, who habitually pressures the class treasurer (a girl) to give him money from the class fund -- or else he would tell the class about her crush. That’s blackmail. That’s bullying.

A grown woman, now an active NGO worker, could not forget the name of her tormentor in kindergarten. She says that at one point she wanted to stop going to school altogether – she got bad stomach pains and could not do well in her classes.

And then there is another young man, a high school sophomore, who just transferred to Manila from his mother’s province. He gets picked on because he cannot play basketball as well as the other boys can, and because he loves to sit in a corner and read books.  Sometimes he sits on the steps of the school and somebody would just hit the nape of his neck from behind. When he turns around, there is nobody there. Sometimes his things, bought with his father’s OFW earnings, disappear only to turn up in unlikely places. When he finally told his mother about what was happening, she came to the school. That sent the bullies laughing even harder – they said he could not take care of himself that Mommy has to come and fight for him.

Who wants our kids to go through these? When we talk about childhood and adolescence, we want to think about happy memories, deep and lasting friendships, unforgettable firsts.  The emotional, psychological and even physical effects (in extreme violent cases) of bullying may also be profound and enduring. It could lead to low self-esteem which could in turn lead them to make bad, self-destructive decisions. It could make them bad parents later on. It could prevent them from realizing their full potential.

The bill requires elementary and high schools to put in place anti-bullying policies. These guidelines will be disseminated in various ways – through handbooks, posters and even Web sites. School administrators must inform the division superintendents of the education department about the bullying incidents. Trainings of teachers and school officials should help build their skills and capabilities to address and prevent bullying. (It goes without saying that teachers themselves must not bully their students, even inadvertently. Some months back I wrote a column "At their expense," about a teacher who made fun of her students' grammatical mistakes on her Facebook wall.)

The bill of course does not state the obvious – that the home environment is crucial to preventing the child from being bullied or being a bully. A healthy, loving, open relationship where differences are discussed instead of swept under the rug, and manifestations of genuine empathy among parents, children and other members of the household should be in place.  After all, if the kid himself is being bullied at home, by his parents or siblings no less, what would stop him from acting out his frustrations on others? Conversely, children must assert that they must be treated a certain way. Anything less, and they must object.

The bill presumes that older individuals – those in college, as well as those who are already employed -- can take care of themselves.  They are thus not included in the bill.  This does not guarantee, though, that bullying would not happen in university or at the office.  The organizations (schools and companies/ agencies) themselves should take the initiative to establish guidelines on this as good practice, even when they are not required by law to do so.

Bullying is described as “any severe or repeated use of written, verbal, or electronic expression, or a physical act or gesture, or any combination of these by one or more students directed at another student that has the effect of actually causing or placing the latter in a reasonable fear of physical or emotional harm or damage to the property, creating a hostile environment at school and infringing on the rights of the other students at school.” Broad enough to cover most things you can imagine?

Part of what makes bullying so difficult to track and prevent is its secret nature. Like corruption, it thrives in the dark, when no one is looking or listening, when nobody is crying foul and just takes the shabby treatment as a given. Schools have been armed by the law to take preventive action and not act only when a situation is already on hand. Let’s hope everybody steps up to prevent this insidious evil.

"The IJ person"

Two days ago I submitted the first draft of the article I had been working on for my investigative journalism class. My professor, Luz Rimban, is a seasoned investigative reporter herself.

My main concern was that my story would not be "investigative" enough. This is the first time I would be writing such a report -- and I felt inadequate about my sleuthing skills. Years of being an armchair commentator, safe and comfy on my editor's desk at the office, did not prepare me for this. Even my occasional goings out for column material seemed like kindergarten compared to the task at hand.

And yet this was exactly why I had decided to take this course in the first place -- to get out of my comfort zone.

So this is the story behind my story, "Consigned to silence" (which I will of course post here, and publish in my newspaper column, once I have submitted the final draft to my professor).

Asked to think of possible topics, I handed in five suggestions -- all of which were shot down as better suited for in-depth reporting instead.

In this course, I became much more aware of the difference between "in-depth" and "investigative."

I willed a Eureka moment and it came -- I proposed a topic relating to a story I did three years ago, on DNA technology as a tool for criminal justice. I had a great starting point. My initial source was very helpful and very eager to lay the issues on the table.

Alas, one way or another, I stalled. My "story-based inquiry" did not even have a story around which to weave itself.

I flirted with the idea of changing my topic mid stream. Okay, more than flirted. I started acting on the idea, expressing my intentions to an NGO, making arrangements for a trip down to the small-scale mining sites of Camarines Norte, and going as far as forwarding a list of the people I want to interview (they NGO has offered to arrange all schedules for me).

Of course, if I had my way, I would not be going there pressed for time and desperate to have something for my project. It would, I think, be a disservice to the miners and the communities if I acted like some kind of parachute girl -- in one day, out the next, pleased that she has some material for her report. And, truth to tell, I was not sure if I was tough enough for the terrain -- literally and otherwise. Chicken or cautious?

I had another epiphany: I could actually tweak and work with what I had for the original topic.

And so I submitted the draft, Luz sent her comments, and the final assignment is due five days from now.

Commenting on my draft, Luz said she was "seeing a real good story here." It was encouraging enough. Her challenge sounded better: I needed to bring it out some more. Challenge accepted. I have never been an IJ person. I am learning -- if not for the practice, then for the discipline.

I do not have any sensational whistleblowers in my story. What I have is proof of festering neglect. Is it "investigative" enough? I do hope so! Let's wait for my final grade.

Apologia

This is the second week that I would not be able to write my newspaper column. And of course, regular visitors of this blog would also notice there has been nothing new in the past month or so. I feel bad.

No, I feel terrible.

I can cite a million excuses. We just moved houses, and in a rush at that. My son was mauled and I saw the case through its resolution. I am writing a major project for grad school. I am a mother, four times over, to children who are worlds apart in temperament.

All of them sound hollow, though. I have always believed that if you wanted something badly enough, you would move mountains to get it, or do it. This past month, and especially this week, I was reminded that there are easy mountains, and there are difficult mountains.

It is not that the spring is drying up. On the contrary, my head is always abuzz with ideas about this and that, both for my professional work and my personal one. I keep a list because they are that many, and I don't want to forget a thing.

But I am just so tired and overwhelmed by the many things that need to be put in order. In case you have not noticed, I am a sucker for order, albeit belatedly (too much chaos in earlier years). This is my priority -- not as a matter of choice, but as a matter of survival.

I know this is temporary, and that this phase is ending soon. I am very nearly done with fixing my room (okay -- I share it with Elmo, but he's Elmo, so I don't mind). The ultimate goal of this transfer, despite the fact that it entails additional expenses both one-time and operational, is for me and the children to have our personal spaces that would in turn make us all more productive. We will be better persons, leading fuller, better rounded lives.

The stories will come. Soon. And they won't stop coming.