6 billion people in the world

Perok and Rina Rodriguez

2010-07-29T16:09:00.003+08:00

Originally written for the Rotary Club-Ormoc newsletter

Peter “Perok” Rodriguez and Cristina “Rina” Pongos grew up a stone’s throw from each other in Bonifacio St, Ormoc City but this convenience would only have a small role in the he said, she said story of their romance.

Rina’s earliest memory of Perok goes back to 6^th grade when she first formally met him. It was a big deal then that he was 8 years older, but as she would admit today, she had a crush on him ever since and even had a code for him, “Chori Burger”.

Years passed and the time when Rina was allowed to go out came. She would see Perok painting the town w/ his colors, mostly at the Swing disco doing half-naked cartwheels and

getting on his ride with a couple of girls. She was easily disenchanted and would relay these youthful exploits to her dad, the late Atty. Benjamin Pongos, who kept on telling his two daughters that one of them ought to marry him. “Kung makakita lang ka niya mag tumbling, tumbling, ma turn-off jud ka dad!”

Rina moved to Manila to study Accountancy at UP Diliman. At that time, her acquaintance with Perok had reached easy-banters level. She remembers getting a call from Perok asking her to tell Maric, her older sister who was already based in the US, to come home with a wedding gown as he would marry her here. Perok, who was also a kabarkada of Rina’s older brother Bennet, became a kuya figure to her.

Following her graduation from college and a few years’ work in Manila, Rina came home in 2007. She joined the BCBP Singles, an endeavor that Perok now claims was her strategy to get closer to him as he was already a member of the community. Rina refutes this confident assumption, reminding him that she was still dating somebody from Manila then.

In those years, Perok was actively looking for somebody to settle down with. His fellow members started teasing him to Rina, downplaying the long-distance relationship she was in. None of them knew they were all playing prophetic.

This mild encouragement turned into a full-blown pep-talk after a Bo Sanchez concert at the Abellana Complex in Cebu that the Singles attended. Rina came late in her car and got stuck in a parking ordeal. She called up her male friends for help, but by Somebody’s playful blessing, she only got through Perok’s line. Rina (resignedly) shares that at the very instant she spotted him amongst the busy crowd, walking towards her car, he “took her breath away” for the first time. The Singles saw them enter the event together and the “walang kamatayang sungog” peaked.

That night made her see Perok in a different light. It did help that they would pass each other’s homes almost every day, but it was the community that buoyed up whatever was brewing inside. Perok would occasionally ask Rina to help him compose prayers and talks, a gesture that Rina admired as she was so used to guys competing with her. She found Perok very confident, but also humble enough to ask for her help.

Fast forward to 1999, Perok finally asked the already unattached Rina out. She only said yes on his second dinner invitation, and the third, which was to join him and his family at the beach for the Holy Week. Rina did not have an idea that before taking her, Perok had announced to the whole clan that the woman he would bring to that gathering is the one he would marry.

At the April wedding of their fellow BCBP members Mike and Charity Tan, Perok and Rina lay bare all their feelings for each other. By the end of the night, they were already engaged. Rina remembers being congratulated by their friends. When she asked why, they answered that Perok had told them they were getting married in August. Her jaw dropped in shock, but by instinct, she replied, “Pwede sa December lang?!?”

A bit worried that all of the evening’s surprises were only fruits of a drunken night, Rina stayed up until 3 am with her friends. Perok kept her on such state until he called up at 7 pm the next evening. She was no longer Rina, but “Darl.”

As in all stories, Perok and Rina’s love affair has two versions, his and hers. But however the two goes, the end is the same. They got married on December 11, 1999 and moved to one address.

~~~

Perok is my father's younger brother while Rina is my mother's distant cousin. They now have four kids: Andre, Kyra and Peter who are all in grade school, and little Ben, in preparatory school.

Little Boy Green

2010-07-29T15:51:00.006+08:00

This little boy

Lived at the

Same village as we did

When we went to Beijing

In October 2009

He was so cute

We first saw him waiting for his ride to school

With his ayi

I waved hello

While balancing on a scooter (w/ my one hand)

And a camera on the other

He just stared at me

But his ayi was very friendly

We went to the park

And played for a bit

When we returned

He was still waiting

I couldn't help but ask for a photo

The friendly ayi

Smiled

A "no worries" smile

Thus this single photo (and oh, a stolen other)

Of Little Boy Green

Little Boy Green, the first time I saw him

(This is the stolen shot)

Maria Alyssa Villarosa Rodriguez

2010-07-15T21:14:00.003+08:00

Youth is not a time of life; it is a state of mind; it is not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips and supple knees; it is a matter of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions; it is the freshness of the deep springs of life.

Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity of the appetite, for adventure over the love of ease. This often exists in a man of sixty more than a body of twenty. Nobody grows old merely by a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals.

Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, fear, self-distrust bows the heart and turns the spirit back to dust.

Whether sixty or sixteen, there is in every human being's heart the lure of wonder, the unfailing child-like appetite of what's next, and the joy of the game of living. In the center of your heart and my heart there is a wireless station; so long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, courage and power from men and from the Infinite, so long are you young.

When the aerials are down, and your spirit is covered with snows of cynicism and the ice of pessimism, then you are grown old, even at twenty, but as long as your aerials are up, to catch the waves of optimism, there is hope you may die young at eighty.

"Youth"

By Samuel Ullman

~~~

Alyssa turned 18 this year. She is taking up Social Development at the Ateneo and is planning to pursue Law after.

Note from the Blogger

2010-07-15T17:02:00.003+08:00

My plan to make this blog reach a billion entries continues.

But with the frenzied scrutiny of sentences and story structures that happens in every post before I allow it to see the light of web posting, I'm thinking that this possibly could not be achieved within a lifetime. I'm going take it easy on the prose then and allow (more) photos to paint a thousand words when appropriate.

I am currently working on a couple of profiles. To be posted soon!

Best,

Ivi

Ryan Tominaga

2010-07-08T21:20:00.005+08:00

It is a tease to my little girl's heart that when I think about one of the most amazing nights I have ever been part of, I remember Ryan.

That very night, the cosmos playfully arranged him right next to me, but the four men on stage who make up one of the most important bands ever, their music that span several genres, generations and zeitgeists, the 96,002 people who were with us, filling every inch of space in the mighty Rose Bowl arena, reduced him to an insignificant detail. Only that very night.

Because when these events turned into a great story, almost like a knee-jerk response, my memory placed him at the center around which every other detail spun. We don't easily disremember a great night; but slowly, its repercussions fade and it becomes just the backdrop of the littler quirks that have personalized and made the experience ever more real and memorable to us.

My brother-in-law Pancho bought my ticket from his officemate, Tony, who is Ryan’s friend. We did not plan to meet before the concert. I searched for my seat among the ninety-six thousand and four, and when I thought I found it, I flashed a smile at the person seating next to it. Ryan.

“Welcome home,” he said. (Or was it “You’re home,” “Yep, you found your home”? What I’m only sure about is, “Home.”)

The night’s roll call, on its own, guaranteed an amazing experience, so I didn’t mind the prospect of being seated rows away from Pancho and my sister – alone. Besides, anonymity exhilarates me. But by twist and turn courtesy of the playful cosmos, I found myself in the company of three people I’ve never met before.

Tony, two seats away and really funny (I told him at the end of the night, “You are at par with Bono in entertainment value.”), introduced himself as “Latino, not black,” and his girlfriend Caroline, the "all-American American." By instinct, I burst into "Sweet Caroline, den den den," surprising even myself (and there were no glasses and glasses of beer involved), and eliciting a with eyes rolled-grin from Caroline like I wasn't the first who dared.

Tony did not say he was a huge U2 fan, but he sang along with Bono to almost every song in the band's repertoire, most of the time whole-heartedly (glasses and glasses of beer involved). Throughout the night, he would alternately poke fun at Caroline or at Ryan (“Come on, Ryan! It's U2!” when Ryan stayed glued to his seat and to his mobile.). But when the evening segued into the quintessential rock love song, With or Without You, he mellowed down and sang not along with Bono, but directly to his sweet Caroline.

The entire night, Ryan Tominaga -- him around which every other memory of the night spun -- was seated to my right. He is part Japanese, part Nicaraguan, and part Hawaiian; though at face value, you could never have guessed. There's a handsomeness to him that his baldness and olive skin dull, but he stands attractively. He reminded me of Powder, and at the same time, thought that he best epitomizes Max, the fictional Jew-in-hiding in Mark Zusak's The Book Thief. It may sound far-fetched (he's not Jewish), but I had just finished the book then.

A conversation was off to a good start. Ryan, as it happened, knew a lot of Filipinos at work and talked favorably of them. His grandmother, of whom he spoke as tenderly, is a Catholic. And he is openly romantic. He mentioned traveling to Japan, Hawaii and Nicaragua to know more about his roots.

I don't know about you, but I find crossing miles of strangeness to know more about oneself an intent that manifests one's profundity. Looking back, I think I was smitten with Ryan.

I wish we talked more, but Bono went onstage. The vibes that they radiated from The Claw (as they liked to call their humongous 360 Tour platform) were strong enough to spell a uniting cast over the whole stadium. I was too struck; my surroundings (by this I mean the 96000-amazing crowd) swirled into one pulsating entity. Song after song after song, I could not believe I was a part of it. It was just me, the crowd, and U2.

But in retrospect, I would see it was all natural ecstasy. Because the moments that I would remember with more precision and color were not only of me and U2. In fact, the band steps back and zooming in was the chorus of "Stuck in a Moment that You Can't Get Out Of," (the moment I would have stayed in for a long time) when Ryan urged me to sing along, karaoke style. Darn, I did not completely memorized that part, so instead, I burst into smiles to fill in the blanks. Before the concert, I told him it was my favorite U2 original.

When Bono burst into the monosyllabic chapter of With or Without You, the coming of the end of the concert dawning on him, Ryan sprang off his seat.

"Oh ooo ooo ooo... Oh ooo ooo ooo ooo... Oh ooo ooo ooo... Oh ooo... With or Without Yoooo..."

The whole stadium "Oh ooo-ed" along, but all I could hear now, some 8 months later, is Ryan at my right. Everything else swirls away into the background.

(P.S. Or I think about Ryan, and I remember that most amazing night.)

Casmer Ampaso

2010-07-01T16:46:00.003+08:00

Casmer's official campaign photo

Originally printed in EV Mail

You rarely hear of people who turn 24 and in the running for a seat in the city Council; or studying law and teaching medical courses at the same time; or, in the case of Casmer Ampaso, juggling all three together. Such is the exuberance of youth, and Casmer puts this privilege to full use that her track record reads like it’s been enriched for more than 24 years.

“There was a stage in my life when I just wanted to work in an office and sit on a swivel chair,” Casmer grins, “But through time, I realized it’s nice to get out of your comfort zone and do things out of the ordinary.”

Late in 2009, she accepted a friend’s invitation to attend a meeting of a new political movement that sprung from the shared grievances and aspirations of a venturesome group of Ormocanons. The extent of her willingness to set foot into the unknown was put to test when she was asked to be the youth representative of the group’s slate for Council Seats in the 2010 Elections.

“I joined Kaabag because it carries a new perspective on governance that I strongly agree with. I also share its vision for Ormoc. But it took a while before I accepted their invitation to run for Councilor. I live a simple life. I didn’t want to complicate it.”

Ultimately, her decision would not hinge on what such enterprise would demand of her life, but what it could do to a long-running dream. “I always knew somebody with clear intentions should stand for the youth and take care of their needs and rights,” Casmer shares.

Rest assured this is not just a hazy, flat concept she randomly picked up. Having served as Chairman of the Sangguniang Kabataan in Brgy. San Pablo and as Secretary of the local SK Federation, Casmer knows where she is coming from. During her 5-year term, she encountered mini-mirrors of the traditional politico that equates public infrastructure with success in leadership. “Most of the projects they approved are those that are beneficial to them, projects that are immediate and can be seen,” Casmer says.

As an alternate, she utilized her post to extend the education she got at the Girl Scouts and the Red Cross to her fellow youth. “What I learned being a volunteer, I applied to my service as SK Chair.” She organized First Aid symposiums and clean-up drives, and facilitated livelihood projects for out-of-school youths, for whom she seems to have a very soft spot for.

“There are so many talented and skillful youths in Ormoc – and many of them not in school – but they are not offered the opportunity to develop themselves. Instead they turn to gangs, drugs or anything that gives them a sense of identity.”

But she is quick not to generalize all gangs or fraternities as only good for nothing. “Let’s not dismiss the potential of these brotherhoods. We can take advantage of their organization for the city’s socio-civic projects or events. Let’s help them make a clean image of their groups.”

This sympathy and the resolute vow to change things will certainly go a long way in the city Council, but Casmer is aware that it is a long stretch from her experience at the SK. What helped her make up her mind were the inspiriting words of the Dean at the Western Leyte College of Law, where she is currently having her post-grad studies.

“He knew I have a strong inclination towards service so he suggested organizations that will allow me to practice my profession as a nurse and serve the public at the same time. He was scared of what politics could do to me. But in the end, he told me I should follow what I want.”

So on November 30, with 8 members of the Kaabag, Casmer filed her Certificate of Candidacy for the City Council. Apprehensions were building up inside, but a fellow Kaabag reminded her that they all had an open window until December 14, in case any of them decide to jump out of the race.

That window would prove to be most attractive exactly two weeks later, when Casmer received a confirmation from her agent that her request for a US working visa has come through. “But my mind was set already by December 14. And I’m the type of person who sticks to what I have set my mind on. I know it’s a wasted opportunity, but I want to make a difference and see changes, not just in my life.”

This propensity for altruism derives from a powerful experience during the Ormoc flashfloods, when she was only 5 years old. In the flurry of the raging waters, Casmer was separated from her parents and rescued by a neighbor that she only knew by face. It was a traumatic time that had emotional aftershocks whenever even the slightest of drizzle would fall. But the Casmer that emerged from it would grow a heart that always paired compassion with action.

“That neighbor made me realize the importance of helping other people,” she recalls. The droves of NGO workers that arrived seemingly out of nowhere to distribute relief goods and offer medical services also imprinted a sense of mission in her. “I wanted to become one of them.”

This childhood episode would have a bearing in many directions she would choose to take growing up. While at the Ormoc City National High School, she volunteered with the Red Cross; in Nursing School at Cebu’s Southwestern University, she got herself actively involved with Tsinelas, a non-governmental slipper-for-every-child crusade.

Law was never part of the plan but, “It coincides with a desire to be able to fight for my rights, and give people the same freedom.”

Weighing at the same importance as the youth in Casmer’s platform are issues concerning Ormoc’s women. On top of her list is prostitution, which she says remains a dark cloud in the city’s landscape. She refers to a place near the Public Market that runs by the street name ‘Langub’ where pimps operate. “As long as there are places like this, prostitution will always be the last resort for destitute women. It’s the government’s job to provide rightful alternatives.”

She mentions administration effort to organize workshops and supply materials for its baranggay livelihood projects but says it’s futile in the end as there are no intermediaries between them and the market. “During our baranggay visits, women have approached me for assistance. I see they are very empowered but just don’t know how to carry it out.”

Casmer explains that her choice to have all these on her plate at the tender age of 24 was driven by her exposure to how hard life is and the desire to affect change. She could have chosen the swivel chair or jumped out of the window, but instead, she sets out to teach us how to maximize one’s young life in the service of many.

Casmer, 4th from right, is the only girl in the Kaabag line-up in the 2010 Elections for Council Seats. After the votes have been casted, she ranked 5th among them. But only one of these kaabags got a seat.

Mdm Tabada

2009-12-03T16:53:00.004+08:00

In one corner of my closet is a paper bag filled with marked papers. They go back to my days as a BS Mass Communication student at the University of the Philippines in Cebu and boast of marks in black or red written by my favorite professor, Madame Mayette Tabada.

"Very good opening"

"Striking images"

"Too cluttered"

"Could be rephrased to remove excess words"

(Of a feature story I did on Kate Torralba for a Journalism 103 homework)

"Unique voice, can sustain curiosity of reader"

(Of a self-portrait in words for a Journalism 103 homework)

When I decided to rid myself of clutter, 3/4s of paperworks and memorabilia from college needed to go. But for some cheesy reason, I couldn't simply watch marked homeworks from Mdm Tabada's Journalism classes moved to the garbage. It was not so much about the content on those papers as it was about the red marks on them. They were not always positive as the flattering marks I copied above would suggest; I also had my share of the practicality and toughness in Mdm's critique that she's known for.

Though every new assignment and deadline was dreadful, I always relished the minute I finished and submitted them for her scrutiny. Mdm Tabada is well-respected in the local media. While she taught at UP Cebu, she also worked as Managing Editor for Sun-Star Cebu. If there was some ego-busting to be done, at least it did not come from a dilettante.

Just before I cleared myself for graduation, I left a greeting card on her desk. I was not a good student. I never participated in class. Many times, I passed homeworks too late (appropriately marked with an "OT" and a serious deduction); a few times, I slacked and did not pass at all. I talked in class; I allowed my mind to wander. There were days when I said to myself, "I'm not going to take this class seriously. I don't intend to be a journalist anyway."

But this delinquency did not stand out. I turned out to be a minor case. More than half of the class felt the same way as I and acted it out in more abusive ways than I did. Our batch will always be remembered for how it pushed Mdm Tabada, the pillar of UP Cebu's Journalism courses, over the edge where her cool, calm, and collected hang on to. One morning, in her 7:30 am Investigative Journalism class, when less than 10 students showed up on time, she cried. And I regret that I am not among the select few -- those who now carve their names in Cebu's Newspaper Industry-- who made those tears worth the release.

For whatever effect it may have on her, I intended the card to portray my apology for the half-hearted commitment I treated her class with that did not balance with the selflessness she gave it. On the same page, I thanked her as profusely as my available English and card space allowed, for what she, her class made me become.

By the end of all my Journalism classes under Mdm Tabada, I'd already have braved the streets of downtown Cebu without a partner. I'd already have established connection with the local offices of a few government departments. I'd already have learned to forego hesitance in approaching strangers who may be vital to a story. I'd already have known how to rely on my own instincts (unfortunately, I quickly lost it; I now seek for advice for even the most mundane decisions I'm forced to make). After all, for most of his career, a Journalist will have to go for it alone.

I remember a particular class she held just before the semestral break. She came in with a huge bag loaded with books. These were the instructions she gave us before we all flocked to the bag: "Here are some books you can read during your break. Return them if you feel like doing so; or you can keep them."

Among the lucky ones, I was able to grab hold of my first choice: Isak Dinesen's "Out of Africa". My mother made us watch the movie with her in our grade school years and I loved it so much that I remember a few scenes to this day. I've made attempts to read the book to the end, but Dinesen's writing is too tedious for me. Maybe in time; as I do not plan to get rid of this copy. There's a note that Mdm Tabada had written on the 4th page:

MTQuintana

September 9, 1989

Book Nook

- maybe searches do end

Whatever circumstances that surrounded her life then and elicited the rather short but romantic note is a piece of Mdm Tabada I will never know. Who I do know is the teacher who at one point, inspired me to a Journalist's life for a reason that does not have to do with passion (which I believe is the only explanation for staying a Journalist). I simply want to know what her red marking pen has to say.

Maria Cara Rodriguez-Larrazabal

2009-12-02T07:52:00.006+08:00

Originally published in EV Mail.

There’s a hole in our home now. The last time I saw the person who used to fill it with big-sisterly guidance and care, and infectious joy (and occasionally, a quick temper :), she was ready with her whole life in 3 balikbayan boxes and 2 huge luggage, to move to a place 1000 oceans away from what she called home for 27 years.

This explains the morning of her wedding day when she woke up with eyes swollen from crying. Everyone panicked but the make-up artist, who coolly walked to the kitchen to wrap frozen water with a hanky and asked the bride to hold it against her eyes.

For the rest of the morning, with our hair and make-up all ready for the camera, the threat of crying hung over us bridesmaids. The mother of the bride, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the many beautifying hours already spent on her. Through tears-stricken eyes, she did not drop her duty of making sure the bride’s eyebrows were not too thick and the cheeks were only softly colored.

It would have made for an ideal start to a highly emotional wedding, but the family preferred the drama stay at home and proceeded to the Sts. Peter and Paul Parish, where the ceremony took place like how it should: merry, delightful, and in denial that somebody is about to leave.

Tears of joy make funny storytelling later; but laughter of joy shows the face of certainty, as the bride had executed on her wedding march to a moving string version of U2’s With or Without You. She opted not to cover her face with a veil for fear it would induce claustrophobia (oh, the things we pick up from our mother!), leaving facial traces of jitters or doubts to everyone’s full view. But there was none such betrayal.

She was at her happiest, looking glorious in her all-lace Felix Yu gown, and wearing a radiant smile that I feel moved the hearts of the many who knew she deserved such pure bliss. Throughout the afternoon heat, the careful but relentless jests from cousins and friends, the reality of getting hitched, and the sweating that it all caused, Pancho Larrazabal’s smile (the one that stretched from ear to ear) also never left his face.

Such high spirits set the mood for the rest of the wedding and through the celebration. There was no need for a first shot or bottle to get the bridal entourage to do a grand entrance to the reception hall, which meant ladies in figure-hugging, flamenco-inspired gowns and men in Barong Tagalog dancing to Natalie Cole’s This Will Be (An Everlasting Love). One of the lolaswould say, “Your poise was slightly broken; but it was very refreshing and fun!”

Not to be outdone were the newly-weds, who entered the ballroom to Flo Rida’s Low and invited all the guests to their feet. Even the ninongs and ninangs in front stood to welcome and dance with them. Watching this unique spectacle, I realized my sister had a natural groove to her; but kudos goes to the groom for pulling all efforts to make it seem like he had, too.

Dinner was had to the live accompaniment of a string quartet. Pancho’s uncle and Sabin Hotel’s main chef, Butch, had prepared Paella, Lengua, Caldereta and Canonigo, to keep to the wedding’s Spanish theme. The bride’s cousin, Tina Santiago of Tina’s Sweets, laid out a smorgasbord of treats to the sweet teeth such as cream puffs, cheesecake, tarts and brownies.

Four hundred guests make a crowd, but the couple injected personal touches to the affair that allowed a measure of intimacy in. As hosts for the evening, they picked Perok Rodriguez, a very close tito to the bride, and Vannie Ocampo, a very good friend.

Every table at the ballroom had a name of a person, a place, or a thing that played a part in the couple’s love story. The hosts lured the guests to share a story with a pack of Tina’s goodies. By the end of the night, everyone would know that the two were set up at the wedding of Lito & Diane del Rio in 2007 by enthusiastic aunts and cousins; that at 25, my sister was not allowed by our mother to go on her first date with Pancho without a chaperone (thank you, Monica Rizarri-Veloso); that it was thru the help of a singing Pepe Le Peu stuffed toy that Pancho was able to give voice to his feelings for her; and that after their honeymoon in Hawaii, the couple will be based in Pancho’s home in California.

Other personal touches to the evening were the postcards left on the table for guests to write down their best wishes and goodbye messages; the longest-kissing couple game, the winners of which did not beat the night’s record of 28 seconds set by the newlyweds; and a special tribute, during which the groom and bride gave a bouquet each to their mothers.

But the one part that brought the house down was the brother of the bride, Tingtong. After the toast of the Best Men and the teary Maids of Honor, he walked up front by house demand. He struggled with his English words, ignoring the crowd’s encouragement for him to say what he wanted to say in Bisaya. “My sisters speak in English, so I will speak English, too!”

The protective brother role seized him as soon as the crowd settled down, first coming clean about his initial disapproval of Pancho for his sister. It was through the fact that more than a dozen of Pancho’s friends flew in from California to see him get married and the things he’s heard about Pancho from them, that he learned to fully accept him. But so characteristic of Ting, he ended his speech with a threat. We all know how that goes.

If there was any semblance of Tingtong’s toast to the father of the bride’s welcome message earlier in the evening, it was the glimpse they gave the guests into how they were feeling about giving away their Maica. But unlike the brother’s apprehension, Mayong felt instant relief that his eldest daughter found somebody from a family he grew up with on Bonifacio Street.

He also used the opportunity to squeeze in a few words of reality check for the newlyweds. “As your relationship had been long-distance from the start, you haven’t seen the best and the worst of each other. You have to learn to accept the strengths and weaknesses that both of you will carry into this marriage.”

Later that night, while a live band played the newlyweds’ favorite song, Always and Forever by Luther Vandross, there was a short lull in the merriment when Mayong danced with the bride. It was a bittersweet moment, magnified not only by the daughter’s tears on her father’s shoulder, but by the great distance that was to come between them.

But the night was young and with the help of two shots of Tequila and several swigs of GPS, everybody felt so, too. Indeed, the best way to enjoy is to live and party in the moment, and save the blues when the time gets us there.

In the case of the newlywed’s departure, time did not take its time. In fact, it hurried. It may have played along with the excitement of their honeymoon or sympathized with the bride’s mother and shortened the farewell. The last time I saw my sister was on the day after her wedding, and she was smiling radiantly through wet eyes with her husband’s hand in hers.

When we went home, the drama was waiting. There was a hole with it, and it was shaped a Maica.

~~~

I wrote this piece as requested by Ms. Lalaine Jimenea, editor in chief of EV Mail. It's one of the most difficult articles I ever finished -- must be that it's about somebody I'm too close to. In fact, I worked on it in bed for a whole weekend!

Ultimately though, I'm glad I took on Lalaine's challenge. Since I started this blog, my sister Maica has been bugging me to write about her. Well sis, this may not be so much about you as it is about your wedding to Pancho. But on second thought, you would agree that the wedding you had greatly reflected the kind of person you are.

Shen Chen Chen

2009-12-01T11:51:00.009+08:00

Oh, the relief tita Rina and I felt when we were told the name of our tourist guide in Xi'An is Shen Chen Chen.

I believe I'm not alone in saying Chinese words are never easy to the tongue and recall. Despite practicing with my Beijing based half-Chinese cousins Chloe and Yassy everyday since our arrival, it was only nearing the end of our week-long visit that I became comfortable using the most basic of them all: Sie Sie (Thank you), Pu Haw I-Su (Excuse me), Tuo Shao Tien (How much?).

Names are no different. Chloe and Yassy's driver is named Si Kwan; until our last day, I thought it was Si-Quiao! Nobody bothered to correct me. Just my tongue's luck, Chloe and Yassy call their Chinese help not by a tongue-twisting name, but by the general Chinese endearment for house help, an easy two-syllable, Ayi (yaya).

We took the 11-hour train ride from Beijing to Xi'An for a 10-hour visit to the historical place in Beijing's West that's famed for the Terracotta Warriors. Tita Chona's only instruction was to look for Shen Chen Chen at the train station upon arrival. I bet the easy recall of that name helped in placing us in a giddy start-of-the-tour mood.

Shen Chen Chen, at the time of our visit, has just finished university but has been working for a travel agency for almost a year. She studied English because she loved the language and because she knew she wanted to become a tour guide. "I want to do this forever," I remember her saying.

As a neophyte tour guide, she could have been better. But I didn't really mind that her delivery of the fascinating stories of Xi'An seemed scripted or that she sometimes walked too fast and away from our group. She was the first Chinese I met who had enough English in her pocket to engage in an English conversation.

Of course I abused this. I found Xi'An very old and limiting, and as it was soaked in fog on the day of our visit, it looked sad and suicidal. I wanted to know how it treats young people like Shen Chen Chen.

She told me that kids her age go to the spa and the karaoke for fun. ("Do you know karaoke, singing?" she asked me. We created the Karaoke that it is now, sister!).

"Do you know Beyonce?" I asked randomly.

She gave me a quizzical look.

"Michael Jackson?" A second try.

She smiled. "I've seen posters of them."

She did have enough English in her pocket, but apparently, her pocket is small-sized. I did most of the talking. I told her my father has 9 siblings, a revelation that elicited a wide-eyed grin from her. She probably thought I was kidding and waited for me to get serious. By truth, not a chance, sister.

"Have you ever been out of Xi'An, Chen?"

"Yes, I've been to Beijing."

"Do you want to go and live somewhere else?" I asked, wrapped up in my uninformed certainty that of course, all young kids want to be anywhere but home. I was disappointed. Or, shall I say, my question disappointed Chen.

I swear I saw a slight bewilderment in her face. Was I the first person to ever ask her that? "I cannot leave Xi'An," she said w/ a quickly-revived assurance that embarrassed me. "I cannot leave my parents. I'm their only child."

Then it hit me.

"You know, China has a one-child policy," Chen reminded me before I could form the logic in my head.

Oh yeah. A lump of admiration for Chen grew in my throat. How many Chen's are there in China? How many kids are stuck not necessarily out of love for their home but out of honor and respect for their parents? How many Chinese hoard dreams that are bordered by this honor? My only consolation is that Chen made me see this reality without a hint of resentment. Her dreams may be contained, or she may not have dreams, but she is happy. She is already doing something that she is certain she wants to do for the rest of her life.

Me and my big dreams, I don't even know what I want to do for the rest of my life.

***

Naturally, so many questions weighed me down throughout that entire opportunity to know China from a pure, English-speaking Chinese. Chen did not show much or any interest in my Philippines so I had the microphone all to myself.

I took my chance and asked her if Christmas is being observed in Xi'An, or in any place in a country that acknowledges no religion.

Her answer and the clear excitement in it surprised me. She explained that Christmas is a relatively new tradition but one that she and her friends really look forward to and celebrate by exchanging gifts. Still fresh in my mind how most kids I came across in Australia do not know that Jesus is born on Christmas day, I wanted to know if it's the same with the youth in China and dared to ask her.

Chen nodded. "I heard about that."

I remember about the Moon Cake festival, which China celebrated the day before our arrival. I thought Chen would have more to say about this genuine Chinese tradition. By then however, she was on tourist guide mode. We were running out of time and needed to be on the way to the airport for our flight back to Beijing. She inserted in the half-hurry that she was with her family on the night of the festival, but did not have any moon cake.

"I don't like it," she confessed.

"Same here." At least we've got that one in common.

Georgette

2009-11-29T17:33:00.007+08:00

I met Georgette at the bus stop across Neeta Shopping City in Fairfield, NSW. It was a hot day on Sydney's peak Summer month of December. I spared myself from sweating so early in the morning by standing on the shade provided by a store's awning.

Georgette was seated on the bench just a meter in front of me. She was also waiting for the bus with 2 brown grocery bags. I'm sure she noticed I was standing and balancing 6 weighty bags amongst my 10 fingers and thought I was unnecessarily tiring myself when I could have the bags well-rested on the bench space beside her.

She flashed me with a big smile before gesturing me to the space.

Out of appreciation for the stranger's sympathy, I walked over to the bench and made myself comfortable beside her, trying hard not to mind the attention-grabbing heat over our heads. Her big smile translated first, into 5 words, "You have very nice skin."

As much as I would have liked to take the compliment w/o a hint of rebuttal, how could I when it came from a woman who has subtly-blushed porcelain skin attached to her face? The compliment was moving to the wrong direction. It was just right to direct it back to her instead of accepting it cooly and w/ an "Are you kidding? But thank you for saying it anyway" shrug.

It turned out that Georgette is not cool with compliments, either, so we let that bounce between us for minutes into our meeting before her smile and my appreciation developed into

a full-fledged conversation.

When the bus arrived, I was careful about choosing my seat. I made sure I would be sitting at a distance that won't freak the "60+ year old woman" in my new friend, at the same time allow me to continue a pleasant, ongoing conversation. I thought Georgette, in a quiet breath, appreciated that.

My silent assumption was right; Georgette is a Lebanese. She could very well have been the grandmother of one of the Lebanese students at the daycare I was volunteering at; they with the exaggeratedly long lashes, perfectly shaped noses, and bright pink lips. I shared with her a self-set certainty that the Lebanese are among the most beautiful people on Earth.

Despite her flattered hesitance, I knew Georgette loved the generalization.

I write this almost a year after, long enough for time to make hazy the rest of the details of that singular conversation. Singular I say because the truth is, nobody talks to each other in the bus stop or on bus rides. What they show in the movies is a romantic depiction of the many beautiful possibilities in public transportation if only commuters burst their personal bubbles and acknowledge a stranger's beauty or quirk or strangeness.

As Georgette had.

***

A silent hope that the ride that day would take longer than usual made no difference. My bus stop along Gipps St came first. As waiting for the bus ends at some point, so do bus rides.

P.S. Whenever I remember that random conversation with Georgette, I regret that I did not think of asking her permission for me to take a photo of her.

Peter

2009-02-21T16:45:00.007+08:00

December 9, 2008

But back down here, I experienced the sweetest little thing from the most unexpected of places, or person.

In the form of Peter. He is the most rascally, ill-bred kid ever. He screams "Shut up!" at people 10 times his age, and other almost incomprehensible, bad words. He doesn't listen. He does things opposite of what he's told. He bullies everybody indiscriminately. Just a very mean kid.

But then! Just when he was about to leave yesterday, with his mother already by the door waiting for him, he run to me and hugged and kissed me goodbye. I was taken aback. He had a huge smile on his face as I bid goodbye. That was really the sweetest thing.

Whereas the other kids on whom I thought I left a very good impression, and who wanted me beside them, read books for them and all that pseudo motherhood thing, just left without a goodbye.

December 9, 2008

I find myself so endeared towards Peter, the bulliest kid I've ever known (not even Edward my cousin can beat him). His energy is equal to 10 children. At the same time, he can be VERY annoying and I bet Tiffany & Nirmala can't forgive him for that -- they who have had to endure him for years.

Today, his mother came to pick him up and asked Tiffany about the new teacher named "TV". I am touched I have made such an impression on him that he told of me to his mom. His mom is named Gita so we had a short conversation about that.

During afternoon tea, Peter helped me with feeding the very delicate Joleena with jelly ace. He held the cover open so I won't have a hard time feeding Joleena. I was so glad (and assured) to know that behind this greatest rascal is an extremely (ok, this is exagg) good boy. Maybe he needs attention or has so much of it. I only hope he doesn't grow up to be such a bully.

December 10, 2008

I just noticed that the top 2 bullies in school (Peter & Gabbie) are actually the most vulnerable. The other boys like Leo, Stephen, Noor, Daniel don't like to sit on my lap and Nirmala's. And they're the nicer boys! While the bad boys like sitting close to us. Should that explain their need for attention? I wish I studied a bit of Psych.

December 11, 2008

Yesterday, I entered the center to the hugs of the children; Peter, Hailey, Leea and even Jasmine who isn't really as maparaygun run up to me. In the afternoon, they were watching a movie and when I joined them, Leea sat on my lap while Peter and Jasmine moved beside me, with Peter leaning on me. I never thought I'd have such effect on these kids who've only known me for 3 days. Or maybe that's the nature of kids.

Peter is the most difficult kid to put to sleep. I pity Nirmala having to do that job. I pat the rest of the kids who want to be patted and I can't help but gush whenever I succeed in it. This is a side of me that I think I always had but which my short patience overcomes at many times. Anyway, Peter yesterday was being a bully again. After around 30 mins of Nirmala trying to put him to sleep, he stood up to give me high fives and hugged me then went back to his bed, and finally, stayed put. Success!

December 11, 2008

I enjoyed today. Emily was in the room and all in her 5 years, I can already tell she's gonna be a fierce girl who can stand up for herself. Today, she protected not just herself but the other kids from the bully, Peter. And she would say, "Me don't want that!" What an attitude.

Peter was really mean today, sending Nirmala to near rages herself, but she's been very effective in handling the two bullies, Peter and Gabby. This afternoon, Peter asked me to pat him to sleep but I told him I can't, that Nirmala will take care of him. He kept on asking again. I wish I had said yes. I would want to see if he would skip his customary pre-sleep tantrum if I were to put him to sleep.

December 18, 2008

Today is my 2nd to the last day of work. And I already miss my fave students in class. I'm gonna break rules whatever basta I have to take at least one souvenir shot of them. Diane mentioned they don't allow taking photos of students to ward off pedophiles. So I have to ask permission.

Yesterday, Peter run to his mother who was carrying a gift and asked whom it was for. The mother replied, "For Tiffany!" Peter then told his mother, much to my surprise, "Get one for her as well!" he said, pointing at me. It was embarrassing and even more, touching. Peter is one of those students -- or the only student I think -- who doesn't forget to say goodbye before leaving. The other kids are just so excited to be picked up by their mothers and fathers that they just cling to them so tightly and whisper the smallest goodbye or none at all. I understand of course. But Peter does cling to his mother but manages a big smile, high fives and hugs before leaving. He really is a lovely kid, at one extreme, and horrible, in another.

2 Sweetest Things today:

1) Waking up Peter quite forcedly, pissing him off for a while then he rolls around, lightens up, looks up at me, relents to my plead for him to smile and after helping him up, blurts, "I love you, Vita. I love you." Awww... then he gives me a huge hug. Peter can easily get on nerves but he easily can make me melt at the same time. Awww... lovely, bad boy.

2) Peter's mother comes with a gift for me. When I told Gita, her mother, she shouldn't have bothered, she tells me, "No worries Vita. It was really Peter who kept on telling me, 'Buy Vita a gift mommy! Buy Vita a gift!" Ahhh, and that's why I just love that kid!

December 19, 2008

Hoping works. I had wanted so much to have my photo taken with Peter and I got it. I want to have taken photo of myself with the other kids, but I guess I can only hope and get so much. I'm pleased with what i have tho.

Today marks the end of that phase of my Australian experience and I'm quite sad and relieved it's over. It kinda coincided with my move to Carlo's place and sorry to say this, I noticed I was more at home and in place at the Daycare than in Carlo's place. Nobody should mistake this as that the Santoses don't make me feel home much. They do, they really do. But it's just me, I guess. I enjoyed being with the kids. I'm gonna miss Jayden's curls that make him as beautiful as Cordon Bleu. I miss Daniel's husky voice and insistence that he's the boss. Hailey screeching. Gabby whining (and Nirmala at his every whim). The twins Stefan and Stephanie. The cutest kids/blondes ever, Ella and Lockley. Awww... I really hope I find myself...

Well, I really don't know. But one sure thing, this is one of the best parts of the trip.

December 23, 2008

I find myself thinking of Peter again. I really miss the kids. I remember on Christmas Party day, as soon as he arrived, he run to me and gave me his hug and smile. I didn't get to really enjoy it thought because it was in the middle of a game and I had to assist the kids. So I quickly sat him within the circle but he moved closer to me. Sadly, I had to assist the littler kids and from then on, he enjoyed himself. He is clingy to his mother Gita, even more than the other kids who are clingy as well but easily freed themselves to the games around them. But Peter stayed really close to Gita. I think he feels his mother is the only one to whom he can run to unconditionally. At school, Peter is so naughty that a lot of the kids stay away from him. Every bad thing that happens is blamed at him first before they find out the actual culprit. On his own, he really had to put up a tough front. But with his mom, he was a 5 year old kid. I really miss him. At least once, I was a comfort to him enough to have earned an "I love you, Vita."

~~~
From December 8-19, I helped out at the Rainbow Daycare Center in Gipps Street, Fairfield, which is owned by a cousin's friend. One of their teachers was on vacation leave and they needed somebody asap to fill in for her in the last two weeks of school before the Holidays break. The excerpts above were taken from the Journal I kept throughout my Sydney Sojourn (in its raw, unedited form, thus the grammatical and spelling errors). As the Daycare experience was huge for me, it filled up a lot of pages, especially on my favorite kid, 5-year-old Peter, of Lebanese origins.

To this day, I still remember how his mouth slowly breaks into a sunshiney smile. I can still hear Daniel's husky voice. I can still picture Emily in one of her she-bully moments, with her lips pouting and hands on the hips. I can still see Gabby's long lashes and hear his whiny voice. I still cringe at the now-invisible cuteness of Lockley, and the set of bangs that stretches over his forehead and end on top of his eyes. Those kids. I almost loved to love them.

at the back: teacher Tiffany, teacher Nirmala, owner Sylvia, me
the graduates: "I am the boss!" Daniel, my Peter Rabbit, toughie Emily, shy girl Nancy, the brat Leo, the loud-mouthed Hailey, the class fave Sarah, the hippie's daughter Aisha

~~~
Peter graduated last year from Daycare. This year is his first in the "big" school, or kindy. As a gift, I gave him a Spiderman pencil case. He might not remember me, but his mom Gita, an equally likable person, hopefully would and will remind him.

The Old Woman

2009-02-21T11:33:00.007+08:00

It's a shame I don't remember the name of the old woman who wrapped gifts with me at Myers Warringah Mall on Christmas Eve. She was very pleasant and motherly. I remember being in awe at how she communicated with the people, from a handsomely 6 year old half Indian-half British kid who chose to linger around in our gift-wrapping booth rather than to scour gifts around the Myers store with his mom, to a father who was waiting patiently and cordially with his son for his wife's gift to be wrapped. I mentally took note of her, not only that I like her pleasantness, but she reminded me of the owner of the fictitious Duncan's Toy Chest (which Wikipedia would say was modeled after FAO Schwarz) who gave Kevin the turtle doves in Home Alone 2, only that she is a female.

She might be a Catherine or Kaitlyn, which means Pure. I hope I am sure about this, just so I could forever put a name to my saving grace of a Christmas Eve away from family.

I noticed one common question and answer shared among Sydney's Holiday revelers was, "What are you planning to do on Christmas?" That's hardly being asked in the Philippines since in this country, Christmas is a celebration with a deeply-entrenched tradition of being spent with the family. Otherwise, with friends or worst, alone, is a new news that elicits quick apologies as if it's the most unfortunate sin in the world. In Sydney, that question is almost as jovially received as the good old "Merry Christmas!" or "Happy Holidays!" greetings; and I enjoyed listening to Sydneysiders share a part of their lives by answering it.

In the old woman's case, she was spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with her son and his family. This son arrived in Myers at one point of our morning shift, with kid and wife in tow. The sense of pride and deep affection the woman had as she introduced her family to me was unmistakable. There and then, I felt the Christmas Spirit in my midst. For the first time, I did not feel it through the presence of my family, but through an old woman and stranger once who in the regular task of kissing her son, daughter-in-law and grandson hello and making my fleeting intrusion in her life known to them, shows just how strongly her life is built around them. I felt like an intruder alright, but glad at the shy attempt from this old woman to make me feel I belong.

Kaitlyn -- let's assume that really is her name -- lives alone in a bungalow. Her husband passed away a few years ago. Her two sons who are both married and fathers already, live close nearby and do not let every once in a while pass without visiting their mother. I see the sense of pride again when she speaks of how both, with no delay, would hurry to her home at every call of emergency, or even just of the simplest need. Since her husband died, they looked after her with not the slightest hint of hesitance or any condition.

She took a break from her wrapping duties to pay for a toy her grandson grabbed from the shelf and waved at her. Her son, a burly blonde with soft eyes and smile, told her not to buy it, but she insisted. "Come on, he wants it. It's Christmas."

She made me see it, too.

The Old Woman, me, and the Vision Australia/Myers Gift-Wrapping Fundraising Project representative for Warringah Mall, Janey Bloomfield.

The Vision Australia is a non-profit organization that aims to raise funds to afford technology for the blind and resources to help establishments that cater to the blind, sighted or have low vision. For the past years, during the Holidays season, it has teamed up with Myers, a chain of superstores for the upper class, to provide gift-wrapping services to Myers customers for a small fee. All proceeds go straight to the Vision Australia.

I volunteered to wrap gifts in two Myers stores, Blacktown's Westpoint Mall on December 23 and Brookvale's Warringah Mall on December 24. More than anything or anybody, the volunteer experience allowed me traces of Christmas Spirit. Others have long discounted the Christmas Spirit, but not me. I know it when I feel it.

Daniela Gigante

2009-02-19T16:29:00.001+08:00

I only met Daniela Gigante once, in a 1.30 hours time frame, within 4x5 square meters of candle-lit, highly-scented closed space. She was my Hot Stone Masseurs. She was careful in her deftness, but ultimately, it would be her fascinatingly love- & risk- driven life that I would not forget of that late afternoon session.

We met on a Thursday in January. At the end of that month, she will leave her life in Sydney to move in with her boyfriend in Byron Bay, New South Wales, a beachside town a few hours away.

She met her beau just a few months ago, in late 2008, in Byron Bay, where she was spending a few weeks of Yoga Training. It was in one of the rare night-outs she had with her friends, while dancing that she first saw him. By instinct or the encouragement from her friends, she turned her back to check out this bulk of a handsome man with semi-bald cut. There and then she realized that the skinhead's gaze was on her. She smiled at him and spontaneously asked, "Do you have my back?"

"Yes, I've got your back," went his response, and that sealed the deal between them. For the rest of her stay in Byron Bay, she was with the handsome semi-bald when she was not in class. To her surprise (or maybe she was confident about it), their relationship did not wave towards obscurity when she returned to Sydney. They continued to communicate and share each other's daily grind, unsparing of even the most mundane of days. Daniela, bruised but not jaded by the past petty relationships she's been in, was certain she found her soulmate in him. In fact, so certain was she that she did not wince twice at the idea of moving away from the life she's always known and to one that she is yet to define.

Unfortunately, I was not able to contact Daniela again. Ours was such that you call a one-off friendship, made opportune by her profession as a Hot Stone Masseurs and a favorite of my cousin-in-law Phuong who treated me to the massage. She gave me a company calling card before we parted ways, the details of which I'm sure are already useless now that she moved out already. I would want to know how she is faring at her new life.

Daniela is of Italian descent. Her parents, she described to me, are typical of Italians hailing from the very conservative central region of Tuscany. Even to this day, decades past since they crossed the high seas to the land down under, they frown upon the modern ways the youngsters, especially their own, conduct themselves. They were not too happy when at 22, Daniela entered into a marriage on almost a whim of a decision, and 6 years later, filed for divorce and took to raising their only son on her own. They openly opposed Daniela's short affairs with different guys, especially with the Greek with whom she went out for 2 years but has never been introduced to his parents.

That Greek Daniela would remember most. Aside from that it was with him she had her longest relationship after her marriage, the Greek intentionally kept her away from his folks. "Why?" Daniela finally had the guts to demand to know.

"Because you are a single mother."

She never went out with him again. Though since the divorce, Daniela's life literally narrowed down to work, son, work, she never considered her son a handicap to her youth. If anything, he was a fuel to her drive, the one who unknowingly kept on pushing her to always be and work better. While she'll be away in Byron Bay, her son is enrolled in a scholarship program in an exclusive all-boys Boarding School. I remember her saying, "My son knows I've done so much for him already; he is happy that I'm doing something this big for my own."

From that afternoon, I observed that the mechanics of conversation between friends is different from between strangers. Friends are bound by filial convention to engage in chatter when they are around each other. Strangers are not bound by any. When they do, it's a choice, based on the convenience of the moment, perhaps, or the interest and fascination that was allowed to permeate the moment. Most often, a dead air between friends reeks awkwardness, but among strangers, a normal, undemanding passage. There's comfort in the most likely that you are never to cross paths with this stranger, so the story telling flows, unmindful of a glitch in the details or the exaggeration of a part. The stranger does not have the tiniest idea of and probably the care for who you really are, besides for what you share. Not that I took advantage of that.

As much as my interest for her Tuscany was Daniela's interest in my Philippines. She was especially surprised when I told her I am 23 and has never had a boyfriend, "Oh my gawd, you're the oldest virgin I know!" But when I told her that ladies in the Philippines are expected to keep their virginity until marriage, her surprised mellowed down to appreciation. I guess until she met me, she did not think there's a country left in this carnal world that holds virginity with such reverence.

To my world filled up with stories of people I've known throughout my life or since college, Daniela was a colorful streak of newness. I guess I am the same to hers, though not as colorful yet.

Erica Palou Borromeo

2009-02-07T09:23:00.007+08:00

I know somebody who can tell on what day August 29, my birthday, or any date will land in year 2010 without looking at the calendar.

I don't think she cheats. How could she pull one on us? Aside from that it is unlikely she would be carrying a calendar in her bag, and one with a 2010 agenda at that, Erica, that's her name, is blind. It has not been made clear if she was born blind or if she steadily lost her vision through the years. The reality that she is blind has long been established in the clan nobody bothered to check anymore how she came to be.

When the question of her years is hung in the air, just how old she is remains elusive. When discovered, confusing. Erica is 24. She has the built of somebody in her 30s but her ways are characteristic of a boy in his early teens. Her mind is that of a storyteller. She is not a Benjamin Button.

The case is, it's not only Erica's vision that's impeded. She is a case of a mental condition. I haven't got the word for it -- but it shows in how she cannot fully connect herself to the rest of the world. Something more interesting and needful of her attention is happening in her world.

That's why when I challenged her to guess on which day August 29 will be in 2010, I first needed to call out her name 3x and fix her to my request and away from Lola Hermana, a character in her world who my sister and I taught she made up but later, whose existence was confirmed by Erica's yaya Alice. In the hours before I challenged her, Erica repeated the story of Lola Hermana like a broken record. She asked me a dozen times why I didn't sleep beside Lola and reprimanded me for what to her was despicable. When I reasoned out that Hermana is not my grandmother, she wouldn't take a word of it.

Another story that she put on repeat mode happened in her mother's Theresian days (in Cebu). Somebody in the family must have told Erica about it to point out where she got her easy flair for talking from. Or perhaps, it was her mother who relayed it to her in one of their few lazy Sunday afternoons together. So the story goes, in high school, Erica's mother was a usual in the nun's list of the most talkative, always eliciting from the robed teacher, "Ms. Borromeo, stop talking! You are very talkative Ms. Borromeo! Stand in front!" This story regaled Erica - the storyteller - like it was the first time she heard herself share it, and it worked her up to uninhibited laughter.

In the many hours we were in her company, when she spoke of her mother moved us the most. She speaks of her with such detachment she doesn't even know her by mama, or mommy, or mother. It's plainly Mita.

Tita Mita spent most of her life shuffling in and out of the country as a Flight Attendant at Philippines Airlines. In her last hours, it would be summed up that she spent more time looking after strangers than her own daughter. She died a few years, or months, short of a self-imposed deadline to wrap up her jet-setting life and start anew in a career that will allow her to settle down with her daughter. But cancer claimed her before she could reclaim those lost years that she should have spent with her daughter.

Now she could never.

Some sort of salvation in Erica's busy world (of Lola Hermana, etc) is that it keeps her away from awareness that she is already without mother, if the role of a mother ever registered in her world anyway. She continues to regale those within earshot (whether willing or not willing to lend an ear) with her stories and more recently with her singing. Out of the blue, she would charge into the tune of Rock-a-bye Baby with a different set of lyrics each time.

Her double case have mostly its downs. Her mental condition makes it difficult for her to sit still with braille. With it, she couldn't be trusted without her yaya Didit or yaya Alice (both have seen her since infancy). She has tantrums that she herself couldn't control.

But it also has its ups. Her condition gives her blindness vitality. She is able to see through the fixed darkness she wakes up to every morning, and seize whatever she can of the days as breathed, lived out, and seen by the people around her. With this, she is able to color her world with interesting characters and fascinating stories in a way that doesn't leave her in silence, in the corner, in obscurity. Whether fiction or real, she keeps everyone within earshot bracing for these stories.

After proposing my challenge, I readied myself to forgive in case she gets it wrong. But barely a minute passed before she answered.

"Sunday," she said, not guessed.

Correct, August 29 is a Sunday in 2010. Unlike Erica, I needed a calendar to confirm that.
~~~
May you rest in peace, tita Mita.

Ronald Manila (Off Air)

2009-01-14T11:11:00.004+08:00

Ronald Manila reports to a job of great import every day.

He is the Executive Producer of the Filipino Language Radio Program for the Special Broadcasting Service (SBS), the world’s first multicultural public service broadcaster. This post entails him to oversee all the affairs of the program; most essentially, in the selection and translation into Tagalog the news and lifestyle feeds coming from Sydney, Melbourne, and the Philippines, before they are transmitted to the household and drive-time radios of over a hundred thousand Filipinos in the land down under.

By reporting to work, he is in the service of his fellow kababayans who should find great relief in keeping abreast of the goings-on without having to suffer from deciphering Australian twang for hours.

However Manila is reminded of these, he remains unfazed and unaffected. He is quick to downplay his job and insists there is nothing extraordinarily great about it.

“I only present the news. I tell them as they happen and I am not allowed to make commentaries.”

Given Manila’s natural gift of chatter and quips, it must take discipline and restraint to comply with this set-up that’s virtually unheard of in the Philippine airwaves that are bombarded by lengthy analysis and jumpy conclusions from the announcers. But he maintains he would not trade his seat with anybody.

It should be noted that prior to his work at the SBS, Manila has never committed himself full time to any media outfit.

Straight out of Ateneo de Manila University with a degree in Business Management, he worked at the Philippine Department of Trade. His tenure there ended shortly as he submitted to the calling of the legal profession. Two years would elapse before he realized he heard the wrong calling. He dropped out of law school and first set foot in the corporate world through Nestle Philippines.

At his early 30s, Manila resolved to leave the Philippines with his then-pregnant wife and two daughters, and a young but growing PR firm that he himself started, to carve an entirely new life in Sydney. By leaving the country, he was not escaping to a greener pasture, but to a society that is more vigilant against shameless iniquities that his chosen industry exposed him to with no repentance.

“I was tired of the corruption, bribery, and dirty politics in the Philippines. Here in Australia, you barely hear news about these and under-the-table negotiations.”

Optimistic that his past work experiences would be easy baits for a job, he did not wait long to distribute his resume to any company in Sydney who would accept it. This effort would prove futile, but did not leave Manila or his family daunted.

“We were able to save up enough money in the Philippines to sustain us for a period in Sydney even without work, so I didn’t feel hopeless.”

It would take five years of bumming, as he likes to call his occupation in their first few years in Sydney, before SBS appeared in the picture and asked him to go on board. He has an impressive portfolio of freelance writing, for no less than the Philippine Star, Miscellaneous Magazine, and Business Magazine in the Philippines, and Café Society, Filipino Times, and Bayanihan Newsletter in Australia; but his niche was in the corporate world of marketing. It never occurred to him that one day, he’d be clocking in and out for a full-time work in media.

“It all somehow just came to me. I had a short stint at Fairfax Media through a Filipino friend who works there as section editor, then I started contributing to SBS.”

When SBS offered him his current post 7 years ago, he accepted it and never looked back.
He would say luck played the most important role in his breakthrough in Sydney’s discriminating job market. But his so-called bumming years would oppose that with good decisions and hard work. It was then he finished his 2-year Masters of Arts in Communications Management at the University of Technology in Sydney.

“My wife and I always believed that an education from an Australian university would put us at par with the Australians.”

This strong intuition ultimately proved both right. His wife, who also finished an MBA here, is now a Senior Financial Analyst at Rail Corp. Manila talks of her with deep respect and admiration, as he does of his daughters, two of which already in university.
As far as professional life is concerned, he goes by the oft-repeated advice, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” But at home, Manila wants his family to remain entrenched in Filipino-ness, such as attending Sunday mass together, staying close with the whole clan, and even in the most common of Filipino delights as Leche Flan on special celebrations.

He might not be too eager to make a big deal out of the favor he grants to thousands of Filipino radio listeners, but he looks snug and at peace with where he is and with what he has achieved. Self-regard is unnecessary, he would say. True enough, if it manifested in him at all, it’s only for having made the right decisions in his younger years and landing a job that he enjoys.

“I love what I am doing. This is it for me. I will do this until I retire.”

~~~
I met and interviewed Ronald Manila for the Bayanihan Newsletter, one of the two Australia-based monthly publications catering to the Filoz, a.k.a. Australia-based Filipinos. This was the first assignment given to me by the editor, Domingo Perdon, with whom I got in touch so I can make official use of my writing (unofficial use would be thru my personal blog and journal) whilst I was discovering the land down under.

We had the interview in his desk space at the SBS Building in St. Leonards. SBS or Special Broadcasting Service is the world's first multilingual and multicultural radio and television service. As I mentioned in the article, his job seems of importance, but he is the most relaxed boss I have ever met. I didn't even have to conduct the interview along the outline set by my guide questions; the moment we sat down was his cue to start talking. We started at 3 and ended at 6. I'm sure he would have proceeded had he not needed to go home early to dinner with his wife and daughters.

The whole afternoon passed as not an inch of an interview, but more like a long conversation, which was very unfortunate in my part since I was not able to jot down a single information, putting myself later to self-torture by way of writing the whole piece entirely out of my [poor] memory. It also didn't help that he waxed almost every verbal paragraph with jokes, both hits and misses.

A few days after our [official] conversation, Sir Ronald left for the States with his family. He said if not for the trip, he would have helped me find casual work. That would have been a great opportunity, alas an untimely one. He recounted how he extended the same help to my fave princess of funk, Ala Paredes, who is already based in Sydney with her family. He submitted to Ala's great talent, but as he would say, "Her ego is as big." Ouch.

On December 26, he asked for my permission to reprint my profile on him -- the second time around for the newspaper supplement the Australian Embassy is organizing for Australia Day. I hope he was serious. I said yes, of course.

my profile on Ronald Manila, as it appeared in the December 2008 issue of the Bayanihan Newsletter

Sir Leonilo Estimo

2008-09-04T10:53:00.011+08:00

My friend Vera informed me a few minutes ago that our teacher back in college, Sir Leonilo Estimo, recently died of kidney disease. I last saw Sir Estimo when I visited UP one afternoon two years ago. He was walking to the gate on the clearly defined sidewalk of the Cebu campus at a very slow pace, with his back slightly hunched. He was as how I remembered him from my second year (forced) elective class: polo-and-slacks, dark-skinned, thin (and seemingly getting thinner), a hint of gel in his wavy hair (i vaguely remember that stray curl on his forehead ala Elvis), and the black attache case. I did not go up to him and shared pleasantry because I doubted he remembered me at all.

I sucked in his Cebuano class. Though he was pleasant, he did not let me get off easily for my very bad reading in Cebuano and slow understanding of the figures of Cebuano language. In all honesty, I loathed his class. I am always racked with worry every recitation time, fearing he'd remember that I'm the same student who has stumbled over her Cebuano in a straight sentence countless times and has still not understood the intricacies of Cebuano grammar. It also did not help that his class was scheduled at 6 pm in the evening, or about the same time my brain is dead after the long day.

Despite these frustrations, I still gave him the respect that he (earned and) demanded. Sir Estimo's name is always dropped when it comes to the foremost Cebuano writers. He is a Don Carlos Palanca Awardee for Literature (Short Story in Cebuano). For most of my classmates (those with an easy grasp of the language), he was an effective teacher. But he never gave up on the rest. He never gave up on me. In return, I never intentionally missed his class. I never engaged in chatters with my chatterbox co-Mass Commers. I never burrowed myself under my cloth bag to nap (unlike other classmates). And I always tried, though unsuccessful, to ace his exams.

He was the first among the many Cebuanos I met who showed absolute regard for the Cebuano language. In his own right, he was an unparalleled advocate for it.

Rest in peace, Sir.

Maria Vita Tan Rodriguez
02-42101

Ida Mae Larrazabal

2008-09-04T10:37:00.004+08:00

i had a nice chat with my cousin by birth and all-time friend ida. i think i have to mention this since she's found this site and even bookmarked it. awww.... in grade school, we used to schedule house visitations on weekends. mostly it was at her house. no longer sure why exactly (was it because her father didn't want her out always?), but it didn't matter. her house sat on a huge lot, and there were many things we could do. we would play with her mother's plants, or run to the end of their back garden, to the small gate that opened to the groto with a huge Mama Mary facing the rest of the baranggay Nadongholan. or we would hang out in her room, scan books, talk, play with barbie dolls, go thru the collections she shared with her sisters. or stay downstairs and listen to the piano (with her playing on it of course). those were the good times.

she gave me chinchin in grade 5. at first, my parents didn't want chinchin but i cried my heart out. when they found out chinchin was a terrier, they changed their minds. chinchin wasn't chinchin then of course. my mother gave chinchin that name, to chinchin's despair. chinchin?!? but i would grow to love that name, or maybe, only the one who carried it.

chinchin made me fall in love with dogs. or maybe not all dogs. chinchin was the only dog i only really loved. the others were mere attempts to bring that much fascination back. but didn't work out with the ones who followed: poochie (she ran away) and now, twoshe (has her own world). chinchin was my bestfriend. she died in 2005 to a hit and park.

ok so that's what ida gave me. a friend.

she moved to cebu in high school. we would trade books, but distance wouldn't trade time with us. i think the most we saw of each other at that time was once a year, during summer. same with college. i moved to cebu and she moved to manila. i think we always knew we both still existed, and our past closeness made that matter (not once did she forget to greet me on my birthday). but that didn't change the condition that we were separated by distance, growth, interests, and well, dreams.

we would eventually finish schooling. ida's back in ormoc to prepare for another year of schooling (in scotland, no less). and i'm still stuck here in cebu to prepare for the great vague world (on earth, no less). we now talk more often than i ever remember we did. i'm sure we logged in more hours in grade school but i don't remember much from that. 8 years of near silence counted for something, i guess. but the good thing is that we both grew up from that. now, we're bringing into our friendship all that we have learned along the way. i'm glad at the end, we were to meet again.

~~~
I originally wrote this for my other blog, www.ilovemyupper.blogspot.com on February 13. On Sunday, September 7, 2008, Ida will be leaving for Scotland to study Music Technology and Acoustics at the University of Edinburgh. Have the time of your life, Id. Sorry if my broken promises and seeming aloofness may have given grounds for your doubts on what your friendship means to me. :)

Maria Carlyn Villarosa Rodriguez

2008-09-04T09:51:00.005+08:00

A person is often construed by his outward manners. An established social case or an old cliché, this works both goodly or badly against Maria Carlyn Rodriguez, depending on what people think of the feisty that is her.

Carlyn's (or Cai) presence involuntarily demands attention. Aside from that she relies on a big-boned, 5’8” frame and carries around a disarmingly pretty face, her voice registers more than the number of decibels that’s expected from women, she walks around with a gift for chatter, and more often than not, wears bubbly with a winning smile like both are her best accessories.

But these are only the Cainess hanging from her sleeve. Up close and personal, she is bright, sensitive, thoughtful, and insightful beyond her 20 years. As a friend, she has many descriptions: one who would drive anywhere to comfort you in your emotional downtime, one who sometimes forgets your birthday but otherwise, would have prepared a candle on a cupcake for you, one who doesn’t mind hours of dispensing sound advises when you need, one who listens all too willingly. If you stay long enough to take this side out of her, congratulations, you’ve just made one good friend.

Hope you also stay long enough to be a good friend to her. No question Carlyn is strong, independent, and decisive; these are clearly part of her feistiness. But she also has fears and a lot of questions, suffers from insecurity and sometimes, alienation, and most crucial of all, she is needy of somebody to whom she could show this weaker side of hers. She is just 20 after all, the age that holds the threshold to a major crossroad in life.

Other people may busy themselves more with noting down her flaws, which at many times, are hard to miss. BUT who doesn’t wake up late in the morning or arrive late at a gathering? Who doesn’t leave or misplace stuff everywhere? Who doesn’t get confused by suggestions? Who doesn’t get something wrong once in a while? Who doesn’t want to insist on what she believes in? Carlyn may fall victim to these more often than other people, but as I have earlier mentioned, this is not all that she is.

On a final note, Maria Carlyn Rodriguez is a bundle of sunshine whose light she shares and extends beyond her daddy Bingcol and mommy Judy, brother Vincent, and sister Alyssa, beyond her huge family scattered around Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao, beyond her high school and college friends, beyond the one guy she calls her sunshine (I’m assuming Cai :)… to everywhere that she blesses with her presence. She was born on April 29, 1987, and in behalf of all whose lives she came across with or she is yet to touch, we’re glad her sun shines at this corner of the world.

*** Carlyn is now a first year med student at the Cebu Institute of Medicine.
~~~

I originally made this in my cousin Carlyn's request for her school project. (so to my dearest sisters, don't feel bad i have not put you down in words yet)

Maya Azucena

2008-08-28T22:57:00.004+08:00

The funkiest woman I have ever seen on stage is Maya Azucena.

It would have been Joss Stone had she only staged a concert in Cebu.

Maya, however, beat her to it this summer at the Ayala Center. She was not only funky, but sexy, strong, and powerful. She rocked the stage so effectively that I had never seen the Cebu crowd respond as enthusiastically to virtual unknowns as it had to Maya and to her Jazz band. All Maya had to do was belt out song after song, and groove to her own music.

What talent!

I watched the afternoon revelry with my colleague, fellow jazz and funk enthusiast, and very good friend, Daisy. After the show, it was her who convinced me to go up to Maya with her and congratulate the obscure singer from Brooklyn for an electrifying set of original reggae, soul, and r&b music. Weirdly enough since I just confessed my jologosity in the same site (to the risk of my credibility as a registrar), I played squeamish and told her to go ahead alone. But thankfully (!), Daisy did not budge. Before I knew it, I was standing with Daisy in awe at Maya's beauty and funkiness up close.

And she was very pleasant -- not even the local unknowns would dare reveal that they actually have ample time to spend chit-chatting with their instant fans! As we were about to go, she handed Daisy and I a copy each of her calling card and the nicest pleasantry I've heard, "Let me know if you girls ever find yourselves in Brooklyn!"

Sure Maya!

My last words to Maya? "You are the funkiest woman I have ever seen on stage. I'll see you soon on MTV!"

(photos of Maya from Google Images)

David Henry Hwang

2008-08-28T00:42:00.008+08:00

I have sat beside Miriam Quiambao in Kenneth Cobonpue's Balou Sofa. A group photo was taken; in it, Miriam and I have GMA 7's heart-shaped Kapuso Sign on our chests. My huge grin also has a photo with Martin Nievera and Korina Sanchez. And have I mentioned Ethel Booba?

Let me get this straight: I have a penchant for celebrities and even more framing the moment (and unintentionally, the embarrassment) of my starstruckness over them. I thought my coming of age in college has triumphed over this borne-from-high school jologosity, but since I started working for a famous boss, I knew I was destined to continue rubbing elbows with them (celebrities) and that it's no longer my doing, but the cosmic forces (or showbizness).

It goes without saying that when it was time for me to goodbye, this fabulous part of my job was one of the most difficult to let go. Fair enough, the cosmos didn't let me without a last hurrah. On the Wednesday of my last week at work, I met Mr David Henry Hwang. Don't narrow your eyes and "Who?"

Wikipedia writes David Henry Hwang is a contemporary American playwright who has risen to prominence as the pre-eminent Asian American dramatist in the US.

His most famous work was M Butterfly, for which he won the 1989 Tony Award for Best Play. He also received a nomination for the Pulitzer Prize for Drama. It was his second. He received a third one this year for a partly autobiographical play that he finished in 2007.

As theorized many times, socially the world is small, and indeed, Mr Hwang happens to be a distant relative of my former boss. He dropped by our showroom with his two adorable kids, actress wife and the rest of his family while visiting here in Cebu after decades of having been based in the US.

Trusting that I will be civilized with a literati (and not my usual starstrucked), my boss introduced me to him, allowing an exchange of pretense proficiency in literature (in my part) that was remarkable in that I had mistaken Isak Dinesen as a he. The rest, I may say, I have to pat myself in the back for. I did not stumble through my English (which is always nervous and stumbling every time I'm with famousity). I carried on a conversation that he started, "What form of literature do you write in?". The exchange of English words was quite long that I even elicited from my boss, "Tabian man diay kaayo ni si Vita."

When I told Mr Hwang I enjoyed short stories, he recommended Isak Dinesen's Seven Gothic Tales. Like a literati myself, I also recommended Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things. When he seconded, I assumed he has read Roy so I went as far as suggesting that he make a play based on it. I don't remember if a lightbulb flashed over his head, but anyway, that was the best part of our conversation (allow me to continue calling our little chat as such). In fact, that was the best advice I had ever given anybody and I'm glad I dared to. How many times do you get to advise a Tony awardee? If in the coming years, he comes out with a theater adaption of the masterpiece and forgets to thank me, I shall thank myself. :)

Other than that he was generous enough to spend precious has-won-a-Tony-award minutes with a literature tyro like me and that he has won a Tony, it was his calm, no pretense demeanor that truly moved me with starstruckness. And like how all episodes with celebrities end with me, I had my photo taken with him (below, with Daisy).

Later that night, I saw Mr Hwang brisk-walking after his adorable kids in Metro Ayala's Department Store. I almost missed him in his gray shirt, grayer hair, and grayest black pants. Everybody else just brisk-walked past him. Lucky me, I knew the greatness in my midst.

Daisy Flores

2008-08-27T23:24:00.001+08:00

The life that Daisy Flores had and the life I am living are worlds apart. She is the type of person who I never would have met or hang out with had I not sat to her right for close to two years. Officially, she was my direct head in the Marketing department of the company I used to work in. Unofficially, she was a very thoughtful and fascinating friend to me as I was a good,... friend, and listener, to her.

She is naturally a chatter; so from the beginning, we did not have to gauge if we clicked or not. She simply chatted away; and me, being an equal chatterbox when provoked, our impulse to chat with one another was mutual. That's where our friendship stemmed from -- our chatting hours in the office. Busy or not, when the impulse was between us, no office rule or the most daring hush-hush from other officemates silenced our area.

Thinking about it now, I am quite amazed how the small perimeters that bounded us to our desks contained the life that Daisy had.

At 23, she was already living on her own. Though in many countries, 23 is already too late to live independently from one's parents, here in the Philippines, that's too early, or altogether unusual, since every singleton traditionally stays with their parents and sleep in the same bed they used to pee in until they get married. But Daisy, as she described herself, was never a sticker to the rules.

While I talked about a childhood of dressing up Barbie Dolls and talking to myself, Daisy only remembers that she was out of the house playing street games with the boys in the neighborhood more than she was in it, that her mother had to remind her several times that she was a girl so she had to learn to stay put (a tireless reminder that always fell on deaf ears). She does not remember ever owning a Barbie Doll, but she can talk with vivid images racing barefoot and climbing mango trees with her friends.

Her rebellion appears to be inborn, but it only started to alarm her parents when she reached high school. As Daisy shared to me, in her entire school life, she was never the good student. If her teachers knew her at all, it was because she frequently cut classes or missed it entirely. She never really enjoyed school, she said, which surprised me because Daisy speaks with insight and profundity. Later, I would understand that this was not out of formal learning, but the experiences she hoarded from a life of unparalleled free-spiritedness.

Growing up, she would defy more house rules than her parents thought she would dare to. She would tell me about taking extra clothes with her to school so she need not go home to change out of her school uniform for afternoon disco. She would go home on school nights past 9, to her father's questioning and mother's reprimands. That did not change anything. Throughout her teenage years, it wouldn't be her rebel streaks that would grow out of this persistent evening episode, but her parents admonitions.

At 19, she put her study on hold and spent 6 months in Vietnam multi-working as DJ, bartender, and bar and restaurant consultant of some sort. Even before she left, she was already juggling work in Cebu's top clubs and her Interior Design studies at the University of the San Carlos. It was her choice to earn on the side as it gave her a measure of independence.

Her mind was set on that school can wait, while opportunities cannot. In her early 20s, she lived in Germany for a month with the family of her German ex-boyfriend. This boyfriend asked for her hand in marriage. Though she liked him very much, she said no, packed up, and returned to the Philippines.

Upon the prodding of her father, she went back to school and finished her degree. However, this did not cure her of restlessness and sense of misadventure. She moved out of her parents' house and shared an apartment with a French woman (who has long since moved back to France but continues to be a good friend to this day). She would dress up in boots (before anybody else in this tropical island had the guts to), short skirt, and a cowboy hat to meet and party with her friends. Once, she talked about the few solo expeditions she made to Vudu without planning with her friends.

"Unya Daise, kinsa imo kauban didto?" I asked her.

"Kung naay kaila, muoban ko nila," she replied.

"If wala?"

"Then I make new friends!" She answered.

Indeed, Daisy's circles of friends are so wide and varied that despite the size and population of Cebu City, I actually know a few people she also knows. Another colleague, Setty, hangs out with a lot of people from the artsy-fartsy whom Daisy hangs out with as well. Even our boss calls a lot of friends from the design and high society that Daisy calls hers as well. I am friendly by convenience, but Daisy is sociable by any terms.

Her circle of foreigner friends is of United Colors of Benetton-caliber. She had a French housemate. She hangs out with Italian business owners and managers and Spanish designers (mostly from the manufacturing industry set). She once dated a Palestinian expatriate, an Indian businessman, and a Spanish immigrant. She now lives with a New-York born and raised Honduran who taught her jazz, music history, fine cuisine, South American cultures, and foreign policies. Most importantly, he taught her to see things from the world's point of view.

She met Walter [the Honduran] on her job as furniture designer. She got her job with Kenneth Cobonpue while working freelance as furniture designer. If she's kept still, she is an Interior and Furniture designer. But Daisy, in her free spirit, is a jill of all trades and a woman of the world -- though she hasn't really been around the world.

Her natural rebel did not survive 30+ years because the world was charming to her. Daisy did not have it easy, emotionally, physically, and financially. But this story would not have the tone of confidence and strength if long before, she had already been defeated. There were many instances that her story would have gone towards that direction: when she ran out of money, when her relationship with troublesome men got her in even more trouble, when juggling work, health, dependent parents and brother, and generally, life with its complicities with love, money, and fate pushed her closer to her limit.

I've seen Daisy cry and belt her troubles out. What amazes me is she does this with dignity. In the 20 months we were seatmates, I've never seen her in a bad hair day and bad dress day. She cried over a seemingly perfect relationship gone awry, but she did so with a pretty white top, pinstriped shorts, and creamy pair of wedges. A hotel had mistaken her for peculation, but she pulled herself out of the confusion in a colorful dress. She did not cower, run, and hide from a single trouble. She confronted it all head-on, but with enough humility to accept that her past experiences may have qualified her as a jill of many trades, but honed her a master at none.

If there was one thing that her rebellious youth taught her to perfect, it's how to drown out the loads of "I told you so" and walk on with, "What won't kill you will only make you stronger." Now Daisy is no longer the rebel that she used to be, a gift of age and maturity to her parents and to herself. She continues to live by the moment but with much consideration of the future. Recently, she opened her fashion and accessories boutique called D + F Lifestyle Shop in ML Quezon Street, Cabancalan, Mandaue City.

She is still juggling, but she's long grown out of her misadventures. It's an unanticipated ending to the carefree life she once led, but the realization that her spirit is no longer free has brought her salvation, and the world, a new woman who sticks to the rules, but her own.

~~~
Talking to Daisy has really been one of the most interesting use of my free time in the office. Sometimes, our unrelenting arguments would crash against each other's and end in a 1x1/2 meter cold war. But in all cases, we would work it out over a mention of jazz music, a story from Walter's days in Louisiana, or hear each other's say on a piece of news.

One skill from her youth that Daisy never lost is partying. She is careful now though; foregoing liquor so she can take medicines for her allergies.

Freline

2008-07-24T21:28:00.001+08:00

a lot of us may overtime at work, but nobody gets lesser rest time then Freline. She punches in at before 8 am. She has to leave before 4 pm so she won't be late for her class, which ends at 9 pm. It takes her almost an hour to commute to her home. When she arrives, she still has to do her part of the household chores plus her schoolwork.

yet, she comes in at the office with a smile. she greets everyone with a half-diffident smile. she meets our guests at the showroom to offer drinks with a well-practised, "Would you like anything to drink, Sir?" and with a smile so shy yet visibly there. she serves coffee or juice with a smile. and nobody even tells her to do so.

Freline is one of the young college-level girls we have taken to calling the "show room girls," though technically she is the only one in-charge of keeping the showroom spic and span while the other girl, Mirali, is in-charge of the office. At home, she is one of 13 children. Like her name, her 12 siblings have monikers that start with the letter F.

"Ka creative sad sa imo mama, nakahimu siya'g 13 names nga nagsugod og letter F?!" I exclaimed when she told me. I suggested that her mother may have got her name wrong. Perhaps, her name was inspired by the Sound of Music's Fraulein Maria (which literally translates to Little Miss Maria). she said no, and that her mother really intended her to be called Free-line.

Aside from her mother's naming method, we didn't talk any more about her family. She told me about her plans. She is taking up Hotel and Restaurant Management so she could carry on with her dream (not just a plan) to work in a cruise ship. This was before the schoolyear 2008-2008 started. At that time, she told me she would stop working at the company when school starts so she could focus on her studies. But well into the 1st half of the semester, she's still there, feather-dusting the furniture, sweeping the floor, waiting on the guests. I need not ask her why as she volunteered herself, "Dili nalang ko muhunong ate uy kay para makatabang ko sa ako mga ginikanan."

I wonder how many college-level employees are struggling out there to carry on with their dreams. I wonder how many among these struggling college-level employees actually make it through and realize their dreams. I'm positive that Freline is certain about what she wants, how much she wants to get it, and what the stones she needs to step on to arrive there are. But I couldn't really tell; each of us could only take so much. With Freline's circumstances, how much really could she take? I could only hope she has enough strong nerves in her litheness to stop her from letting go.

I hope what she earns at the company will be enough to sustain her and her dreams. Or better yet, I hope she gets wait-listed in the company's newly-implemented scholarship program (for which I have to salute my boss, Sir Kenneth). I hope this program is not discriminating against those in the lower positions. What matters, isn't it, is not the distance one is at ahead of the others, but how those behind and anybody is willing to get ahead in life. I see this willingness in Freline by the way she carries out even the most menial tasks and by the way she talks about life like its a cruise in the Caribbean. I hope life sees her on the same cruise.

Tabata Burquez Luczay

2008-07-14T23:00:00.002+08:00

The first thing that fascinated me about Tabata was the lone whimsical earing drooping from her left ear (or was it from the right ear?). If I remember it correctly, the design was a miniature dream catcher with a feather poking out from a lock. It was so pretty and exotic. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought she bought it from a fetish shop in Africa or Brazil. But yeah, maybe. I wondered then if such earing was sold solo or if Tabata intentionally took off the second of the pair to keep up with a trend back home (it was a few meetings later that I finally got to ask her why she wore only one earing).

I first saw that earing on her on the first time we met. Our cousin Joevince has been telling us about his hot Brazilian girlfriend whom he met while modeling in Singapore, at the same time not encouraging our imagery of a hot Brazilian by showing us only obscure photos in his phone. Not long after he started bragging, he finally brought her with him here in Cebu. My sister Iana and I were binging at Bigby's in Ayala while she and my cousin Joevince were having salad in the same restaurant. I clearly remember she made beso-beso as she was introduced to us. With a faded and loose racerback top and a pair of shorts that ended rather shortly on legs that seemed to go on forever, and of course, the pretty earing, Tabata was easily a stunner at first sight. you could tell a smile when it's forced on the wearer, and Tabata's was not. We decided there and then that we liked her.

Over time, as her visits to the Philippines became as regular as Joevince's, we discovered more things about Tabata. The greatest facet that made all of us in the family instant fans (even Mamita) is that she is real and very grounded. In Singapore, she is counted as a supermodel. She's walked on the most important stages, appeared in the most important fashion spreads, and attends the most important fashion events. But she does not parade this success in her walking portfolio (herself). She does not let who she is and where she came from hide behind her supermodel.

On the contrary, Tabata is a homebody, as Joevince once attested. For a homebody though, she has the ease and comfort to blend in amongst strangers... and in strange places! She is even quite a talker, but not the kind that cuts in a conversation abruptly. She is generally the meek type who bubbles up when provoked. When she is asked, she doesn't throw one-liner answers that are honestly useless in attempts of initiating conversation. She just doesn't talk, she converses. Just as well, because her life so far is very interesting. She once slept over in our place in Ormoc during Summer. For breakfast, we talked about her life before she started modeling and after that.

Tabata started traveling abroad to model at age 16. Her first experience was in South Korea, and since then, she has lived and worked in Hongkong, Japan, and Singapore. She says a lot of girls from her small town just outside Sao Paulo seek escape from their meager lives in modeling. She is one of them. This is probably why there is not an inch of prima-donna in her. Or the exhausting been-there-done-thatness common of those who have been there and done that. The way she talks of it, modeling is only a job, not something she can crave a crown from for herself and wear it like a tiara to show everyone. [But she really has no choice. With her long legs, a killer body, and a pretty face, she's a natural give away].

Since Tabata travels a lot, she doesn't keep a lot of things with her, even clothes. Whenever she buys, she gives away. She's even sent us a bunch of tops and jeans, and thankfully, her style is all loose and laidback, so her size 0 didn't matter. We asked her if she ever get freebies from photo shoots and she said she can, but doesn't want to. She tries to keep the weight of her luggage at the same scale. She loves to read but can't buy books, so when she's in a country, she borrows from a friend and tries to finish it before she has to leave.

I asked her once where she really is based, and she answered not in any place. In one moment, she's in Singapore, the next, she's completing a contract in Japan. The last time we heard from her (June this year), she's still in the Land of the Rising Sun, but will be traveling to Germany anytime soon for another opportunity. I followed up with, "Don't you miss home?" Tabata answered that she does, but her being a traveler is almost innate in her. Among her siblings, she's the different one, and has been likened to her grandmother who stemmed from a gypsy clan in Europe.

For somebody whose lifestyle depend on a profession that determines success at face value, Tabata loves to touch base with her inner soul. On our way to a Boracay jaunt in 2007, she was glued to a Dalai Lama book on the Meaning of Life. She commented that during the turbulent part of the ride, she was on the chapter that tackled death. I've heard a lot of people talk about loving sunsets (me, included), and they never fail to capture the phenomenon in paragraph-full of romantic superlatives. When I asked Tabata, she only said of the Boracay sunsets, "I love sunsets here... because it's different every day." In a clearing high up on a hill in Biasong with a majestic view of the Ormoc Bay and the city, Tabata, while looking at the landscape, sighed and told Joevince, "I want to stay in a place like this for good."

In Tabata, we have met different people: the Brazilian, the supermodel, the traveler, the person. I don't think I have met a lot of people like her. But definitely, I have read stories of her kind. The kind that wander the world in pursuit for the best that life can offer (Pico Iyer calls them Nowhereians, as in people who finds home in everywhere). Most people find their best in just one place; a rarity find theirs in breaking through the unknown. Tabata just happens to be lucky because along with finding her best in the unknown, she is earning, all by what she can be. But what she really marks the world with (at least, with us) is who she is.

Tabata as a supermodel

Joevince, our cousin, with Ting, my brother and the woman of the post, Tabata, grooving to Summer Place's fun during our Boracay Trip in 2007. It was where Carlyn famously blurted out, "Tabata, if Joevince won't marry you, we will marry you." She was speaking in behalf of the whole family, of course.

P.S. Joevince and Tab broke up in January this year. They remain friends.
P.P.S. I asked Tabata why she wears her dangling, feathery earing one at a time, and she answered, "Because if I put on another one, it would be too much."

Mamita

2008-07-10T21:52:00.006+08:00

I honor my grandmother today on her 76th birthday.

MY GRANDMOTHER, YOUR GRANDMOTHER
originally published in Cebu Daily News

There are people who are easy to write about; say, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Nelson Mandela. It helps that their lives are laid out in a platter like Wikipedia, but it is having read so much about them that makes it easier. We are already familiar with the range that writing on them entails as to not downgrade, overrate, or falsify their lives.

The stories of our grandmothers would have been easier baits to a blank page. No persistent editing and the four sides of a webpage bind it to any limitation. In place of Wikipedia are their lives as they share it with us. But too much familiarity, I dare say, breeds the apprehension to even start, for fear I might miss something. However, as grand-motherhood hits a woman at any point later in her life, so should her story begin.

It was an August day 27 years ago that first introduced my mamita to the role of a grandmother. This she would play 33 times over again and would master throughout the years. What she shares with all of us and we to her is best exemplified by an unassuming cross-stitch frame that hangs on a wall at the beach house. Stitched beside a lovely illustration of little kids cuddling with their grandmother are the words, “Had I known my grandchildren would be this fun, I would have had them first.”

She delights in seeing us all gathered together. We do not go by the holiday calendar and wait for December or birthdays to schedule jamborees; ordinary weekdays are options, but Sundays at the beach has become a family tradition. In these gatherings, she is a queen who is difficult to pin down to her throne as she insists on taking care and making sure all is prepared. As we would discover, being up on her feet is her energizer, and sitting down a power-drainer.

To her, traveling for more than 5 hours in one day, from one city to another, is just like a walk in the beach. It is because of this that having her around is as much a pleasure as it is a relief; it means taking time off from her city-hopping.

Yes, she is still a working woman at 75, a choice that reflects that time in her 20s, when she was called back to the province from her college studies to work for the family. Ever since, mamita has always had her hands all over things, from the farm to her business, to her 10 children, and now to her 34 apos. An aunt once quipped that when God was raining skills on earth, mamita was not able to bring an umbrella.

To her children, she is an amazing mother. To us grandchildren, she is a wonder grandmother. To all of us, she is the foundation on which the strength of our family stands on.

There is an image that’s etched in my mind from six years ago. Seeing her daughter trying to sit up in bed, mamita briskly walked to her bedside and bent down to help her up. It was a motherly instinct that was brushed off as quickly as it was offered. My tita’s cancer has reduced her spirit to frailty that she had a hard time moving in any way, but she did not accept the help as she knew it might aggravate mamita's back pains. That moment’s exchange between a mother and a daughter imprinted in my mind the selflessness of love, and just how much mamita has of it coming out of her as there is going in to her.

Perhaps of all that she has given us, her greatest legacy would have to be our parents. It is but the natural order of things that they came before us; but it is a blessing of a great woman that they came to be the kind of parents any mother would have been proud of having brought up.

This is the first that’s written about mamita, but some of you would have probably known of her kind and witnessed yourselves in your own grandparents. Theirs is the universal story of selflessness and love. It runs along the same lines as that of King, Jr. and Mother Theresa. But while these modern day heroes are heralded by a page or two in Wikipedia and the history books, the stories of our grandparents are heralded by our lives and the many ways that they have touched it.

edited by Ms Annabelle Tan-Amor

Kenneth Cobonpue

2008-07-08T22:20:00.002+08:00

So far in my life, I have already come close to two people who have been featured in Time Magazine. For someone who reads Time like it's a graded homework, this is big. Like, whoa!

One is Carlos Celdran; the other hired me on my 21st birthday. Allow me to brag and introduce you to my boss, Kenneth Cobonpue. I wonder why but it's easier to introduce him as the designer of the bed that Brad Pitt bought, than the designer to whom Time has given the credit, Rattan's first virtuoso. Most possibly, it's that more people watch Brad Pitt than read Joel Klein. Okay.

For almost 2 years, I've had the honor to be seated two office chairs away at KC's left. But to be honest, the honor gradually disappeared starting on the third or fourth month. By the time it has completely faded away, KC has been relegated to just a boss. The Time recognition is just a page off the magazine, laminated and placed against a mini-standee on the production head's desk, and Brad Pitt a vital namedrop to make his way to celebrity level. Good news though, he's a one-of-a-kind boss.

First, I don't call him boss. I am among the 10 or 15 people in the office who insist on calling him Sir; the rest are comfortable with Kenneth, which he very much prefers by the way. Second, I've never heard him scold anybody. This I can say is the most remarkable about him. Believe me, the company has suffered enough production failures and mixed-up shipments to give him the right to belt it out.

With this being said, as a head of the company, he's pretty laid back. He gets tense when it's show time (international furniture shows) or when there's a negative complaint in his inbox (like of a badly warped rattan chair or a hularo that was not sufficiently secured around the metal frame), but his amateur sarcasm is about as far as his reprimands go -- as subtle [albeit slightly mean] as a sneer. But not always he cares enough to respond this way to every problem. Most of the time, he will just hear you out. Speak, and he shall understand.

Quick, find me a boss whose boss-ness sounds like mine and I shall gift you with the award-winning Kenneth Cobonpue original Dimple chair. Criteria are as I have already mentioned -- plus, plus, plus his desk should not be cordoned off by white walls and a requisite knock on the door. He should also be available for consultation whenever one feels like he needs it. He should be able to sit on a table with his office workers and eat puso, barbecue, and ngohiong. He should have enough respect for local showbiz denizens as to allow them instant Chiquita stools or a tour around the showroom with himself curating. He should be busy enough as to leave to his clueless Marketing Officer, yours truly, the job of answering interview questions from important magazines (*humbled*).

And lastly, he should be a design genius. No outpouring of words about him is ever complete without re-upgrading his image from just a boss to the rattan virtuoso that Time Magazine has called him. He gave the dented can a pedestal in the Lolah, an easy armchair that the most prestigious design award given in Asia (the Design for Asia) has noticed. In Croissant, he turned the French breakfast staple into a living room spectacle. The Pigalle easychair is his interpretation of the human curves.

Not all of us has a boss who turns the mundane into brilliance, and gets Brad Pitt to appreciate it. What more, Time Magazine to plaster you on a full page feature. For my first job, I have it pretty good.

Bien Maria Tan Rodriguez

2008-07-06T07:30:00.014+08:00

Bien Maria was a stranger to my world until she was three days old. We picked her up at an orphanage in Borongan, a small city in Eastern Samar that's 5 hours away from Ormoc. The nuns who run the place left her nameless for the first three days, so my mother unofficially christened her Bien Maria the moment she scooped her from a bed she shared with four other babies and arranged her in her arms.

It was quite a funnily memorable setting. My mother was expecting a light-skinned baby since she was told the baby would be, but in the room where all the baby orphans were, there was only one who fared lightly, and it was Francisco, a boy. The nuns instead pointed out to her a crying infant with Hershey's Symphony chocolate dark-colored skin. My mother laughed off the skin-reference mistake with the nuns, but it was too late to back out. She was already smitten. (Don't fault my mother for being skin-discriminating. While she was growing up, her dark color against her older sisters' lightness made her the butt of jokes.)

Our pick-up did not take long as we had another 5-hour ride ahead. For the long trip, Bien was dressed in a sleeveless shirt and a lampin secured around her bottom. The orphanage's budget does not afford them the convenience of diapers, and my mother completely forgot about that part (and the powdered milk, the bottles, etc etc). More than 20 years has passed since she last put a diaper on a baby and Bien forced her to an instant re-orientation to that motherly-at-an-infant-stage job.

Jackie, Bien's biological mother, was there the whole time we were readying Bien to a life. She stunned me with her seeming aloofness. She dressed up Bien at a half-hurried pace, with an expression on her face so blank you wouldn't be able to draw any emotion from it. If there was, then maybe I'm just bad at drawing.

Before we left, she handed my mother a letter that detailed her past affair with a 20 year old guy, her pregnancy, her intention to give away her baby, and her deep gratitude. This letter was all the authorization we needed to prove to the court that we did not kidnap Bien. I could not remember what my mother handed in return, if she did.

It was Jackie's mother who cried the tears of a woman who is to be separated from her child. As we were leaving, Jackie remained at a corner and looked elsewhere. You would think she was built for this kind of drama, and structured in her was a restraining order for any amount of tears to escape from her, no matter how hard-knock the circumstance is. That, or maybe her baby (Bien to us) was just another toy from a thrift shop that she no longer found a need for. Jackie was only 15, after all. Knowing that she's only at the prime of her teens allows her nonchalance a bit of integrity.

On the way home, we stopped by a convenience store and bought a bottle for the milk, a can of powdered milk, and diapers. Good thing we were convinced not to wait until the 5-hour travel was over, because just as we were nearing the exit of Borongan, we got stuck for almost an hour when up ahead a 2-lane dirt-road, an accident stalled the traffic. Well, actually, it was one-lane at that time since they blocked off the other one for pave-men at work. (I forgot what kind of accident it was.) It was a perfect time to be stuck in traffic. We had a stranger with us, and we were taking her, her three days so far in the world, and the rest of her days, home.

During those three days (the only days in Bien's life that we missed), we were half-excited and half-reeling at the prospect of a new member in the family. We only had three days to take in everything -- the announcement/invitation made by my grandmother who saw the baby on the day it was born, the discussion between my parents, the decisioning c/o mother (since she is always the one who decides on domestic matters). Thus, we forgot about the milk, diapers, etc, etc. The only crib Bien ever slept on was a basket my mother used to put fake fruits on. My mother paraded Bien to the family and to her friends on that basket.

The inevitable changes a new member (and a very young one at that) would bring to our family were left unlisted and unspoken. But even before Bien arrived, my siblings and I, my father, and my mother knew what they were. There will already be 7 plates on the dining table. There is a kid we will have to consider in every travel itinerary we prepare (amusement parks!). All of us -- except for pop and my brother Ting -- will have to be acquainted with baby bottles, diapers, cans of powdered milk, infant cries in the middle of the night, turns to clean up the baby or feed the baby in case yaya is not around, etc etc. (But I do remember that one time when Papa prepared a bottle of milk for Bien, as demanded by my mother... awww.)

Bien is now 6 years old. Through the years, we discovered how trivial the changes we expected were. Anybody could have easily guessed them; the psychologist could have easily pointed them out to us. The greatest gift that Bien gave us is happiness. Not to say we were living in gloom before she arrived, but there's a remarkable difference in happiness that a kid brings with her. Its face has more sheen, its laughter comfortably louder, its constancy more trustworthy. Even without her actually promising it, we are sure could always hook ourselves on this happiness. She's the sunshine that is always there, even if we want to sleep more.

We have come across a lot of strangers whom we now call friends, but only a few have made sisters of them. The most important stranger in my life laughs like it's the happiest day of her life, makes funny faces, has a comic dance, intervenes in conversations, has 20 sleeping positions, snores like my pop, obeys my mother like her lifeline, can shift from friendly to grumpy in a second, sees colors in all aspects of her life, and the most marvelous of all her blessings, she lights up our home. We adopted this stranger and now, she's among us.

Our Little Ballerina, who learned LOVE 3 days late

~~~

What She Learned at 2

Mother: How many mommies do you have, Bien?
Bien: Two, mommy Jackie and mommy Janet.
Mother: Why do you have two mommies?
Bien: Mommy Janet was praying to the Lord for a baby so mommy Jackie gave me to her.
Mother: Bien, what does adoption mean?
Bien: Love!