LILIA Lopez has not met Dr. Ralph Tyler but she shares the same passion with the great visionary that "teaching is not just a job," and that it is "a human service and must be thought of as a mission."
Lopez was one of the passengers aboard a van that would take the Sun.Star Bacolod staff home from San Carlos City after covering the inauguration and opening of a beach resort in Sipaway Island last Saturday.
After the casual talk and inquiries, we learned that Lopez is a teacher in a remote school, so she said, in Don Salvador Benedicto--the Binowayan Elementary School, for five years. She used to handle Grade 6 students, but was assigned to teach Grade 1. The school is located some six kilometers away from the main highway and nurtures 338 students from Grades 1 to 6 with only eight faculty members.
Lopez also taught at the Pandanon Elementary School, the central school, she said, of DSB, for 17 years. Lopez has been teaching for 22 years and has committed to what she addressed as her mission.
"I've always wanted to teach. But a friend inspired me to teach children who live in the mountains. The challenge is there," she said.
"Teaching children living in the urban area is far different from teaching children in far-flung areas. I always believe that education starts at home, this is true to the urban setting. However, in the mountains, most parents are uneducated. There is no one to teach the children to write and read. We, teachers, have to start from scratch, from introducing the children to writing materials, and especially teaching them how to handle the pencil," she said. And because most of the parents are farmers, the school faces a problem during planting and harvest seasons where most of the children help their parents in the task.
"We cannot blame the parents for not permitting their children to attend classes during those seasons. We cannot claim that it is child labor. It is their source of living. It is what nourishes them," she said.
She also finds it difficult to educate children about hygiene. Some of my students come to school wearing the same clothes they wore the other day.
I have also to remind them to cut their nails short, but most families don't own a nail clipper, she added.
Commitment
Lopez lives in Bacolod City.
She said she has a house located near the school. She financed its construction.
"I leave DSB on a Friday afternoon and go home to Bacolod. I have to check on my children and also hear out their needs. I am the only one sustaining their needs," she said.
She is proud of her five children, among whom she already produced a teacher like her.
"I would like my daughter to also teach in a remote area but it would be her prerogative if she feels she is most suited there," she added.
She has one boy and four girls, two of them are in college and the other two are still in the grade school level.
"I go back to the mountain Sunday afternoon so I will not miss the flag ceremony the next day. We have to be role models even in this small matter," she said.
Humbled
She considers herself a staunch disciplinarian when it comes to her students.
"But that was before, when I was handling Grade 6 students. My students in Grade 1 taught me to be humble. A teacher should also be a psychologist in order to understand the feelings of her students," she said.
"I used to scold my Grade 1 students when they are not behaving. However, they won't come back to school the next day, worse, for a week after that. I have learned to be gentle in explaining to them where they have done wrong or when they misbehave," she added.
DepEd flaws
Lopez said that the Department of Education's designated Learning Tasks, a prepared lesson plan provided by the department, has been designed adept to the urban scope.
"Teachers in the rural areas have been grappling with the problems in learning competencies of the children. The Learning Tasks provided to us are just too much to the rural setting," she said.
The Learning Tasks usually assign materials for the children to bring to school.
"But where would the children living in the mountain secure materials like plastic wrappers of food stuff, styropor and other materials? They would be ordinary to the urban area and you can find them even in the garbage but in the mountains, it is impossible to secure those things," she lamented. Sometimes, she said, teachers would just be creative and do the next possible thing-improvise.
"Teachers should be creative in presenting their lessons. Unavailable materials could be replaced by other materials. However, it would require lots of thought and experimentation," she said.
Lopez, however, has no problem in teaching Mathematics because a foundation from Japan has provided the school with teaching aids.
TV programs
Lopez shares the children cannot avail of the lessons offered by educational television programs, as the school does not even own a television set. The children had to be taken to our co-teacher's house to view the programs and we have to pay P20 for the use of the generator, she said. The generator, rented for P20 an hour, has been endorsed to the barangay years ago and provides electricity to about 30 to 40 homes.
Challenge
"I find it a shame if my student cannot read or write yet by September," she said.
Some of her students don't have school supplies, so sometimes she lets her students borrow pencils. Sometimes she shells out some of her personal money to buy materials such as cartolina and other teaching aids.
"I have to do it if I want my students to learn," she said.
Well, if Alessandra de Rossi could inspire a group of children to sing with zest and passion in the movie Munting Tinig, Lopez has been inspiring little children to achieve more of what is expected of them.
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod March 17, 2004)
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Force and Posture: The American Soldier Beyond the Battlefield (Final Copy for Essay I)
On the afternoon of September 17th I witnessed an imposing event held at the Blue Cross Arena in downtown Rochester . The program was highlighted by performances of patriotic music, dance, and drill teams from across North America – the 2006 Rochester International Marine Tattoo. It was more than the musical extravaganza I expected it to be as marching bands and bagpipe teams from Europe and Canada also showcased their own brand of music. Nothing, however, had prepared me for another event which happened before the drums rolled, the bagpipes belted out their distinctive sounds and the batons were waved.
The master of ceremonies requested all soldiers, Marines, airmen, sailors and Coast Guardsmen who came to attend the event to stand up and be recognized. I thought it would only be an enumeration of the United States ’ armed forces. A marching band played in the background, subtle at first then progressed into a tremolo. The lights were set to a serene brightness, enough to fill the huge arena and to identify the soldiers of America . As the emcee called on to them by group the drums thundered. There they were - the soldiers of America , composed and regal, like eagles perched on top of a cliff. The audience, numbering several thousand, roared. My eyes feasted on the multitude of proud men and women, old and young, some were dressed in civilian clothes while others resplendent in their uniforms, being cheered by their compatriots, congratulated by comrades and hugged by their families.
I was but a speck in the multitude, clapping and cheering these hometown heroes. There is a compelling happiness to witness such honor given to these valiant men. It may not be as formal as the other forms of ceremonies, there may not have been any politicians present or even the President but it was honorable enough as the soldiers’ presence was inimitable. They are the men and women who had gone to war, suffered wounds and the wrenching pains of killing their enemies who were really their brothers, sisters, sons and daughters.
A man in front of me stood up. He was frail and his hair was thin. The back of his hands were wrinkled and he looked tired. He was wearing a suit. He must have been 80 years old. His legs trembled as he balanced himself. Standing two rows below were younger men in civilian clothes, sturdy as a brick wall. Standing five rows away from us was a young woman dressed in military clothes, commanding and proud. She did not clap but stood tall and proud. The old man’s wife cheered and looked at her husband. Her smile was as brilliant as an atomic bomb explosion. His legs wobbled as he clapped willfully. It was then that I spoke to myself, in that little district of my mind where I am most comfortable, to witness the difference of time and space. In that multitude, the older soldiers had to keep their balance while the younger ones stood solid. Who was more proud – that old man who has served his land in the Vietnam War or the young soldier who went to Iraq ? I looked at the old man and realized that men, despite their age, skin color and beliefs are still created equal. While the crowd continued to cheer, I tried to capture the hefty economy of that moment that I should keep in my memory.
When the Marines were requested to stand, an old man in his sixties sitting three seats away from me laughed and said, “Will anyone help me stand up?” Nobody offered any help but he managed to lift his weight of some 250 pounds on a 6’2” frame. He did not clap; instead he put his right hand on his chest. I watched him intently, beaming with glee. I was moved by such gesture. His will proved to be humongous. I am moved by such men. I wanted to shake his hand but I was afraid I would break the litany of the moment. What if he was my father, would I have been proud or be ashamed that he had participated in the war? I imagined myself seeing him with a gun, his uniform tainted with blood, would I have been proud of what he had done? I looked at my hands but I cannot imagine myself going to war. There I was, a man amongst other men, not even an American, in a country considered to be the most powerful in the world, watching a soldier digest the intensity of the moment, being celebrated by his countrymen.
The American Soldier, chosen as Man of the Year in 2003 by Time Magazine, is an enigma. He is a structure to reckon with. Other nations see him as an arsenal to restore peace. But in that moment, amid the roar of the multitude, he is a creature of meaning – his body might be a battle machine but his heart is that of a human being. Under the lights of the auditorium everyone had to dissect him, to probe whether his heart is still with his country or has he given up the fight for freedom. And I, a mortal, wondered if he will continue to serve his country even if his heart has been ripped by the war. With the enormous responsibility to carry out his master’s commands, will he still be able to live as proud as he was when he first entered the academy? I thought of other men who are presently at war against ambiguity, who need not carry guns, who only have their voices as armaments, who need not go to the battlefield but carry the same passion for the liberation of mankind, to leave atrocity in the past and not be haunted by it, to savor the peace that their forebears had longed for.
After the momentous standing ovation subsided we all sat, content with the rapture of the event. Nothing, since my arrival in America in July, has given me such a feeling of riotous satisfaction like honoring the American soldier in the International Marine Tattoo.
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod Oct. 16, 2006 under my column, The Mango Generation)
The master of ceremonies requested all soldiers, Marines, airmen, sailors and Coast Guardsmen who came to attend the event to stand up and be recognized. I thought it would only be an enumeration of the United States ’ armed forces. A marching band played in the background, subtle at first then progressed into a tremolo. The lights were set to a serene brightness, enough to fill the huge arena and to identify the soldiers of America . As the emcee called on to them by group the drums thundered. There they were - the soldiers of America , composed and regal, like eagles perched on top of a cliff. The audience, numbering several thousand, roared. My eyes feasted on the multitude of proud men and women, old and young, some were dressed in civilian clothes while others resplendent in their uniforms, being cheered by their compatriots, congratulated by comrades and hugged by their families.
I was but a speck in the multitude, clapping and cheering these hometown heroes. There is a compelling happiness to witness such honor given to these valiant men. It may not be as formal as the other forms of ceremonies, there may not have been any politicians present or even the President but it was honorable enough as the soldiers’ presence was inimitable. They are the men and women who had gone to war, suffered wounds and the wrenching pains of killing their enemies who were really their brothers, sisters, sons and daughters.
A man in front of me stood up. He was frail and his hair was thin. The back of his hands were wrinkled and he looked tired. He was wearing a suit. He must have been 80 years old. His legs trembled as he balanced himself. Standing two rows below were younger men in civilian clothes, sturdy as a brick wall. Standing five rows away from us was a young woman dressed in military clothes, commanding and proud. She did not clap but stood tall and proud. The old man’s wife cheered and looked at her husband. Her smile was as brilliant as an atomic bomb explosion. His legs wobbled as he clapped willfully. It was then that I spoke to myself, in that little district of my mind where I am most comfortable, to witness the difference of time and space. In that multitude, the older soldiers had to keep their balance while the younger ones stood solid. Who was more proud – that old man who has served his land in the Vietnam War or the young soldier who went to Iraq ? I looked at the old man and realized that men, despite their age, skin color and beliefs are still created equal. While the crowd continued to cheer, I tried to capture the hefty economy of that moment that I should keep in my memory.
When the Marines were requested to stand, an old man in his sixties sitting three seats away from me laughed and said, “Will anyone help me stand up?” Nobody offered any help but he managed to lift his weight of some 250 pounds on a 6’2” frame. He did not clap; instead he put his right hand on his chest. I watched him intently, beaming with glee. I was moved by such gesture. His will proved to be humongous. I am moved by such men. I wanted to shake his hand but I was afraid I would break the litany of the moment. What if he was my father, would I have been proud or be ashamed that he had participated in the war? I imagined myself seeing him with a gun, his uniform tainted with blood, would I have been proud of what he had done? I looked at my hands but I cannot imagine myself going to war. There I was, a man amongst other men, not even an American, in a country considered to be the most powerful in the world, watching a soldier digest the intensity of the moment, being celebrated by his countrymen.
The American Soldier, chosen as Man of the Year in 2003 by Time Magazine, is an enigma. He is a structure to reckon with. Other nations see him as an arsenal to restore peace. But in that moment, amid the roar of the multitude, he is a creature of meaning – his body might be a battle machine but his heart is that of a human being. Under the lights of the auditorium everyone had to dissect him, to probe whether his heart is still with his country or has he given up the fight for freedom. And I, a mortal, wondered if he will continue to serve his country even if his heart has been ripped by the war. With the enormous responsibility to carry out his master’s commands, will he still be able to live as proud as he was when he first entered the academy? I thought of other men who are presently at war against ambiguity, who need not carry guns, who only have their voices as armaments, who need not go to the battlefield but carry the same passion for the liberation of mankind, to leave atrocity in the past and not be haunted by it, to savor the peace that their forebears had longed for.
After the momentous standing ovation subsided we all sat, content with the rapture of the event. Nothing, since my arrival in America in July, has given me such a feeling of riotous satisfaction like honoring the American soldier in the International Marine Tattoo.
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod Oct. 16, 2006 under my column, The Mango Generation)
Summer (Essay I)
MY FIRST summer in America is a tree that bore fruits. But like any other tree, its fruits have to undergo processes before it can be picked and served for eating. Before these fruits ripen the tree must first experience the harshness of the season -- the wrenching heat, the roughness of the wind. Thus, my first summer in America was filled with fruitful memories, memories that will not only linger in the little corner of my mind's district but will bear another fruit, or perhaps grow another tree that will feed my memory.
In the afternoon of September 17 I was invited by my sponsor to witness an imposing event -- the 2006 Rochester International Marine Tattoo, an event that features performances of patriotic music, dance, and drill in North America (think about the movie Drumline). Held inside the vast Blue Cross Arena in downtown Rochester, New York I was not only treated to a patriotic musical extravaganza -- as it was also participated in by marching bands and bagpipe teams from Europe and Canada -- but with a respect to the American soldier, a feeling which I have not experienced before. In my own naïve sensibility, as I am a passive witness to such gathering, I thought I would just see a program that will fill my ears with music but even before it started I was compelled to hold my breath as the master of ceremonies requested all soldiers, Marines, airmen, sailors and Coast Guardsmen who came to attend the event to stand up and be recognized. A marching band played in the background and the lights were set to a serene brightness, enough to fill the huge arena and to identify the persons who are going to rise. As the emcee called on the members of the armed forces to arise I cannot help but be mesmerized. There they are, the soldiers of America, composed and regal, like eagles stoic on top of a cliff, watching an audience of three thousand behold their majesty. My eyes feast on the multitude of proud men and women, old and young, some dressed in civilian clothes while others resplendent in their uniforms, being cheered to by their compatriots, congratulated by comrades and hugged by their families. I am but a speck in the multitude, clapping and cheering on, but my feelings regale with the audience. There is a compelling happiness, a sheer joy, to witness such men being given honor. It may not be as formal as the other form of ceremonies, there might not be any politician present, not even the President, but it was honorable enough as the soldiers' presence was inimitable, men and women who had gone to war, suffered wounds and wrenching pains of killing their enemies who are really their brothers, sisters, sons and daughters. A man in front of me stood up, the emcee had called on the soldiers. He was frail, his hair thin. He must be 80 years old. His legs trembled as he balanced himself. Standing two rows below were younger men in civilian clothes, sturdy as a brick wall. Standing five rows away from us was a young woman dressed in military clothes, commanding and proud. She did not clap nor turned around. The old man's wife cheered and looked at her husband with sincere eyes and a smile as brilliant as an atomic bomb explosion. His leg wobbled as he clapped willfully. My sponsor and I tried to catch him but he persisted and we cheered. His wife looked at us and beamed. It is then when I spoke to myself, in that little district where I am most comfortable of, to witness the difference of time and space: the older soldiers had to keep their balance while the younger ones stood stolid. Who is more proud -- that old man who has served his land in the Vietnam War or the young soldier who went to Iraq? Next, the Marines were requested to stand. An old man in his sixties sitting three seats away from me laughed and said, "Will anyone help me stand up?" Nobody offered any help but he managed to lift himself -- some 250 pounds and a 6'2" frame. He did not clap, instead he put his right hand on his chest. We watched him intently, beaming with glee. I am moved by such gesture. His will proved too humongous. I am moved by such men. There I was, a man amongst other men, not even an American, in a country considered to be the most powerful in the world, watching soldiers digest the plurality of the moment, being celebrated upon by their countrymen. The American Soldier, chosen as Man of the Year in 2003 by Time Magazine, is an enigma. He is a structure to reckon with. Other nations see him as an arsenal to restore peace. But in that moment, amid the roar of the multitude, he is a creature of meaning -- his body might be a battle machine but his heart is that of a human being. Under the lights of the auditorium everyone has to dissect him, to probe whether his heart is still with his country or has he given up the fight for freedom. And I, a mortal, wondering if he will continue to serve his country even if his heart has been ripped by the war. With the enormous responsibility to carry out his master's commands, will he still be able to live as proud as he was when he first entered the academy? Will he still live with sanity after witnessing his fellow soldiers die in combat? After the momentous standing ovation subsided we all sat, content with the rapture of the event. Truly, though I attended wonderful events this summer, like watching the Beach Boys at Canadaigua, the Walnut Hill International Driving Competition, visited another nation like Canada, spent glorious time at Six Flags in Darien Lake, nothing had given me a feeling of riotous satisfaction like honoring the American soldiers in the International Marine Tattoo.
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod Oct. 03, 2006 under my column, The Mango Generation)
In the afternoon of September 17 I was invited by my sponsor to witness an imposing event -- the 2006 Rochester International Marine Tattoo, an event that features performances of patriotic music, dance, and drill in North America (think about the movie Drumline). Held inside the vast Blue Cross Arena in downtown Rochester, New York I was not only treated to a patriotic musical extravaganza -- as it was also participated in by marching bands and bagpipe teams from Europe and Canada -- but with a respect to the American soldier, a feeling which I have not experienced before. In my own naïve sensibility, as I am a passive witness to such gathering, I thought I would just see a program that will fill my ears with music but even before it started I was compelled to hold my breath as the master of ceremonies requested all soldiers, Marines, airmen, sailors and Coast Guardsmen who came to attend the event to stand up and be recognized. A marching band played in the background and the lights were set to a serene brightness, enough to fill the huge arena and to identify the persons who are going to rise. As the emcee called on the members of the armed forces to arise I cannot help but be mesmerized. There they are, the soldiers of America, composed and regal, like eagles stoic on top of a cliff, watching an audience of three thousand behold their majesty. My eyes feast on the multitude of proud men and women, old and young, some dressed in civilian clothes while others resplendent in their uniforms, being cheered to by their compatriots, congratulated by comrades and hugged by their families. I am but a speck in the multitude, clapping and cheering on, but my feelings regale with the audience. There is a compelling happiness, a sheer joy, to witness such men being given honor. It may not be as formal as the other form of ceremonies, there might not be any politician present, not even the President, but it was honorable enough as the soldiers' presence was inimitable, men and women who had gone to war, suffered wounds and wrenching pains of killing their enemies who are really their brothers, sisters, sons and daughters. A man in front of me stood up, the emcee had called on the soldiers. He was frail, his hair thin. He must be 80 years old. His legs trembled as he balanced himself. Standing two rows below were younger men in civilian clothes, sturdy as a brick wall. Standing five rows away from us was a young woman dressed in military clothes, commanding and proud. She did not clap nor turned around. The old man's wife cheered and looked at her husband with sincere eyes and a smile as brilliant as an atomic bomb explosion. His leg wobbled as he clapped willfully. My sponsor and I tried to catch him but he persisted and we cheered. His wife looked at us and beamed. It is then when I spoke to myself, in that little district where I am most comfortable of, to witness the difference of time and space: the older soldiers had to keep their balance while the younger ones stood stolid. Who is more proud -- that old man who has served his land in the Vietnam War or the young soldier who went to Iraq? Next, the Marines were requested to stand. An old man in his sixties sitting three seats away from me laughed and said, "Will anyone help me stand up?" Nobody offered any help but he managed to lift himself -- some 250 pounds and a 6'2" frame. He did not clap, instead he put his right hand on his chest. We watched him intently, beaming with glee. I am moved by such gesture. His will proved too humongous. I am moved by such men. There I was, a man amongst other men, not even an American, in a country considered to be the most powerful in the world, watching soldiers digest the plurality of the moment, being celebrated upon by their countrymen. The American Soldier, chosen as Man of the Year in 2003 by Time Magazine, is an enigma. He is a structure to reckon with. Other nations see him as an arsenal to restore peace. But in that moment, amid the roar of the multitude, he is a creature of meaning -- his body might be a battle machine but his heart is that of a human being. Under the lights of the auditorium everyone has to dissect him, to probe whether his heart is still with his country or has he given up the fight for freedom. And I, a mortal, wondering if he will continue to serve his country even if his heart has been ripped by the war. With the enormous responsibility to carry out his master's commands, will he still be able to live as proud as he was when he first entered the academy? Will he still live with sanity after witnessing his fellow soldiers die in combat? After the momentous standing ovation subsided we all sat, content with the rapture of the event. Truly, though I attended wonderful events this summer, like watching the Beach Boys at Canadaigua, the Walnut Hill International Driving Competition, visited another nation like Canada, spent glorious time at Six Flags in Darien Lake, nothing had given me a feeling of riotous satisfaction like honoring the American soldiers in the International Marine Tattoo.
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod Oct. 03, 2006 under my column, The Mango Generation)
The Sad Art of Shoveling Snow
Outside the rain falls. Before it hits the ground it becomes snow. Snow piles up like the meerkats under their burrows on a frisky night. I am left to clear the driveway. I have chosen to do the work.
I am half-way done in my task. I just came in the house because my waist is aching. Is it my age? Possibly. The cold draft also left me with no choice but to retreat and take a breather. A cup of cocoa will do.
Later I am to read Ahmed Essop's short story "The Hajji" as we will have a quiz on Monday.
I am off to the kitchen.
WebMD.com advises: Don't shovel your own sidewalks and driveway unless you're physically fit. Well, I'm five fit and six inchis tol. And I'm Physical. Joke joke joke!
Okay, time to have some hot drink.
I am half-way done in my task. I just came in the house because my waist is aching. Is it my age? Possibly. The cold draft also left me with no choice but to retreat and take a breather. A cup of cocoa will do.
Later I am to read Ahmed Essop's short story "The Hajji" as we will have a quiz on Monday.
I am off to the kitchen.
WebMD.com advises: Don't shovel your own sidewalks and driveway unless you're physically fit. Well, I'm five fit and six inchis tol. And I'm Physical. Joke joke joke!
Okay, time to have some hot drink.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Why I Continue To Read
I am frustrated with the outcome of one of my classes at Brockport today. I thought we will be discussing the merits and demerits of J. California Cooper's short story "Sisters of the Rain" however our professor just discussed what was obvious - the contents of the story. She was more concerned of the time-period as to when the story would have (had) occured. I don't think that time element really mattered in this case as we are to review the context of the story. Does the story has any literary value?
What I know is I made good in the quiz.
Anyway, this frustration should not pull me into the depths. I will continue reading.
What I know is I made good in the quiz.
Anyway, this frustration should not pull me into the depths. I will continue reading.
The Cherry On The Icing
Now it can be told: it is Ilan vs Marcel in the finals of Bravotv's Top Chef. Again, one of my first picks to win the competition was chosen to enter the final round like Jeffrey Sebelia in Project Runway. Though I have to admit that I changed my mind more near at the ending of the competition. My basis was ATTITUDE. On the other hand, the two men's attitudes were my criteria as to why they should be the winners. And the fact that bought have airs in theme and so sure of their works make them interesting. But Marcel and Jeffrey are new novels on a bookstand, you could never understand why you want to grab them and browse through their pages. I rooted on Marcel at first because of his confidence (and that Son Goku-like hairdo) but I later felt that he should improve his attitude toward others. Afterall, you need to interact with people in this kind of job. Jeffrey, I think, appealed to me as someone who could bring something new to the market but also his attitude is too much. In the final runway I was in-love with Laura Bennet's and Uli what's-her-surname's clothes. Okay, too much for this individualistic outlook.
Project Runway is more appealing, to my opinion, than Top Chef. Though we are lured into watching both shows because we want to know who will be eliminated however Project Runway has the visual appeal; primarily because it is a fashion design competition. How can the viewers fully appreciate Top Chef when they cannot even taste what the contestants cooked. While in Project Runway you can see the finish product and appreciate and judge it. Can we really be sure that when one of the judges say that the food tasted salty it does mean salty? What is salty to one is not the same taste-appreciation to another. We may appreciate the visual presentation of the food but then again it is something to quench one's palate.
But let us just see who wins. Afterall Bravotv has been coming up with a good deal of shows since last year. Now it is coming up with an interior design competition next Wednesday. Hmmm, will it outshine HGTV's Design Star? Speaking of Design Star where is David Bromstad? We're craving to see his new show (and that well-chiseled chest)! This guy is truly brilliant.
And HIS HIGHNESS TIM GUNN will be having his own show! WOW!!! Now we will see and hear sane commentaries on a real expert. Kodus Tim! (as if he knows me).
Project Runway is more appealing, to my opinion, than Top Chef. Though we are lured into watching both shows because we want to know who will be eliminated however Project Runway has the visual appeal; primarily because it is a fashion design competition. How can the viewers fully appreciate Top Chef when they cannot even taste what the contestants cooked. While in Project Runway you can see the finish product and appreciate and judge it. Can we really be sure that when one of the judges say that the food tasted salty it does mean salty? What is salty to one is not the same taste-appreciation to another. We may appreciate the visual presentation of the food but then again it is something to quench one's palate.
But let us just see who wins. Afterall Bravotv has been coming up with a good deal of shows since last year. Now it is coming up with an interior design competition next Wednesday. Hmmm, will it outshine HGTV's Design Star? Speaking of Design Star where is David Bromstad? We're craving to see his new show (and that well-chiseled chest)! This guy is truly brilliant.
And HIS HIGHNESS TIM GUNN will be having his own show! WOW!!! Now we will see and hear sane commentaries on a real expert. Kodus Tim! (as if he knows me).
Thursday, January 25, 2007
I Cried For Veil
Fact is: I came in late to one of my classes today. Embarassed but not wanting to miss class I entered the room, though conscious of the stares of my classmates (I hope they were thinking that I was brave enough to come in). I am thankful enough that my professor was so kind to accept me (well, he has no choice afterall, I was in the room and ready to listen to the lesson). I got confused with my schedule. I thought my class starts at 2:30 p.m. as I have another class at Brockport also at 2:30 MWF. I was in the library, enjoying reading a couple of books and later our textbook. I was confident enough that I wasn't late for the class. I was never late to any of my classes before. Never. I cannot afford that. But, sometimes you just trip off. Sigh.
However, I became frustrated upon knowing they were having a quiz on the extent of how much you know about current events. I know most of the answers, schucks, though time contraint prevented me to think clearly, even forgetting that Condoleezza Rice is America's Secretary of State. Well, I know that Hillary Clinton is a senator from New York but I don't know who is the other one. I am glad that the professor asked about the actor who played Truman Capote in the movie Capote (I am actually preparing a critique on two Capote movies and Capote's book "In Cold Blood", also using resources edited by Harold Bloom). Well, Dan Brown is the author of The Da Vinci Code and John Grisham wrote several legal thrillers. I should read the 2007 Almanac I bought.
Anyway, I must go to sleep now. I have to wake up at 5:00 a.m. I am ready to discuss the merits and demerits of J. California Cooper's short story "Sisters of the Rain" in my International Fiction class using Jose Garcia Villa's criteria of what a good short story must possess. I though think it is a commercial story than a quality story.
Oh, imagine these lines posted on my tomb:
my lightning wears no shroud.
it descends from heaven acute,
on tiptoes and fever uninsured
then breaks intact.
That sounds familiar. Hmm... that's part of my poem published in a magazine back home.
Oh well
However, I became frustrated upon knowing they were having a quiz on the extent of how much you know about current events. I know most of the answers, schucks, though time contraint prevented me to think clearly, even forgetting that Condoleezza Rice is America's Secretary of State. Well, I know that Hillary Clinton is a senator from New York but I don't know who is the other one. I am glad that the professor asked about the actor who played Truman Capote in the movie Capote (I am actually preparing a critique on two Capote movies and Capote's book "In Cold Blood", also using resources edited by Harold Bloom). Well, Dan Brown is the author of The Da Vinci Code and John Grisham wrote several legal thrillers. I should read the 2007 Almanac I bought.
Anyway, I must go to sleep now. I have to wake up at 5:00 a.m. I am ready to discuss the merits and demerits of J. California Cooper's short story "Sisters of the Rain" in my International Fiction class using Jose Garcia Villa's criteria of what a good short story must possess. I though think it is a commercial story than a quality story.
Oh, imagine these lines posted on my tomb:
my lightning wears no shroud.
it descends from heaven acute,
on tiptoes and fever uninsured
then breaks intact.
That sounds familiar. Hmm... that's part of my poem published in a magazine back home.
Oh well
Testament (Draft 2)
The fluorescent lamps gave the room a vibrant appeal. They’re bright like the sun. My grandfather looked at one of the lamps then looked away. He had been in the hospital bed for two weeks. I saw him look at the lights once again, studying it as if it was a piece of evidence.
“At last, we can go home. It is morning!” my grandfather exclaimed.
It was two in the morning. The sun was still in his bed snoring. The windows were closed but the air was cold. Outside the wind was like an ice queen caressing every corner of one’s bones.
“It’s just two in the morning,” I told him.
“What? Can’t you see the sun? Pack up the things as your grandmother is waiting for us,” he said, pointing to the lamp.
I wasn’t sure if I should smile or be sad. I looked at my grandfather. My eyes were misty. My mother was sleeping in the chair, her head on the edge of the bed. I placed a blanket on her shoulders. We both were weary but one has to stay up at nighttime to look after my grandfather who was suffering from lymphatic cancer. He was admitted to the hospital three weeks ago for a biopsy. Only a few months ago he had been vomiting. He refused to eat anything except some noodles and rice porridge. He said he felt pain in his stomach whenever he consumed food. When he could no longer bear the pain he sought help at home; and we brought him to the hospital. The doctor’s primary diagnosis was a simple case of an ulcer as my grandfather had been a slave of alcohol for years. However, it had been five years since he consumed his last beer. The biopsy result, on the other hand, showed a malignant form of cancer of the lymph nodes. My mother did not hide from my grandfather the result of the histopathologic analysis but she assured him that he will be all right. It was but a short two weeks when he said he could no longer bear the pain he was suffering. He had lost weight. He now looked like a hermit who has lived on a diet of shrubs and water. My parents tried to reach my mother’s siblings but no one was kind enough to offer any help. My grandmother, who came to live with us after she had her stroke, that left her paralyzed on one side of her body, asked my mother not to bother her children. She said someday they will regret it for abandoning their parents in times of their suffering. We decided to admit my grandfather for treatment.
It was my grandfather’s third time to be admitted to the hospital since his diagnosis of lymphatic cancer. We were lucky as I took my medical technology internship at this public hospital. I knew all the wards and most of the staff. We had no problem getting access through medical and laboratory examinations. While other patients had to wait for awhile to have their blood samples extracted I did the extraction on my grandfather myself. However, as it is a public hospital patients have to be taken cared of by their families; a reality that is persistent in the Philippine setting. We could not complain as we had no money at that time. We’d spent a huge amount for my grandfather’s medicine and other special laboratory tests. My mother’s siblings did not even care enough to check on us as to whether we needed financial assistance. My mother and grandmother did not complain.
I looked at my grandfather once again. He was still staring at the fluorescent lamp. It seemed like punishment for the patients in the male surgical ward as the lights could not be turned off. The medical staff said it was to ensure that every patient could be monitored well.
“Wake your mother. There is no time to loose,” my grandfather said. He tried to get up but he had become frail. His once sturdy body, that once massive body which we liken to an oak tree, had shriveled. His legs were swollen. His skin had turned pale; it was once dark from the long exposure to sunlight. He was a farmer. I looked at the man who once carried me on his back as a school-child when the river’s water rose waist-deep and I had to get to school. I am his first born grandson and he took me to school every day in my first grade. I looked at the man whom I admire and love helpless and suffering. That moment it was my time to repay him for his goodness. I told my mother earlier to contact her eight other siblings to replace us for a night so that we may regain our strength and attend to my grandmother who was left at home with my father. She, however, said if they have the heart to take care of their parents let them come to where they are and offer help.
“Grandpa, you need to calm down. We will eventually go home. We had already asked the doctor’s permission. You will soon see grandma,” I told him and raised my hand to let him see the time on my watch. Then I realized how cruel I was. My grandfather never received an education and couldn’t read nor tell the difference in time. But he was time conscious, though he had depended on the radio for the time. Though he wore a wristwatch when he went to some gathering or visiting a distant relative in another town, he only wore it as an accessory.
He would not budge. “Nurse, nurse!” he yelled. His voice was loud enough that it woke some of the patients and their families. Everyone in the ward looked at us. I turned red with embarrassment. My mother woke up and tried to console my grandfather. He would not believe that it was just past two in the morning.
“Let me sit down,” he said. As soon as my mother and I positioned him on one corner of the bed he slipped to the floor.
“I want to go home,” he said. “Where’s my bag?”
We watched him crawl on the floor. He did not want us to touch him. The nurse came and shook her head. She knew that my grandfather had been sleeping during the day and was awake all night. She understood our condition and asked the other patients and their families to understand.
“Where are you going, Sir?” the nurse asked.
My grandfather did not look up but stopped crawling as it made him tired. “I am going home, young lady. My wife is waiting for me. My daughter and grandson will take me home,” he said.
“But Sir, it just two in the morning,” she said. She motioned us to help her put my grandfather back to bed. He did not resist. He had great respect to people working at the hospital and often greeted the doctor with glee during the daily ward check-up. He even agreed to go back to sleep.
We sighed.
At nine in the morning we were in the lobby of the hospital. My grandfather was in a wheelchair, his bag which contained his personal belongings on his lap. He looked at every person who was passing by as if a child going on a vacation. He wore his favorite cap. Earlier, he had me check that all his belongings were in the bag, primarily, the local solution he bought at the drugstore which he used to treat people and a native concoction which he discovered that treat people’s ailments. My grandfather was a well-known faith healer who treated people with simple ailments – from sprain to backaches to fever. He was good at that and though he toiled the land for vegetables their daily sustenance was supported by his healing.
We boarded the taxi by eleven. We never said a word on our way home. There was a glow in my grandfather’s eyes.
* * *
When I was eight years old my grandfather whipped me with a stem of an Ipil-Ipil plant after he had learned that I took a bath in the pond where the water buffalo wallowed. I ran to my grandmother for safety. It was just one whip but it stung. I was the only grandchild to receive such a whipping.
“Your grandfather was the most affectionate person I ever knew,” my grandmother said, while brushing my hair and wiping away my tears.
“He just doesn’t want you to get sick. No, your grandpa loves you. Do you understand?” she asked. I nodded but my butt hurt.
Later in the evening we gathered in the living room to watch the news. My grandparent’s house was a two-storey home made of wood. My father was working in Kuwait. My mother, my little brother and I lived next door. As my mother loved to chit chat with the neighbors and visit friends I was always left with my grandmother.
The news showed the EDSA Revolution. The Marcos government was toppled by civil unrest. President Ferdinand Marcos fled to Hawaii after hundreds of thousands of Filipinos marched to the streets and barged through the gates of Malacanang Palace. We watched on the television the throng of people taking over the President’s official residence, shouting with joy as they scourge every nook of the place in a hope to capture the Marcos family. They were too late.
They only found Mrs. Imelda Marcos’s three thousand pair of shoes.
“Not again,” my grandmother said.
“Why, grandma?” I asked her. Wondering how such a matter can be worrisome I enjoyed every moment of it as there was no school.
“Not another war. I am done with that,” she said. She motioned me to come to her side. She was sitting on the floor stitching Nippa leaves to a long strip of dried bamboo used to make thatched roof. They were going to replace the roof of the pigpen, my grandmother’s source of income.
“What’s wrong, grandma?” I asked.
“You never knew how difficult it is during a war. I was thirteen years old when the Japanese occupied the Philippines.”
“What did you do grandma?” I asked, smelling the Areca nut she was chewing. Other children were afraid of her because they thought she’s a monster because her teeth were stained red from chewing the nut.
“Oh, it was terrible. The Japanese soldiers killed most of the men and raped the women. So, we fled to the mountains. We lived in a cave. You know how terrible that was?”
I nodded, trying to absorb her story.
“They burned our houses. They killed our parents. I was the third among the brood of five but I took the courage to help my brothers and sisters. Our neighbors took us with them to the mountains. We lived in the cave for a while then built huts later. We fed on wild boars and vegetables and fruits. A few months later I descended from the mountains and went to the city. There were no roads but I followed the tracks of the men who went to see if the war was over. You don’t know how terrible it was. I am lucky the Japanese soldiers did not kill me when I went to the city. They even buried people alive!”
“Grandma, how could you say such a thing?” I gasped.
“But it is true. When everything had calmed down but, oh, the Japanese men were still here, I came back to sell some of the sweet potatoes we cultivated in the mountain. I also traded some of the vegetables and fruits I’d brought for salt and sugar. It took me a day to reach the city. Sometimes I would stop at a cemetery to rest and sleep overnight.”
I clasped my hand on my mouth. “How terrible! Weren’t you scared grandma?”
“Oh, you should be scared of those who are alive rather than the dead,” she said. “Some of the men I knew died of hunger. They cried ‘Mother! Mother!’ They say when you are about to die you’ll see your deceased mother.”
“Tell me more grandma.”
“We were taught by our neighbors to read and write. We used banana leaves as our paper but we changed to dried bamboo as the leaves would wither.”
“How did you and grandpa meet?”
She smiled. She motioned me to sit down and face her. “It was after the war. I was sixteen. We left the mountain but never lived in the city. Your grandfather lived in another town. We met at the river where we washed our clothes. He and his friends were passing by but stopped when they saw us women. I never knew what love meant until I met your grandfather. He was so handsome in his white shirt. Oh, I remember. We talked but I never knew what love meant at that time. What I remember was I did not ask him to leave me alone. After that he frequented our place. He would bring along his friends and make a harana. A serenade! One of his friends would strum the guitar and your grandfather sang love songs. We would exchange songs. It is a kind of a game. Whoever runs out of songs loses. It took your grandfather several trips to our house before he won. When he won I accepted his marriage proposal.”
“You are something grandma. Can you sing me one of your songs?”
“Now, there is no need to trick me into singing a song for you. I sang them all when you were still a baby. Oh, you were such a cry-baby that I could never hush you down. Your mother was lucky I took care of you. Now, go outside and play with your friends. I have to finish this roof.”
* * *
My grandparents greeted each other like long lost lovers when we arrived home. They had been married for more than fifty years. I grew up in their house which was surrounded with fruit-bearing trees. They once had a vast vegetable plantation. My grandmother raised pigs and goats.
After a brief talk, my grandfather asked for his favorite soup and requested that I feed him. He slept soundly that night. I thought that my grandfather would recover from his burden. But at two in the morning the next day he woke my mother saying he could not breathe. We all panicked. My father and brother got the car ready to transport him back to the hospital.
“No. I won’t go back there. Never!” my grandfather said. He was gasping for breath.
We gathered around his bed hoping that he will recover. My father held him while he was sitting up. He faced my grandmother who was sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Tears ran down his cheeks.
“My Leonisa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have to leave you,” my grandfather said to my grandmother.
My grandmother did not cry. She’s a strong lady. My mother, on the other hand, was crying out so loud. My brother went out to the balcony. He tried to call my mother’s married brother and sister who were living near us. They said they’d come but never did.
“My Papa. My Papa!” my mother said the words over and over. She touched his father’s face and cried in anguish.
“Here they are,” my grandfather said. He enumerated the invisible beings who he said had come to fetch him- his dead brothers and sisters. I watched my grandfather slowly slip away. In that inevitable moment I stood there helpless. I did not know what to do or what to say. What I remember was I tried to console my mother.
My grandfather looked at the wall and cried, “Motherrrrrrr!!!” and he breathed his last. I hugged my grandmother and cried. It was my first time to witness someone die. But what hurt most was that it was my own loved one.
* * *
My mother’s brothers and sisters and their children were present at my grandfather’s wake. At last, they showed up, I said to myself while arranging the flowers sent by friends and relatives to the funeral home. I noticed a big wreathe beside my grandfather’s coffin. It was from my wealthy uncle. I wanted to spit on it but my grandmother wouldn’t be happy with my actions. There it was, an expensive wreathe beside my grandfather’s coffin! When we had hoped that they send us financial assistance they never offered any. I looked around the room and stared at my uncles and aunts who were laughing, some playing mahjong and card games.
One of my uncles approached me. “Where is your mother? Doesn’t she know that this should be a family affair? It was as if she doesn’t care!”
I wanted to punch him but I controlled myself.
“God knows that my grandfather doesn’t need us to be here as we had been with him during his darkest hour,” I said aloud, enough for everyone to hear and stop their activity. They stared at me with hatred.
I left the premises relieved.
“At last, we can go home. It is morning!” my grandfather exclaimed.
It was two in the morning. The sun was still in his bed snoring. The windows were closed but the air was cold. Outside the wind was like an ice queen caressing every corner of one’s bones.
“It’s just two in the morning,” I told him.
“What? Can’t you see the sun? Pack up the things as your grandmother is waiting for us,” he said, pointing to the lamp.
I wasn’t sure if I should smile or be sad. I looked at my grandfather. My eyes were misty. My mother was sleeping in the chair, her head on the edge of the bed. I placed a blanket on her shoulders. We both were weary but one has to stay up at nighttime to look after my grandfather who was suffering from lymphatic cancer. He was admitted to the hospital three weeks ago for a biopsy. Only a few months ago he had been vomiting. He refused to eat anything except some noodles and rice porridge. He said he felt pain in his stomach whenever he consumed food. When he could no longer bear the pain he sought help at home; and we brought him to the hospital. The doctor’s primary diagnosis was a simple case of an ulcer as my grandfather had been a slave of alcohol for years. However, it had been five years since he consumed his last beer. The biopsy result, on the other hand, showed a malignant form of cancer of the lymph nodes. My mother did not hide from my grandfather the result of the histopathologic analysis but she assured him that he will be all right. It was but a short two weeks when he said he could no longer bear the pain he was suffering. He had lost weight. He now looked like a hermit who has lived on a diet of shrubs and water. My parents tried to reach my mother’s siblings but no one was kind enough to offer any help. My grandmother, who came to live with us after she had her stroke, that left her paralyzed on one side of her body, asked my mother not to bother her children. She said someday they will regret it for abandoning their parents in times of their suffering. We decided to admit my grandfather for treatment.
It was my grandfather’s third time to be admitted to the hospital since his diagnosis of lymphatic cancer. We were lucky as I took my medical technology internship at this public hospital. I knew all the wards and most of the staff. We had no problem getting access through medical and laboratory examinations. While other patients had to wait for awhile to have their blood samples extracted I did the extraction on my grandfather myself. However, as it is a public hospital patients have to be taken cared of by their families; a reality that is persistent in the Philippine setting. We could not complain as we had no money at that time. We’d spent a huge amount for my grandfather’s medicine and other special laboratory tests. My mother’s siblings did not even care enough to check on us as to whether we needed financial assistance. My mother and grandmother did not complain.
I looked at my grandfather once again. He was still staring at the fluorescent lamp. It seemed like punishment for the patients in the male surgical ward as the lights could not be turned off. The medical staff said it was to ensure that every patient could be monitored well.
“Wake your mother. There is no time to loose,” my grandfather said. He tried to get up but he had become frail. His once sturdy body, that once massive body which we liken to an oak tree, had shriveled. His legs were swollen. His skin had turned pale; it was once dark from the long exposure to sunlight. He was a farmer. I looked at the man who once carried me on his back as a school-child when the river’s water rose waist-deep and I had to get to school. I am his first born grandson and he took me to school every day in my first grade. I looked at the man whom I admire and love helpless and suffering. That moment it was my time to repay him for his goodness. I told my mother earlier to contact her eight other siblings to replace us for a night so that we may regain our strength and attend to my grandmother who was left at home with my father. She, however, said if they have the heart to take care of their parents let them come to where they are and offer help.
“Grandpa, you need to calm down. We will eventually go home. We had already asked the doctor’s permission. You will soon see grandma,” I told him and raised my hand to let him see the time on my watch. Then I realized how cruel I was. My grandfather never received an education and couldn’t read nor tell the difference in time. But he was time conscious, though he had depended on the radio for the time. Though he wore a wristwatch when he went to some gathering or visiting a distant relative in another town, he only wore it as an accessory.
He would not budge. “Nurse, nurse!” he yelled. His voice was loud enough that it woke some of the patients and their families. Everyone in the ward looked at us. I turned red with embarrassment. My mother woke up and tried to console my grandfather. He would not believe that it was just past two in the morning.
“Let me sit down,” he said. As soon as my mother and I positioned him on one corner of the bed he slipped to the floor.
“I want to go home,” he said. “Where’s my bag?”
We watched him crawl on the floor. He did not want us to touch him. The nurse came and shook her head. She knew that my grandfather had been sleeping during the day and was awake all night. She understood our condition and asked the other patients and their families to understand.
“Where are you going, Sir?” the nurse asked.
My grandfather did not look up but stopped crawling as it made him tired. “I am going home, young lady. My wife is waiting for me. My daughter and grandson will take me home,” he said.
“But Sir, it just two in the morning,” she said. She motioned us to help her put my grandfather back to bed. He did not resist. He had great respect to people working at the hospital and often greeted the doctor with glee during the daily ward check-up. He even agreed to go back to sleep.
We sighed.
At nine in the morning we were in the lobby of the hospital. My grandfather was in a wheelchair, his bag which contained his personal belongings on his lap. He looked at every person who was passing by as if a child going on a vacation. He wore his favorite cap. Earlier, he had me check that all his belongings were in the bag, primarily, the local solution he bought at the drugstore which he used to treat people and a native concoction which he discovered that treat people’s ailments. My grandfather was a well-known faith healer who treated people with simple ailments – from sprain to backaches to fever. He was good at that and though he toiled the land for vegetables their daily sustenance was supported by his healing.
We boarded the taxi by eleven. We never said a word on our way home. There was a glow in my grandfather’s eyes.
* * *
When I was eight years old my grandfather whipped me with a stem of an Ipil-Ipil plant after he had learned that I took a bath in the pond where the water buffalo wallowed. I ran to my grandmother for safety. It was just one whip but it stung. I was the only grandchild to receive such a whipping.
“Your grandfather was the most affectionate person I ever knew,” my grandmother said, while brushing my hair and wiping away my tears.
“He just doesn’t want you to get sick. No, your grandpa loves you. Do you understand?” she asked. I nodded but my butt hurt.
Later in the evening we gathered in the living room to watch the news. My grandparent’s house was a two-storey home made of wood. My father was working in Kuwait. My mother, my little brother and I lived next door. As my mother loved to chit chat with the neighbors and visit friends I was always left with my grandmother.
The news showed the EDSA Revolution. The Marcos government was toppled by civil unrest. President Ferdinand Marcos fled to Hawaii after hundreds of thousands of Filipinos marched to the streets and barged through the gates of Malacanang Palace. We watched on the television the throng of people taking over the President’s official residence, shouting with joy as they scourge every nook of the place in a hope to capture the Marcos family. They were too late.
They only found Mrs. Imelda Marcos’s three thousand pair of shoes.
“Not again,” my grandmother said.
“Why, grandma?” I asked her. Wondering how such a matter can be worrisome I enjoyed every moment of it as there was no school.
“Not another war. I am done with that,” she said. She motioned me to come to her side. She was sitting on the floor stitching Nippa leaves to a long strip of dried bamboo used to make thatched roof. They were going to replace the roof of the pigpen, my grandmother’s source of income.
“What’s wrong, grandma?” I asked.
“You never knew how difficult it is during a war. I was thirteen years old when the Japanese occupied the Philippines.”
“What did you do grandma?” I asked, smelling the Areca nut she was chewing. Other children were afraid of her because they thought she’s a monster because her teeth were stained red from chewing the nut.
“Oh, it was terrible. The Japanese soldiers killed most of the men and raped the women. So, we fled to the mountains. We lived in a cave. You know how terrible that was?”
I nodded, trying to absorb her story.
“They burned our houses. They killed our parents. I was the third among the brood of five but I took the courage to help my brothers and sisters. Our neighbors took us with them to the mountains. We lived in the cave for a while then built huts later. We fed on wild boars and vegetables and fruits. A few months later I descended from the mountains and went to the city. There were no roads but I followed the tracks of the men who went to see if the war was over. You don’t know how terrible it was. I am lucky the Japanese soldiers did not kill me when I went to the city. They even buried people alive!”
“Grandma, how could you say such a thing?” I gasped.
“But it is true. When everything had calmed down but, oh, the Japanese men were still here, I came back to sell some of the sweet potatoes we cultivated in the mountain. I also traded some of the vegetables and fruits I’d brought for salt and sugar. It took me a day to reach the city. Sometimes I would stop at a cemetery to rest and sleep overnight.”
I clasped my hand on my mouth. “How terrible! Weren’t you scared grandma?”
“Oh, you should be scared of those who are alive rather than the dead,” she said. “Some of the men I knew died of hunger. They cried ‘Mother! Mother!’ They say when you are about to die you’ll see your deceased mother.”
“Tell me more grandma.”
“We were taught by our neighbors to read and write. We used banana leaves as our paper but we changed to dried bamboo as the leaves would wither.”
“How did you and grandpa meet?”
She smiled. She motioned me to sit down and face her. “It was after the war. I was sixteen. We left the mountain but never lived in the city. Your grandfather lived in another town. We met at the river where we washed our clothes. He and his friends were passing by but stopped when they saw us women. I never knew what love meant until I met your grandfather. He was so handsome in his white shirt. Oh, I remember. We talked but I never knew what love meant at that time. What I remember was I did not ask him to leave me alone. After that he frequented our place. He would bring along his friends and make a harana. A serenade! One of his friends would strum the guitar and your grandfather sang love songs. We would exchange songs. It is a kind of a game. Whoever runs out of songs loses. It took your grandfather several trips to our house before he won. When he won I accepted his marriage proposal.”
“You are something grandma. Can you sing me one of your songs?”
“Now, there is no need to trick me into singing a song for you. I sang them all when you were still a baby. Oh, you were such a cry-baby that I could never hush you down. Your mother was lucky I took care of you. Now, go outside and play with your friends. I have to finish this roof.”
* * *
My grandparents greeted each other like long lost lovers when we arrived home. They had been married for more than fifty years. I grew up in their house which was surrounded with fruit-bearing trees. They once had a vast vegetable plantation. My grandmother raised pigs and goats.
After a brief talk, my grandfather asked for his favorite soup and requested that I feed him. He slept soundly that night. I thought that my grandfather would recover from his burden. But at two in the morning the next day he woke my mother saying he could not breathe. We all panicked. My father and brother got the car ready to transport him back to the hospital.
“No. I won’t go back there. Never!” my grandfather said. He was gasping for breath.
We gathered around his bed hoping that he will recover. My father held him while he was sitting up. He faced my grandmother who was sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Tears ran down his cheeks.
“My Leonisa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have to leave you,” my grandfather said to my grandmother.
My grandmother did not cry. She’s a strong lady. My mother, on the other hand, was crying out so loud. My brother went out to the balcony. He tried to call my mother’s married brother and sister who were living near us. They said they’d come but never did.
“My Papa. My Papa!” my mother said the words over and over. She touched his father’s face and cried in anguish.
“Here they are,” my grandfather said. He enumerated the invisible beings who he said had come to fetch him- his dead brothers and sisters. I watched my grandfather slowly slip away. In that inevitable moment I stood there helpless. I did not know what to do or what to say. What I remember was I tried to console my mother.
My grandfather looked at the wall and cried, “Motherrrrrrr!!!” and he breathed his last. I hugged my grandmother and cried. It was my first time to witness someone die. But what hurt most was that it was my own loved one.
* * *
My mother’s brothers and sisters and their children were present at my grandfather’s wake. At last, they showed up, I said to myself while arranging the flowers sent by friends and relatives to the funeral home. I noticed a big wreathe beside my grandfather’s coffin. It was from my wealthy uncle. I wanted to spit on it but my grandmother wouldn’t be happy with my actions. There it was, an expensive wreathe beside my grandfather’s coffin! When we had hoped that they send us financial assistance they never offered any. I looked around the room and stared at my uncles and aunts who were laughing, some playing mahjong and card games.
One of my uncles approached me. “Where is your mother? Doesn’t she know that this should be a family affair? It was as if she doesn’t care!”
I wanted to punch him but I controlled myself.
“God knows that my grandfather doesn’t need us to be here as we had been with him during his darkest hour,” I said aloud, enough for everyone to hear and stop their activity. They stared at me with hatred.
I left the premises relieved.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
A Brilliant Journey
The Remains of the Day
Kazuo Ishiguro
Vintage Int'l, 245 pages
Few authors have the capacity to wretch The Word in its utmost potency. Some have attempted to wield their stories with careful review, however, there is somewhat a feeling of inadequacy, a feeling felt by the readers, leaving them at a loss and wanting for more. Form and substance are quitely disregard nowadays. Kazuo Ishiguro's book The Remains of the Day has the supple potency that by reading each passage in it makes one sigh. Not a simple sigh, though. It's a sigh that both troubles and comforts you. Such paradox is eminent in all of man's experiences. However, Ishiguro's book of experience, in the magnitudal essence, captures the troubled heart and a comforts the soul. Winner of the 1989 Booker Prize that was consequently made into a movie, the book tells the "dazzling" as well as "bitter" story of an English butler, William Stevens, who took a few days off to tour certain parts of England. It was his first time to take sometime off after so many years of service at Darlington Hall. He wouldn't have taken the stride if not for the prodding of his new employer, Mr. Farraday.The story could have been told in another manner, like in the third person's point of view, but Ishiguro made Stevens tell and re-tell his experiences in such trip and the multitude of his experiences at Darlington Hall.But Stevens' account of his trip and past obligations as a butler is told in a calculated kind of prose that is reminiscent of the Victorian era. Ishiguro's prose style, however, is a jazzy Victorian type but nevertheless touches a classic appeal.If other readers have remarked that the book is boring, it is perhaps, an undaunted view. Ishiguro has mustered technical details and set his prose in careful strategy that the characters breathe life, a life proper of the pre-war and post-war years.The story begins in the year 1956 with the conversation between Stevens and Mr. Farraday, an American, who has bought the famous Darlington Hall after the former owner, Lord Darlington, passed away some two years ago. Stevens, an obedient, well-mannered, and well-accounted butler who has served the place for three decades, was requested or much so directed by Mr. Farraday to take a view of England, stating that: "You're always locked up in these big houses helping out; how do you ever get to see around this beautiful country of yours?'Stevens, of course, refused at first but somehow was persuaded to do so.Stevens was in a reserved manner even when his new employer jeers on certain subjects owing to his unfamiliarity to such manner. He noted that Mr. Farraday "enjoys a conversation of a light-hearted, humorous sort" who is used to bantering but "a no sense an unkind person" and an "affectionate sport." He continues to marvel that it maybe that in America it is quite entertaining to banter.Stevens used to have a staff of 17 but was reduced to five after the death of the former tenants.In the succeeding chapters were the accounts of the travels of Stevens, in six days, around several sites in England, where he also evaluated his performance and his interactions with his former master and the different personalities who frequent Darlington Hall. He also contemplated on the conflict he had with a former maidservant named Miss Kenton, who got married and left Darlington Hall.The high point in the novel concerns about Stevens' father who also served Darlington Hall, but not as prestigious a post as his son holds. Stevens narrates the bitter "decline of abilities" of his father and the marked incongruency to simple tasks and tried to confront the elder Stevens to hold lesser obligations in the house, which, of course, the latter objected.The most crucial and cruel part of the father-son story was tested at a conference of 1923 where very important persons visited Darlington Hall. His father has become ill and needed immediate attention. Upon seeing his father's situation he was so bothered but he has a work to do that such attachments were left in the corner of one district. His father suffered a stroke and died in the same night of the conference. Stevens, upon hearing the information from Miss Kenton, was saddened but had to carry on his task, addressing the maid to "please don't think of me unduly improper in not ascending to see my father in his deceased condition just as this moment. You see, I know my father would have wished me to carry on just now."If other readers viewed Stevens as heartless, they were flat wrong.Such thoughts emanate from the very heart of Stevens' being and he goes on with his service at Darlington Hall believing that life must go on and he must serve as a "true gentleman."The remaining chapters recounts the different figures whose presence at Darlington Hall gave color to it such as George Bernard Shaw and the situations that gave relevance to the people living in it and to Stevens' perception of life.In the last chapter and the last day of his "vacation" he contemplated on his fate and the diminishing essence of his trade to the present society. He has had a conversation with a former footman who has long retired and drew wisdom from it all. Stevens contemplated on this, "Perhaps, then, there is something to his advice that I should cease looking back so much, that I should adopt a more positive outlook and try to make the best of what remains of my day. After all, what can we ever gain in forever looking back and blaming ourselves if our lives have not turned out quite as we might have wished?" He philosophized: "The hard reality is, surely, that for the likes of you and I, there is little choice other than to leave our fate, ultimately, in the hands of those great gentlemen at the hub of this world who employ our services... And if some of us are prepared to sacrifice much in life in order to pursue such aspirations, surely that is in itself, whatever the outcome, cause for pride and contentment." The passage 'remains of the day' could be taken in another form. Here is an butler who years are waning but then carries out his duty with pride. It is by far a wonderful book, flawless and contemplating. Ishiguro's style is reminiscent of that of Charles Dickens and E.M. Forster. His language achieves the kind of justice suited to the occasion and matters that touches one man's search for accountability and honor.
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod Aug. 02, 2004 Lifestyle Section)
Bludgeoning Deviancy
American Pastoral
Philip Roth
Vintage, Random House, Inc., 423 pages
Philip Roth
Vintage, Random House, Inc., 423 pages
I can understand why veteran book critic and writer for Time magazine Paul Gray has chosen Philip Roth as America's Best Author for 2002. Gray said of the writer - "Roth is a serious writer who has never been somber in print; his narrative voice is unique, and so is the way he consistently wrings slapstick comedy out of tics and obsessions of his characters. No one else writing today has been more amusing or more enlightening."
It was a worthy accolade. After all, Roth has been awarded almost all of the major literary prizes in America: The PEN/Faulkner Award for Operation Shylock (1994) and The Human Stain (2001); National Book Award for Goodbye, Columbus (1960) and Sabbath's Theater (1995); National Book Critics Circle Award for The Counterlife (1987) and Patrimony (1992).
Portnoy's Complaint (1969) was in No. 52 in the The 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century as chosen by The Board of Modern Library, a division of Random House.
American Pastoral won the Pulitzer Prize in 1998 and evaluated the state of American families not only in the 60's but also in the current situation.
The novel is divided into three parts. The first part, entitled Paradise Remembered tells the story of The Swede, Seymour Irving Levov in real life, who is considered as a legendary athlete at his Newark High School during the war years.
Told by The Swede's brother's best friend Nathan Zuckerman, an author, it serves as the background of the story. Swede Levov's name is considered "magical" and bears resemblance to a superstar. The Swede starred as end in football, center in basketball and first baseman in baseball and a well-admired hero of his hometown.
The Swede's parents, Lou and Sylvia, were a refined Jewish couple whose business, manufacturing ladies' gloves, hit a jackpot in 1942.
Swede married a former Miss New Jersey, former Miss Union County and Spring Queen at Upsala and represented her state in the 1949 Miss America.
Zuckerman and Swede met in 1985 with which they recalled what once was. The Swede, aged close to 70, suffers from prostate cancer, came to tell the author of his three sons from his second marriage but did not disclose his state in his relationship with the former Miss New Jersey.
After such encounter, Zuckerman learned from their class reunion that The Swede had already died. He then proceeded to write a story about the legend and the controversies that haunt them.
What is primarily discusssed in the first part was the happier moments of the Swede and the prestige mark that he brought to his hometown. However, as the pages go on it also gives the sad account of the fall of a perfect American couple when they had their first daughter Merideth Levov, called Merry. As Merry grew there was a distinct flaw in her, though a beautiful and charming child, she has a speech abnormality marked by stuttering.
That state put her into difficulty bonding with others (talk about Polly) where she became an "angry-with-everything child because of her speech deficiency and doesn't make friends."
The second part entitled The Fall is an account of the conflict between father and daughter. While the father tried to uplift their condition, the daughter boils into hassle bringing down their "nice" reputation.
For the past 25 years, their daughter goes into seclusion after bombing a post office and killing a doctor who has just stopped by the collection box to drop off his mail.
The Swede's little darling has been tagged as the "Rimrock Bomber" and tortured him in a pained discursiveness and compromises. The agony has given the Swede "sleeplessness and self-castigation night after night. Enormous loneliness. Unflagging remorse..."
The agony became worse when father and daughter met in an uncompromising situation. The daughter was converted informally into a religion which treats every living things with "respect." "She wore a veil to do no harm to the microscopic organisms that dwell in the air we breathe. She did not bathe because she revered all life, including the vermin. She did not wash to do no harm to the water... she has to do such thing to be a perfected soul."
The third part is entitled Paradise Lost which surges into the depth of the Swede's life - the haunting and the psychological impact that consumed their lives.
American Pastoral is an illustration of an American social irresponsibility, an optimism gone wrong and a striving familial upheaval./
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod August 17, 2004 Lifestyle Section)
Testament (Draft I)
The fluorescent lights gave the room a vibrant appeal. They’re bright like the sun. One was situated in front of my grandfather, who had been lying on the hospital bed for two weeks. I saw him look at the lights.
“At last, we can go home. It is morning!” my grandfather said.
It was two in the morning. The sun was still in his bed snoring. The air was chilly even if the windows were closed.
“It’s just two in the morning,” I told him.
“What? Can’t you see the sun? Pack up the things as your grandmother is waiting for us,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if I should smile or be sad. I looked at my grandfather. My eyes were misty. My mother was sleeping on the chair, her head on the edge of the bed. We both were weary but one has to stay up at nighttime to look over my grandfather who was suffering from lymphatic cancer. As I had my internship as a medical technology student in that public hospital I am used to staying up at night. I knew all the wards and most of the staff. We had no problem getting access through medical and laboratory examinations. While other patients had to wait for awhile to have their blood samples extracted I did the extraction on my grandfather myself. I looked at my grandfather once again. He was still staring at the lights as if studying it.
“Wake your mother. There is no time to loose,” he said. He tried to get up. But he had gone frail. His once sturdy body, that once massive body which we liken to an oak tree, had shriveled. His legs were swollen. He could not eat solid food. I looked at the man who once carried me on his back when the tide rose waist-deep. I am his first born grandson and he always took me to school when I entered first grade. He even carried me on his back when I was in high school. That moment it was my time to repay him. My mother has eight other siblings but no one had even offered to replace us for a night, that we may regain our strength and attend to my grandmother who was recovering from a stroke.
“Grandpa, you need to calm down. We will eventually go home. We had already asked the doctor’s permission. You will soon see grandma,” I told him and raised my hand to let him see the time on my watch.
He would not budge. “Nurse, Nurse!” he yelled. Everyone in the ward looked at us. I turned red with shame. My mother woke up and tried to console my grandfather. He would not believe that it was just past two in the morning.
“Let me sit down,” he said. As soon as my mother and I positioned him on one corner of the bed he slipped to the floor.
“I want to go home,” he said. “Where’s my bag?”
We watched him crawl on the floor. He did not want us to touch him. The nurse came and shook her head. She knew that my grandfather had been sleeping during the day and all awake all night. She understood our condition and asked the other patients and their families to understand.
“Where are you going, Sir?” the nurse asked.
My grandfather did not look up but stopped crawling as it made him tired. “I am going home, young lady. My wife is waiting for me. My daughter and grandson will take me home,” he said.
“But Sir it just two in the morning,” she said. She motioned us to help her put my grandfather back to bed. He calmed down. He had great respect to medical people. He even agreed to go back to sleep. We sighed.
At nine in the morning we were in the lobby of the hospital. My grandfather was on a wheelchair, his bag which contained his personal belongings on his lap.
***
We never said a word on board the taxi on our way home but there was a glow in my grandfather’s eyes. He and grandma had been living with us for quite awhile.
My grandparents greeted each other like long lost lovers when we arrived home. They had been married for more than fifty years. I grew up in their house which was surrounded with fruit-bearing trees. They once had a vast vegetable plantation.
He asked for his favorite soup and requested me to feed him. He slept soundly that night. I thought by then that my grandfather would recover from his burden. But at 2 a.m. the next day he woke my mother saying he could not breathe. He had just recovered from pneumonia a week before. We all panicked. My father and brother got the car ready to transport him back to the hospital.
“No. I won’t go back there. Never!” my grandfather said. He was gasping for breath.
We gathered around his bed hoping that he will recover. My father held him while he was sitting up. He faced my grandmother who was sitting on the opposite side of the bed and his tears ran down his cheeks. “My Leonisa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have to leave you. But I know we will be together again,” my grandfather said to my grandmother.
My grandmother did not cry. She was a strong lady who had survived life’s turmoil. My mother, on the other hand, was crying out so loud. My brother went out to the balcony. He tried to call my mother’s married brother and sister who were living near us but they didn’t come.
“My Papa. My Papa!” my mother said the words over and over. She touched his father’s face and cried in anguish.
“Here they are,” my grandfather said. He enumerated the invisible beings who he said had come to fetch him, his dead brothers and sisters. I watch my grandfather slowly slip away. In that inevitable moment I stood there helpless. I did not know what to do or what to say. What I remember was I tried to console my mother.
My grandfather looked at the wall and cried, “Motherrrrrrr!!!” And breathe his last. I hugged my grandmother and cried. It was my first to witness someone die. But what hurt most was that it was my own loved one. Though I tried to accept the regality of mortality the burning lesson will never leave: that death is a significant aspect of our lives.
“At last, we can go home. It is morning!” my grandfather said.
It was two in the morning. The sun was still in his bed snoring. The air was chilly even if the windows were closed.
“It’s just two in the morning,” I told him.
“What? Can’t you see the sun? Pack up the things as your grandmother is waiting for us,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if I should smile or be sad. I looked at my grandfather. My eyes were misty. My mother was sleeping on the chair, her head on the edge of the bed. We both were weary but one has to stay up at nighttime to look over my grandfather who was suffering from lymphatic cancer. As I had my internship as a medical technology student in that public hospital I am used to staying up at night. I knew all the wards and most of the staff. We had no problem getting access through medical and laboratory examinations. While other patients had to wait for awhile to have their blood samples extracted I did the extraction on my grandfather myself. I looked at my grandfather once again. He was still staring at the lights as if studying it.
“Wake your mother. There is no time to loose,” he said. He tried to get up. But he had gone frail. His once sturdy body, that once massive body which we liken to an oak tree, had shriveled. His legs were swollen. He could not eat solid food. I looked at the man who once carried me on his back when the tide rose waist-deep. I am his first born grandson and he always took me to school when I entered first grade. He even carried me on his back when I was in high school. That moment it was my time to repay him. My mother has eight other siblings but no one had even offered to replace us for a night, that we may regain our strength and attend to my grandmother who was recovering from a stroke.
“Grandpa, you need to calm down. We will eventually go home. We had already asked the doctor’s permission. You will soon see grandma,” I told him and raised my hand to let him see the time on my watch.
He would not budge. “Nurse, Nurse!” he yelled. Everyone in the ward looked at us. I turned red with shame. My mother woke up and tried to console my grandfather. He would not believe that it was just past two in the morning.
“Let me sit down,” he said. As soon as my mother and I positioned him on one corner of the bed he slipped to the floor.
“I want to go home,” he said. “Where’s my bag?”
We watched him crawl on the floor. He did not want us to touch him. The nurse came and shook her head. She knew that my grandfather had been sleeping during the day and all awake all night. She understood our condition and asked the other patients and their families to understand.
“Where are you going, Sir?” the nurse asked.
My grandfather did not look up but stopped crawling as it made him tired. “I am going home, young lady. My wife is waiting for me. My daughter and grandson will take me home,” he said.
“But Sir it just two in the morning,” she said. She motioned us to help her put my grandfather back to bed. He calmed down. He had great respect to medical people. He even agreed to go back to sleep. We sighed.
At nine in the morning we were in the lobby of the hospital. My grandfather was on a wheelchair, his bag which contained his personal belongings on his lap.
***
We never said a word on board the taxi on our way home but there was a glow in my grandfather’s eyes. He and grandma had been living with us for quite awhile.
My grandparents greeted each other like long lost lovers when we arrived home. They had been married for more than fifty years. I grew up in their house which was surrounded with fruit-bearing trees. They once had a vast vegetable plantation.
He asked for his favorite soup and requested me to feed him. He slept soundly that night. I thought by then that my grandfather would recover from his burden. But at 2 a.m. the next day he woke my mother saying he could not breathe. He had just recovered from pneumonia a week before. We all panicked. My father and brother got the car ready to transport him back to the hospital.
“No. I won’t go back there. Never!” my grandfather said. He was gasping for breath.
We gathered around his bed hoping that he will recover. My father held him while he was sitting up. He faced my grandmother who was sitting on the opposite side of the bed and his tears ran down his cheeks. “My Leonisa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have to leave you. But I know we will be together again,” my grandfather said to my grandmother.
My grandmother did not cry. She was a strong lady who had survived life’s turmoil. My mother, on the other hand, was crying out so loud. My brother went out to the balcony. He tried to call my mother’s married brother and sister who were living near us but they didn’t come.
“My Papa. My Papa!” my mother said the words over and over. She touched his father’s face and cried in anguish.
“Here they are,” my grandfather said. He enumerated the invisible beings who he said had come to fetch him, his dead brothers and sisters. I watch my grandfather slowly slip away. In that inevitable moment I stood there helpless. I did not know what to do or what to say. What I remember was I tried to console my mother.
My grandfather looked at the wall and cried, “Motherrrrrrr!!!” And breathe his last. I hugged my grandmother and cried. It was my first to witness someone die. But what hurt most was that it was my own loved one. Though I tried to accept the regality of mortality the burning lesson will never leave: that death is a significant aspect of our lives.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The plot against the mayor
Fact is: I survived the holidays and the New Year without any glitches. Yes, Ambo, believe when I say I celebrated the New Year without getting overly sentimental. Well, okay, I felt somewhat homesick but upon hearing my family’s voices thru the phone expunged any traceable longing to go back home. I never thought I could muster months without seeing my family, especially my grandmother who just celebrated her 79th birthday. I have survived the old year’s passing without hearing the cracking of fireworks at our neighbor’s house. This form of survival is beyond critical mass, it is a joyous triumph, after all I’ve survived the post-Thanksgiving Day sales event here in America (imagine getting in line outside a mall at 3 a.m. to be able to grab a real sales treat).
Mr. David Smith was convivial (as he always is) on New Year’s Eve. We were invited to dine with his friends at Biaggi’s (www.biaggis.com), an Italian restaurant. At the restaurant Mr. Smith and I had the difficulty of choosing between two meals - Ziti Al Forno (shrimp and chicken baked in lobster cream sauce with Italian cured ham, red onion and Italian cheese blend) and Veal Parmesan (breaded veal cutlets, fried and then baked with tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese, served with spaghetti with house garlic Alfredo sauce). We chose the former; and what a delectable meal. It is comparable to tasting the wine in Cana. Their Pork Chops Al Forno (marinated pork chops, grilled and topped with mild parmesan and gorgonzola butter. Served with sautéed vegetables and garlic mashed potatoes) which our friend ordered is lip-smacking good, too. Food has been my indulgence since I arrived here. Well, it was; even when I was still in Bacolod, gaining a few pounds because of Grace – that little eatery by the corner of Locsin and Lacson streets which Ambo and I frequented by midnight after work as they serve good fish/pork sinigang, and also there’s Manang Dedeng’s unequaled pork inasal. Whenever my friends tell me I have put on weight, I just sigh and say, “Salamat kay Grace!” Here in America, I am indebted to Mr. Smith for keeping me culturally immersed not only by treating me to the finest performances and festivals in town but also in the matter of fine dining. Our Friday fish fry in a restaurant at Holiday Inn is always something to look forward to.
Mr. Smith hosted a fabulous party a few days after Christmas at his home. A great number of guests came “armed” with their majestic dishes. It’s a pot-luck party. The wines and champagne overflowed as did the gleeful chit-chat. The company was a good distribution, primarily because it was a seemingly international affair as most of the guests have their own roots beyond being an American. But nobody matched the presence of Mr. Smith’s “girls” – one is 102 years old and another is 80-something. The 102-year-old is a jolly lady who still walks unattended and is living alone in her apartment. She’s not the oldest one in the complex though, another lady has just celebrated her 103rd birthday (five centenarians in the complex were honored lately and featured in the news). Records show that United States currently has the largest number of centenarians in the world. Numbers have reached over 55,000 in 2005. Anyway, the party was a success; and, of course, my adobo was such a hit that some of the attendees were asking for the recipe.
I survived the holidays without feeling bloated. The cold weather has kept me from wandering around and food has become a welcome company while I am at home. I have become the king of the microwave oven. And while you are chopping off the ingredients there’s nothing more delightful than watching Bravotv’s Top Chef, a reality-based cooking competition. The stakes are still up for Season Two and I am counting on Elia L. Aboumrad, Marcel Vigneron (with his trademark Son Goku-like hair) and Sam Talbot who was voted as one of the sexiest chefs in NY to make it to the final round. On the other hand, I am a little bit concerned about the mayor. His life is might be in jeopardy. Thanks to YouTube, a plot against the mayor has been exposed. Since “discovering” this site I have unearthed several valuable information or even segments of Philippine shows and movies which I dearly miss. Okay, okay. What about the mayor? If his aide-de-camp has not known about this, then there is a probability that the plot will succeed. I am talking about “Ispageti ni Mayor”. Yes, the threat is the spaghetti: the Filipinos’ favorite food ladies and gentleman. You have to watch it to prove that my claim is sensible enough. Though we don’t know as to which city or town does this mayor belongs to. Nevertheless, it is worth to watch the clip. Enjoy it while it is still HOT!
(I have submitted this article for my column early in January however it has been sitting on the editor's table for weeks without seeing the light. Inquiries about its status remains unanswered. Ha! That made me think something's not right at this time)
Mr. David Smith was convivial (as he always is) on New Year’s Eve. We were invited to dine with his friends at Biaggi’s (www.biaggis.com), an Italian restaurant. At the restaurant Mr. Smith and I had the difficulty of choosing between two meals - Ziti Al Forno (shrimp and chicken baked in lobster cream sauce with Italian cured ham, red onion and Italian cheese blend) and Veal Parmesan (breaded veal cutlets, fried and then baked with tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese, served with spaghetti with house garlic Alfredo sauce). We chose the former; and what a delectable meal. It is comparable to tasting the wine in Cana. Their Pork Chops Al Forno (marinated pork chops, grilled and topped with mild parmesan and gorgonzola butter. Served with sautéed vegetables and garlic mashed potatoes) which our friend ordered is lip-smacking good, too. Food has been my indulgence since I arrived here. Well, it was; even when I was still in Bacolod, gaining a few pounds because of Grace – that little eatery by the corner of Locsin and Lacson streets which Ambo and I frequented by midnight after work as they serve good fish/pork sinigang, and also there’s Manang Dedeng’s unequaled pork inasal. Whenever my friends tell me I have put on weight, I just sigh and say, “Salamat kay Grace!” Here in America, I am indebted to Mr. Smith for keeping me culturally immersed not only by treating me to the finest performances and festivals in town but also in the matter of fine dining. Our Friday fish fry in a restaurant at Holiday Inn is always something to look forward to.
Mr. Smith hosted a fabulous party a few days after Christmas at his home. A great number of guests came “armed” with their majestic dishes. It’s a pot-luck party. The wines and champagne overflowed as did the gleeful chit-chat. The company was a good distribution, primarily because it was a seemingly international affair as most of the guests have their own roots beyond being an American. But nobody matched the presence of Mr. Smith’s “girls” – one is 102 years old and another is 80-something. The 102-year-old is a jolly lady who still walks unattended and is living alone in her apartment. She’s not the oldest one in the complex though, another lady has just celebrated her 103rd birthday (five centenarians in the complex were honored lately and featured in the news). Records show that United States currently has the largest number of centenarians in the world. Numbers have reached over 55,000 in 2005. Anyway, the party was a success; and, of course, my adobo was such a hit that some of the attendees were asking for the recipe.
I survived the holidays without feeling bloated. The cold weather has kept me from wandering around and food has become a welcome company while I am at home. I have become the king of the microwave oven. And while you are chopping off the ingredients there’s nothing more delightful than watching Bravotv’s Top Chef, a reality-based cooking competition. The stakes are still up for Season Two and I am counting on Elia L. Aboumrad, Marcel Vigneron (with his trademark Son Goku-like hair) and Sam Talbot who was voted as one of the sexiest chefs in NY to make it to the final round. On the other hand, I am a little bit concerned about the mayor. His life is might be in jeopardy. Thanks to YouTube, a plot against the mayor has been exposed. Since “discovering” this site I have unearthed several valuable information or even segments of Philippine shows and movies which I dearly miss. Okay, okay. What about the mayor? If his aide-de-camp has not known about this, then there is a probability that the plot will succeed. I am talking about “Ispageti ni Mayor”. Yes, the threat is the spaghetti: the Filipinos’ favorite food ladies and gentleman. You have to watch it to prove that my claim is sensible enough. Though we don’t know as to which city or town does this mayor belongs to. Nevertheless, it is worth to watch the clip. Enjoy it while it is still HOT!
(I have submitted this article for my column early in January however it has been sitting on the editor's table for weeks without seeing the light. Inquiries about its status remains unanswered. Ha! That made me think something's not right at this time)
By the streets of Toronto I paused and almost wept
Toronto is one groovy babe who wears a Jeffrey Sebelia dress in the morning listening to Sean Paul’s song “Give It UpTo Me.” In the evening she changes to a Laura Bennet lace gown and dances to another Sean Paul dancehall music “We Be Burnin” (Just gimme the gees and we be clubbin yow/ Gal a make wi please and we be thuggin’ now). And don’t forget the bling-bling.
In the middle of December last year, shortly after my final exams and after accomplishing a tremendous task of completing five papers for two subjects Mr. David Smith gifted me with a three-day trip to Toronto. It was supposed to be a surprise gift only to be revealed a day before we leave for the trip. It was not until Mrs. Amy Costalo, the incoming president of the Filipino community in Rochester, New York, invited me to join other Pinoys in their Christmas party that Mr. Smith was “forced” to disclose the planned excursion, though he could have reasoned that he has another commitment to attend to (Before my conversation with Mrs. Costalo, I have learned that there is a large population of Filipinos in Rochester. This was revealed to me by a nun whom I chatted with and who sat next to me in a piano concerto with the world-renowned Barry Douglas playing Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2 with the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra. Few days later we learned thru the news that the nun was given the key to city and whose picture I saw in a convent –where the nuns had their annual craft show- some walking distance from were we live. It turned out that she’s well-known for her civic service. On the other hand, a teller at the school’s Bursar’s office beamed when she learned I am a Filipino. “My doctor is Filipino!” she said).
So, on a Friday morning, we headed for the road, eager to beat the sun before it yawned and woke up for the day, only to go back as we forgot to bring with us a pertinent paper we needed for the trip. I have to give credit to Mr. Smith, he had been planning the trip for months after considering several places to visit – Las Vegas, Florida for a Disneyland Trip and Canada. For sure I followed his advice to bring just enough clothes for a 3-day sojourn. “It’s not like our Bangkok trip,” he said, knowing that I have an Imeldific-side of me, that is, like bringing with me the whole house on a trip if I can. “And bring only one book,” he begged. I ended up bringing three which I haven’t had the time to read at all. While Mr. Smith took the wheel I was tasked to look at the map. Did I say map? I cannot even locate Gonzaga St. or Lacson St. in Bacolod. But without any other choice I was compelled to locate Interstate roads that lead to the thruway. The road trip from Rochester to Toronto took eight hours. While traversing several bridges along the way, I asked myself if I better be a travel writer or even a food critic owing to Mr. Smith’s love for traveling and fine dining. He has been to Scotland, England, Netherlands, Belgium, France, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, Spain, Greece, Denmark, Bermuda, Puerto Rico, Mexico and several countries in Asia. We arrived in Toronto at 1 p.m. but we had to drive around as the hotel check-in time is at 4 p.m. I almost had a panic attack while we drove through Yonge St., once considered to be the longest street in the world. What a very busy street, like you can never imagine. I could not believe the traffic and most of the pedestrians have little or no regard to the traffic signs. I have gotten used to seeing a considerable number of people and wider streets in Rochester, the packed, narrow streets of Toronto though remind me of Bacolod. The sight, on the other hand, was a welcome treat. While Rochester boasts of its sprawling expanse concerning malls and famous clothing and jewelry stores, Toronto contends with its skyscrapers. While there is no parking space problem in Rochester we met a great difficulty looking for one in Toronto, the same difficulty we had in Niagara Falls. That didn’t matter as I was treated to a visual delight. At last I saw the famed Tiffany store, craving to visit it after watching Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s and seeing Mr. Smith’s collection of Tiffany crystals.
The next day we took the subway to visit the malls and several sites. The sun was generous enough to shine throughout our trip. “You must have brought with you the Philippine weather,” Mr. Smith teased me. Toronto in December is usually laden with snow. At Eaton Center, there was a heavily guarded Christmas tree - it was profoundly decorated with Swarovski crystals; gorgeous models at the Abercrombie and Fitch store were having a photoshoot, Asians were amassing (Filipinos comprise about 3.5 percent of the total population of the city. Though I heard several groups talk in Tagalog I was too coy to talk to them. I could have embraced one man and said: “Brother, my brother!” - missing perhaps the warm Filipino language). We took pictures of the CN Tower and other famous sights whose names escape my mind. Toronto’s City Hall is an architectural marvel - designed as a human eye, the eyelid towers surrounding the eyeball. What is a vacation without shopping! Though I restrained myself in buying any books, I shopped for clothes (later finding famous labels that are made in the Philippines. Ha! At least I saw products that are not made in China) while Mr. Smith added another set of crystal glasses and antique items to his collection. In the evening, my real treat was unveiled; Mr. Smith had reserved seats for us to watch the world-famous Radio City Rockettes at the Hummingbird Centre for the Performing Arts. It was the group’s Canadian debut. They’re as brilliant as diamonds, especially when they performed the 12 days of Christmas. The $100 per person ticket was worth it considering that they featured 11 spectacular performances called Scenes and every scene was like a precious gem that you can stare at over and over again without getting tired of it. As everyone knows, being a Rockette is one of the most prestigious and glamorous achievements for a woman dancer. After the show, we had a nice dinner at the Richtree Restaurant in BCE Place (Heritage Square, see http://www.richtree.ca/). It took me literally almost an hour to decide what meal I wanted to eat considering the wide variety of food they have. I ended up pointing at the shrimp and chicken pasta being prepared by an Asian girl. We barely missed the firework display at the Toronto City Hall but we did witness the ice skating bonanza at the Nathan Philips Square in front of the city hall though we had to squeeze through the humongous crowd.
One of the most exciting spots in Toronto is the subterranean shopping mall called the PATH, which is a 27-kilometre network of pedestrian tunnels beneath the office towers of downtown Toronto. The Path is considered to be the largest underground shopping complex in the world.
It so happened that the hotel we were staying at is near the gay village. Hours before we left for home we had a buffet brunch at a multi-awarded place called Zelda’s (http://www.zeldas.ca/) while watching lovers pass by the restaurants and gay men taking their dogs for a walk. But, of course, you will not find a lot of gay men parading the streets on a Sunday morning.
We left Toronto with a surreal satisfaction. Sean Paul’s music has mellowed and we embraced the cool, soothing sound of a piano concerto. Once outside the city we looked back and admired once again the lush towers and buildings - we realized the inevitable power of the mind; though we felt the city calling us back we resisted, we have other matters to contend with. We squinted our eyes and breathed deep, “O you lovely city!” and headed for home.
(I have submitted this article for my column early in January however it has been sitting on the editor's table for weeks without seeing the light. Inquiries about its status remains unanswered. Ha! That made me think something's not right at this time)
In the middle of December last year, shortly after my final exams and after accomplishing a tremendous task of completing five papers for two subjects Mr. David Smith gifted me with a three-day trip to Toronto. It was supposed to be a surprise gift only to be revealed a day before we leave for the trip. It was not until Mrs. Amy Costalo, the incoming president of the Filipino community in Rochester, New York, invited me to join other Pinoys in their Christmas party that Mr. Smith was “forced” to disclose the planned excursion, though he could have reasoned that he has another commitment to attend to (Before my conversation with Mrs. Costalo, I have learned that there is a large population of Filipinos in Rochester. This was revealed to me by a nun whom I chatted with and who sat next to me in a piano concerto with the world-renowned Barry Douglas playing Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2 with the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra. Few days later we learned thru the news that the nun was given the key to city and whose picture I saw in a convent –where the nuns had their annual craft show- some walking distance from were we live. It turned out that she’s well-known for her civic service. On the other hand, a teller at the school’s Bursar’s office beamed when she learned I am a Filipino. “My doctor is Filipino!” she said).
So, on a Friday morning, we headed for the road, eager to beat the sun before it yawned and woke up for the day, only to go back as we forgot to bring with us a pertinent paper we needed for the trip. I have to give credit to Mr. Smith, he had been planning the trip for months after considering several places to visit – Las Vegas, Florida for a Disneyland Trip and Canada. For sure I followed his advice to bring just enough clothes for a 3-day sojourn. “It’s not like our Bangkok trip,” he said, knowing that I have an Imeldific-side of me, that is, like bringing with me the whole house on a trip if I can. “And bring only one book,” he begged. I ended up bringing three which I haven’t had the time to read at all. While Mr. Smith took the wheel I was tasked to look at the map. Did I say map? I cannot even locate Gonzaga St. or Lacson St. in Bacolod. But without any other choice I was compelled to locate Interstate roads that lead to the thruway. The road trip from Rochester to Toronto took eight hours. While traversing several bridges along the way, I asked myself if I better be a travel writer or even a food critic owing to Mr. Smith’s love for traveling and fine dining. He has been to Scotland, England, Netherlands, Belgium, France, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, Spain, Greece, Denmark, Bermuda, Puerto Rico, Mexico and several countries in Asia. We arrived in Toronto at 1 p.m. but we had to drive around as the hotel check-in time is at 4 p.m. I almost had a panic attack while we drove through Yonge St., once considered to be the longest street in the world. What a very busy street, like you can never imagine. I could not believe the traffic and most of the pedestrians have little or no regard to the traffic signs. I have gotten used to seeing a considerable number of people and wider streets in Rochester, the packed, narrow streets of Toronto though remind me of Bacolod. The sight, on the other hand, was a welcome treat. While Rochester boasts of its sprawling expanse concerning malls and famous clothing and jewelry stores, Toronto contends with its skyscrapers. While there is no parking space problem in Rochester we met a great difficulty looking for one in Toronto, the same difficulty we had in Niagara Falls. That didn’t matter as I was treated to a visual delight. At last I saw the famed Tiffany store, craving to visit it after watching Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s and seeing Mr. Smith’s collection of Tiffany crystals.
The next day we took the subway to visit the malls and several sites. The sun was generous enough to shine throughout our trip. “You must have brought with you the Philippine weather,” Mr. Smith teased me. Toronto in December is usually laden with snow. At Eaton Center, there was a heavily guarded Christmas tree - it was profoundly decorated with Swarovski crystals; gorgeous models at the Abercrombie and Fitch store were having a photoshoot, Asians were amassing (Filipinos comprise about 3.5 percent of the total population of the city. Though I heard several groups talk in Tagalog I was too coy to talk to them. I could have embraced one man and said: “Brother, my brother!” - missing perhaps the warm Filipino language). We took pictures of the CN Tower and other famous sights whose names escape my mind. Toronto’s City Hall is an architectural marvel - designed as a human eye, the eyelid towers surrounding the eyeball. What is a vacation without shopping! Though I restrained myself in buying any books, I shopped for clothes (later finding famous labels that are made in the Philippines. Ha! At least I saw products that are not made in China) while Mr. Smith added another set of crystal glasses and antique items to his collection. In the evening, my real treat was unveiled; Mr. Smith had reserved seats for us to watch the world-famous Radio City Rockettes at the Hummingbird Centre for the Performing Arts. It was the group’s Canadian debut. They’re as brilliant as diamonds, especially when they performed the 12 days of Christmas. The $100 per person ticket was worth it considering that they featured 11 spectacular performances called Scenes and every scene was like a precious gem that you can stare at over and over again without getting tired of it. As everyone knows, being a Rockette is one of the most prestigious and glamorous achievements for a woman dancer. After the show, we had a nice dinner at the Richtree Restaurant in BCE Place (Heritage Square, see http://www.richtree.ca/). It took me literally almost an hour to decide what meal I wanted to eat considering the wide variety of food they have. I ended up pointing at the shrimp and chicken pasta being prepared by an Asian girl. We barely missed the firework display at the Toronto City Hall but we did witness the ice skating bonanza at the Nathan Philips Square in front of the city hall though we had to squeeze through the humongous crowd.
One of the most exciting spots in Toronto is the subterranean shopping mall called the PATH, which is a 27-kilometre network of pedestrian tunnels beneath the office towers of downtown Toronto. The Path is considered to be the largest underground shopping complex in the world.
It so happened that the hotel we were staying at is near the gay village. Hours before we left for home we had a buffet brunch at a multi-awarded place called Zelda’s (http://www.zeldas.ca/) while watching lovers pass by the restaurants and gay men taking their dogs for a walk. But, of course, you will not find a lot of gay men parading the streets on a Sunday morning.
We left Toronto with a surreal satisfaction. Sean Paul’s music has mellowed and we embraced the cool, soothing sound of a piano concerto. Once outside the city we looked back and admired once again the lush towers and buildings - we realized the inevitable power of the mind; though we felt the city calling us back we resisted, we have other matters to contend with. We squinted our eyes and breathed deep, “O you lovely city!” and headed for home.
(I have submitted this article for my column early in January however it has been sitting on the editor's table for weeks without seeing the light. Inquiries about its status remains unanswered. Ha! That made me think something's not right at this time)
Maximo blossoms in New York
ROCHESTER, NEW YORK - After putting the Filipino craftsmanship in various film award giving bodies in the world, the Philippines’ own Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros (The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros) will be featured in ImageOut’s 14th Annual Gay and Lesbian Film Festival next month.
ImageOut is an annual project of The Rochester Lesbian and Gay Film and Video Festival that features world-class films. It will feature a total of 70 films from 11 countries. Featured under the 2006 Youth Project Film Series, The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros is the story of
Maximo, or Maxi, whom at 12 years old acts as the “lady of the house” in a motherless household of small time criminals in the slum area of Manila. His father sells stolen cell phones while his two older brothers are robbers. Maxi, played by Nathan Lopez, sashays the narrow paths in their area acting like a diva complete with girly hanging shirts and floral shorts, his hair is adorned with clips or alicebands. He walks as if the streets were his own catwalk. He is ultra femme and proud of his sexuality. This is highly regarded by his friends and neighbors who accept Maxi for whoever he is. His father and his brothers are proud of him, even treating him like a princess. Their lives, however, are about to change after Maxi met Victor, played by J.R. Valentin, a handsome new cop in assigned in their area. He rescued Maxi from two pranks one night and that incident opened to Maxi a new kind of feeling, a feeling he cannot control and hide. His family, on the other hand, was bothered by his being close to Victor as the rookie policeman stands by his principle; and that poses a threat to the Oliveros family’s daily living. This is were the whole story is exemplified - as Maxi gets closer to Victor, awry things get in the way, especially that his brother gets implicated in a murder case.The social reality of Manila’s poor area is reflected here – gloomy slum areas, narrow paths lined with clothesline and thick with children and women. But it is human. Poverty is a social aspect that every nation cannot avoid. This aspect makes this movie powerful – it touches the heart, it is unpretentious, it makes one’s heart coil with anguish. Director Aureaus Solito made his characters breathe life on the screen. Writer Michiko Yamamoto achieves great depth by establishing a storyline that offers more than beating the odds of a taboo story – a boy falling in love with an older man.
Film reviewers Kent Bryant and Michael Gamilla put it in the ImageOut folio, “Ultmately, The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros is a coming of age tale about spiritual and moral growth, rather than merely a story of sexual awakening. Watching Maxi’s complicated blossoming is simultaneously heartwrenching and joyful, a journey that rises beyonf its setting to touch us all with its universal truths.” The film has also won the Berlin International Film Festival, the Turin Gay and Lesbian Festival and the ImagineNative Film Festival in Toronto as well as various local awards in the Philippines. Last year, ImageOut featured two videos directed by Filipino filmmakers – Mark V. Reyes’s 19-minute video “Last Full Show” and Sigrid Andrea P. Bernardo’s 20-minute video “Woman”.
The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros opened in New York City theaters last weekend.
(Published in part in Ricky Lo's column in The Philippine Star, and Sun.Star Bacolod)
Oral Sex and American Sizes
ROCHESTER, NEW YORK – Now don’t get too excited. It is not what you are thinking of, you green-minded people. It is the new book out in the market – Oral Sex: Talking and Listening Your Way to Passionate Intimacy by Drs. Brenda Freshman and Jordan Paul. It may not be totally about oral sex but it may be beneficial to most couples. Hear that – couples. The book is said to be about communicating about sex between partners, a redefinition of the term. Meaning, it is not limited to just the sexual stimulation technique we know of. On a feature over Expanded Books, the book is said aimed at teaching couples how to listen and talk their way to greater intimacy and in turn achieve the best sex of their lives. That made you think huh! How has sex been beneficial to couples? The authors said, as a lot of people talk about sex, that maybe thru the internet and other means, but not a lot of couples about their sex lives in their own bedroom. Well, I agree with that. Though not being a married person I also see and hear several concerns most couples would raise over their relationaship. Well, we see several interviews thru television talk shows tackling such concern. It may not be that a groundbreaking view of sex but it has its own way of giving spice to several beliefs about the topic. As Dr. Freshman said, “It (the book) is about helping people understand what their wants and needs are and communicating that with their partners, in a way that not only lead to great sex but that’s emotionally as well as physically fulfilling.” Oh, that’s something. I wonder if Filipino couples will appreciate this stuff. I don’t think sex is even discussed in a couple’s private bedrooms, if there is a private bedroom in inexistence. It would seem that with the surging population, Filipino couples are satisfied with their sex lives.
Now, the authors distinguished common beliefs and heart-connected beliefs about sex. Common beliefs, Freshman said, are those that disconnects one from their heart that are usually fear-based which put things in a light of right or wrong. I guess this would refer to the church-based beliefs, with clergies giving the boot on concerns regarding sex. With this kind of perception, the authors warn, disconnects one from his or her partner and his/her ability to learn more and to communicate. I imagine a woman who doesn’t want any more argument, just opens her legs and let her partner do his thing. And when it is over, both partners just sleep.
“You have no doubt heard that the largest sex organ is the brain,” the authors put it. Hhmm, let me check on that. There is one thing I believe is bigger and acts as if it is smarter than the brain. “However, since the brain both represses and frees sexuality, the key to unlocking passion is skill in the language of sex,” they add. Maybe, if one gets too expertly engaged in this skill, even by the mere opening of his mouth would stimulate his partner.
In Chapter One, the authors opined, “Talking and listening with a heart connection during, as well as apart from, the sexual experience creates a safe place for partners to freely express themselves. Their likes, dislikes, fears, need for freedom and emotional connection, shame and fantasies can be shared in a non-judgmental atmosphere of compassion.
“Open-hearted communication is loving, exciting, illuminating and satisfying. Feeling listened to and understood encourages partners to discover new things about each other. A sense of safety blossoms into a fulfilling closeness. The trust that is built allows old wounds to be healed, sexual and emotional intimacy to deepen and new possibilities to emerge.” Nice insight. I wonder what the bishops say about this. The authors should make fine variations of this book. Will it be beneficial to couples with disabilities? Like couples who are deaf and mute or perhaps, blind couple. As we all know, communication is not mainly achieved thru vocal means.
***
Now, I know how it means when people refer to something huge as “American size.” I’m having the feel of it. And I’m telling you, I’m beginning to like it. It hurts at first but my goodness I loosened up and the rest is history. I should credit my friend, David William Smith, for letting me feel what “American size” really means. A great host, Mr. Smith has toured me around the city and to some faraway towns. But we take delight of is the usual trip to the grocery store and markets. I am practically amazed on the sizes of vegetables being displayed at stalls, especially the onions, tomatoes, leeks, cabbages and lettuces. Now I know why these things are meant to bed create by God bigger than what Asians have. Being American and physically big, a humongous meal is definitely a requirement. I’m telling you Ms Tess, if someone slaps you with these America-grown veges you’ll definitely end flat on your face. Now, that made me think why they don’t have annual tomato festival where people would throw around tomatoes at each other. If they do, they must require helmets be worn or it would be a disaster.
Now, the authors distinguished common beliefs and heart-connected beliefs about sex. Common beliefs, Freshman said, are those that disconnects one from their heart that are usually fear-based which put things in a light of right or wrong. I guess this would refer to the church-based beliefs, with clergies giving the boot on concerns regarding sex. With this kind of perception, the authors warn, disconnects one from his or her partner and his/her ability to learn more and to communicate. I imagine a woman who doesn’t want any more argument, just opens her legs and let her partner do his thing. And when it is over, both partners just sleep.
“You have no doubt heard that the largest sex organ is the brain,” the authors put it. Hhmm, let me check on that. There is one thing I believe is bigger and acts as if it is smarter than the brain. “However, since the brain both represses and frees sexuality, the key to unlocking passion is skill in the language of sex,” they add. Maybe, if one gets too expertly engaged in this skill, even by the mere opening of his mouth would stimulate his partner.
In Chapter One, the authors opined, “Talking and listening with a heart connection during, as well as apart from, the sexual experience creates a safe place for partners to freely express themselves. Their likes, dislikes, fears, need for freedom and emotional connection, shame and fantasies can be shared in a non-judgmental atmosphere of compassion.
“Open-hearted communication is loving, exciting, illuminating and satisfying. Feeling listened to and understood encourages partners to discover new things about each other. A sense of safety blossoms into a fulfilling closeness. The trust that is built allows old wounds to be healed, sexual and emotional intimacy to deepen and new possibilities to emerge.” Nice insight. I wonder what the bishops say about this. The authors should make fine variations of this book. Will it be beneficial to couples with disabilities? Like couples who are deaf and mute or perhaps, blind couple. As we all know, communication is not mainly achieved thru vocal means.
***
Now, I know how it means when people refer to something huge as “American size.” I’m having the feel of it. And I’m telling you, I’m beginning to like it. It hurts at first but my goodness I loosened up and the rest is history. I should credit my friend, David William Smith, for letting me feel what “American size” really means. A great host, Mr. Smith has toured me around the city and to some faraway towns. But we take delight of is the usual trip to the grocery store and markets. I am practically amazed on the sizes of vegetables being displayed at stalls, especially the onions, tomatoes, leeks, cabbages and lettuces. Now I know why these things are meant to bed create by God bigger than what Asians have. Being American and physically big, a humongous meal is definitely a requirement. I’m telling you Ms Tess, if someone slaps you with these America-grown veges you’ll definitely end flat on your face. Now, that made me think why they don’t have annual tomato festival where people would throw around tomatoes at each other. If they do, they must require helmets be worn or it would be a disaster.
Too True To Be Good
(With apologies to George Bernard Shaw)
NIAGARA FALLS, CANADA – It was only about an hour and a half since I was granted a visa from the Canadian Embassy in Buffalo, New York but here I am, enjoying the mist of the world-famous Niagara Falls. It was not in my immediate plan to visit Canada but was “sweetly” compelled by my sponsor, Mr. David William Smith, to secure the stamp for so many valid reasons. As school doesn’t starts until the 28th I might as well visit the country when I have the time. On the other hand, I could use the visa to attend some important events. But I did not expect that it wouldn’t be too soon. In fact, when Mr. Smith informed me a day before that we will be going to Buffalo to visit the Canadian Embassy, I was only thinking that we will be getting some papers, fill it out and head back home and wait for my visa approval. Such was the case I underwent in the Philippines for the processing for my US visa. It is, however, not with this case as on a clear day in August we traversed Route 104 on our way to Buffalo, called as the Queen City of New York. One should have the patience to endure a two-hour travel. And hear this – make your way to the bathroom before heading for the trip as there will be no stopovers along the highway. I’ve learned my lesson on that. It was only later, about four hours after that I get the chance to empty my bladder as we had to wait at the lobby of the HSBC Tower before we could be ushered to the 30th Floor of the building where the Canadian embassy is located. Yes, Ambo, for security reasons, no public toilet was installed at the lobby. No special treatment there even if you are connected with the President or any other Congressman. Worse, most buildings along the avenue are private offices and you cannot just make your way in. Well, to make the story short, after about two and a half hours (though my interview took only about three minutes as I have valid documents at hand) my passport bore a multiple entry visa stamp.
To my surprise, we did not head back home. Instead, Mr. Smith who has been gracious enough to drive me around Rochester (and whom I “blame” for the tan I have now for the nearly every day trips) drove towards “The Peace Bridge” which links the two countries. Yes, Ambo, I no longer looked like a new-age Filipino whose skin is pale for not getting enough exposure to sunlight. I have embraced the calling of our roots; I am now comparative to N!xau, the legendary star of “The Gods Must Be Crazy” (and when I look in the mirror I could note some resemblance). But summer days in America could be likewise trivial as it could be dry and the wind blows cold (that answers my query as to why most Americans prefer to bask under the sun even at lunch time).
In Canada, the wind is as cold as ice, especially if you take the road along the river. It is an alternative road that offers scenic spots and less tedious than the main highway. Mr. Smith and I took our time looking at magnificent houses built overlooking the river. Minutes after the survey (and a picnic along the river) we found ourselves at Niagara Parkway, the road that leads you to the scenic wonder of the Niagara Falls.
The falls is Canada’s main popular destination. The crescent-shaped rapids, also called the “Horseshoe”, is 54 meters or 177 feet high. It also said to carry nine times more water than its United States counterpart, the American Falls, and the main source of electricity for Ontario, Canada. The falls are divided by Goat Island.
The city of Niagara Falls is teeming with tourists, the area boasts of hotels and restaurants as well as scenic spots. For the lack of time, and parking space, we drove through the main road keeping an eye on some place of interest as we’d likely be coming back here for another visit. We visited Niagara-on-the-Lake, a beautiful community that is rich in history and agriculture (see http://www.niagaraonthelake.com/), for a moment of repose. The place is celebrating its Shaw Festival and Niagara Wine Festival. No wonder that we saw press people in one of its well-known winery. The Shaw Festival is a tribute to George Bernard Shaw, the Irish playwright and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1925 and the Academy Award in 1938 for Pygmalion. Among his plays that are being staged at the festival are “High Society”, “The Heiress”, and “Arms and the Man”. Well, we will be coming back for the festival next week to see one of his plays.
Though we only had about three hours to survey Niagara Falls, however, it was worth it.
To learn more about Niagara Falls, visit http://www.city.niagarafalls.on.ca/
NIAGARA FALLS, CANADA – It was only about an hour and a half since I was granted a visa from the Canadian Embassy in Buffalo, New York but here I am, enjoying the mist of the world-famous Niagara Falls. It was not in my immediate plan to visit Canada but was “sweetly” compelled by my sponsor, Mr. David William Smith, to secure the stamp for so many valid reasons. As school doesn’t starts until the 28th I might as well visit the country when I have the time. On the other hand, I could use the visa to attend some important events. But I did not expect that it wouldn’t be too soon. In fact, when Mr. Smith informed me a day before that we will be going to Buffalo to visit the Canadian Embassy, I was only thinking that we will be getting some papers, fill it out and head back home and wait for my visa approval. Such was the case I underwent in the Philippines for the processing for my US visa. It is, however, not with this case as on a clear day in August we traversed Route 104 on our way to Buffalo, called as the Queen City of New York. One should have the patience to endure a two-hour travel. And hear this – make your way to the bathroom before heading for the trip as there will be no stopovers along the highway. I’ve learned my lesson on that. It was only later, about four hours after that I get the chance to empty my bladder as we had to wait at the lobby of the HSBC Tower before we could be ushered to the 30th Floor of the building where the Canadian embassy is located. Yes, Ambo, for security reasons, no public toilet was installed at the lobby. No special treatment there even if you are connected with the President or any other Congressman. Worse, most buildings along the avenue are private offices and you cannot just make your way in. Well, to make the story short, after about two and a half hours (though my interview took only about three minutes as I have valid documents at hand) my passport bore a multiple entry visa stamp.
To my surprise, we did not head back home. Instead, Mr. Smith who has been gracious enough to drive me around Rochester (and whom I “blame” for the tan I have now for the nearly every day trips) drove towards “The Peace Bridge” which links the two countries. Yes, Ambo, I no longer looked like a new-age Filipino whose skin is pale for not getting enough exposure to sunlight. I have embraced the calling of our roots; I am now comparative to N!xau, the legendary star of “The Gods Must Be Crazy” (and when I look in the mirror I could note some resemblance). But summer days in America could be likewise trivial as it could be dry and the wind blows cold (that answers my query as to why most Americans prefer to bask under the sun even at lunch time).
In Canada, the wind is as cold as ice, especially if you take the road along the river. It is an alternative road that offers scenic spots and less tedious than the main highway. Mr. Smith and I took our time looking at magnificent houses built overlooking the river. Minutes after the survey (and a picnic along the river) we found ourselves at Niagara Parkway, the road that leads you to the scenic wonder of the Niagara Falls.
The falls is Canada’s main popular destination. The crescent-shaped rapids, also called the “Horseshoe”, is 54 meters or 177 feet high. It also said to carry nine times more water than its United States counterpart, the American Falls, and the main source of electricity for Ontario, Canada. The falls are divided by Goat Island.
The city of Niagara Falls is teeming with tourists, the area boasts of hotels and restaurants as well as scenic spots. For the lack of time, and parking space, we drove through the main road keeping an eye on some place of interest as we’d likely be coming back here for another visit. We visited Niagara-on-the-Lake, a beautiful community that is rich in history and agriculture (see http://www.niagaraonthelake.com/), for a moment of repose. The place is celebrating its Shaw Festival and Niagara Wine Festival. No wonder that we saw press people in one of its well-known winery. The Shaw Festival is a tribute to George Bernard Shaw, the Irish playwright and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1925 and the Academy Award in 1938 for Pygmalion. Among his plays that are being staged at the festival are “High Society”, “The Heiress”, and “Arms and the Man”. Well, we will be coming back for the festival next week to see one of his plays.
Though we only had about three hours to survey Niagara Falls, however, it was worth it.
To learn more about Niagara Falls, visit http://www.city.niagarafalls.on.ca/
Good scent from a strange mountain
BROKEBACK Mountain failed to capture the Best Picture award in the recently concluded Oscar Awards. But for the gay and lesbian community it is the best picture there is for the year. This as it was nominated in the "gayiest" Oscars ever. Films like Transamerica and Capote have homosexual themes. Most moviegoers and critics are signifying that movies with gay and lesbian themes are gaining ground in Hollywood. This is partially true. It is maybe because of the promotional distinction that kept the curiosity of the moviegoers burning. Ang Lee who won as Best Film Director for Brokeback Mountain is hero for Asians. However, the award should have been awarded to him when he did the direction for Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Though Brokeback Mountain has the depth, Crouching Tiger has the breadth.
Also noteworthy in their performances were Philip Seymour Hoffman who won an Oscar Best Actor for his portrayal of the gay writer Truman Capote and Felicity Huffman who was nominated for her role as a pre-op transsexual in Transamerica. Annie Proulx, in an interview with an AP entertainment writer, said that she never thought her short story "Brokeback Mountain" will be turned into a movie, more likely to be an Oscar material. Her short story "The Trickle-Down Effect", which was published in The New Yorker in 2002, has this quality that makes you admire its construction - the kind that has a linear prosodic appeal. However, it does not really hold you down to your seat. Proulx's story was among those featured along with works of E. L Doctorow (who recently won a National Book Award for his book "The March"), Zadie Smith and Norman Mailer. Proulx has been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her fiction "The Shipping News" in 1994. It was made into a movie. In last year's ImageOut Festival in Rochester, New York, some quality films and videos were featured. The Philippines had its share of exposure. Mark V. Reyes' 19-minute video "Last Full Show" was featured under the Flower City Flicks. It was awarded Best Short in the Turin International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. It is the story of "a young high schooler and an older guy who dabble in a game of forbidden love. It highlights the socioeconomic realities in Manila." Also noteworthy was Sigrid Andrea P. Bernardo's 20-minute video entitled "Woman" which was featured after the showing of the award-winning video "Keep Not Silent" by Ilil Alexander. Certainly, films and videos in the gay and lesbian genre have been gaining ground in the past though only that promotion was lacking. Promotion is the biggest factor why certain films or movies break the Hollywood scene. A film that caught my attention was the multi-awarded "Based on a True Story" by Walter Stokman. A film based on the Academy Award winning film "Dog Day Afternoon" which stars Al Pacino. It is about the story of John Wojtowicz who on August 1972 "attempted to rob a Chase bank in south Brooklyn in order to finance a sex change operation for his suicidal boyfriend. Before he and his accomplice could flee the scene, the police had the block surrounded and a 14-hour standoff ensued, with all the bank staff held hostage." That prompted me to research on the incident thru the net. I encourage the readers to search on it in the web and you will be amazed by the story. Brokeback Mountain is an interesting film but it cannot be considered as groundbreaking. It's theme is not original, think of Carlitos Siguion-Reyna's "Ang Lalake sa Buhay ni Selya" (The Man in Her Life). The story is simple. But what makes it appealing is its quality and the psychological and emotional turmoil it imparts to the viewers, considering that it is a film about gay love. In the Philippines, Danton Remoto's short story "Green Rose" gained admiration from critics as it was published in the Philippines FREE PRESS years back. Surely, gay themes in various works have been existent for years. And it is wonderful!
Also noteworthy in their performances were Philip Seymour Hoffman who won an Oscar Best Actor for his portrayal of the gay writer Truman Capote and Felicity Huffman who was nominated for her role as a pre-op transsexual in Transamerica. Annie Proulx, in an interview with an AP entertainment writer, said that she never thought her short story "Brokeback Mountain" will be turned into a movie, more likely to be an Oscar material. Her short story "The Trickle-Down Effect", which was published in The New Yorker in 2002, has this quality that makes you admire its construction - the kind that has a linear prosodic appeal. However, it does not really hold you down to your seat. Proulx's story was among those featured along with works of E. L Doctorow (who recently won a National Book Award for his book "The March"), Zadie Smith and Norman Mailer. Proulx has been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her fiction "The Shipping News" in 1994. It was made into a movie. In last year's ImageOut Festival in Rochester, New York, some quality films and videos were featured. The Philippines had its share of exposure. Mark V. Reyes' 19-minute video "Last Full Show" was featured under the Flower City Flicks. It was awarded Best Short in the Turin International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. It is the story of "a young high schooler and an older guy who dabble in a game of forbidden love. It highlights the socioeconomic realities in Manila." Also noteworthy was Sigrid Andrea P. Bernardo's 20-minute video entitled "Woman" which was featured after the showing of the award-winning video "Keep Not Silent" by Ilil Alexander. Certainly, films and videos in the gay and lesbian genre have been gaining ground in the past though only that promotion was lacking. Promotion is the biggest factor why certain films or movies break the Hollywood scene. A film that caught my attention was the multi-awarded "Based on a True Story" by Walter Stokman. A film based on the Academy Award winning film "Dog Day Afternoon" which stars Al Pacino. It is about the story of John Wojtowicz who on August 1972 "attempted to rob a Chase bank in south Brooklyn in order to finance a sex change operation for his suicidal boyfriend. Before he and his accomplice could flee the scene, the police had the block surrounded and a 14-hour standoff ensued, with all the bank staff held hostage." That prompted me to research on the incident thru the net. I encourage the readers to search on it in the web and you will be amazed by the story. Brokeback Mountain is an interesting film but it cannot be considered as groundbreaking. It's theme is not original, think of Carlitos Siguion-Reyna's "Ang Lalake sa Buhay ni Selya" (The Man in Her Life). The story is simple. But what makes it appealing is its quality and the psychological and emotional turmoil it imparts to the viewers, considering that it is a film about gay love. In the Philippines, Danton Remoto's short story "Green Rose" gained admiration from critics as it was published in the Philippines FREE PRESS years back. Surely, gay themes in various works have been existent for years. And it is wonderful!
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod newspaper, March 08, 2006 under my column, The Mango Generation)
Columnists Gone ‘Bad’
‘Memory composes a story of shames and amazements.’
Czelaw Milosz, I Should Know
Imagine two newspaper columnists with enormous libido - one is a closeted married gay man, the other is a nonagenarian bachelor who frequented brothels to satisfy his urges. It is a great deal for me to have read two novels that are incidentally written by distinguished journalists.
After taking a 10-year hiatus, Gabriel García Márquez came up with a powerful novel that transcends love, lust, and life in Memoria de mis putas tristes (Memories of my melancholy whores, translated from the Spanish by Edith Grossman; New York : Knopf, 2005. 115 pages). The 1982 Nobel Prize winner proved that he has still the literary flame, keeping the trademark García Márquez style in his prose, that is, tempered narrative technique. You’ll never get a headache reading García Márquez’s texts. It is simple enough to be read by majority of readers but critically Marquez shows aspiring writers how they should work on their prose.
Even with the opening sentence, Marquez draws an impact - "The year I turned ninety, I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin." Marquez has also chosen not to reveal the name of his protagonist. His name is not important. What is important is the element of the story and how it evolves.
Set in the 1950s in a Colombian coastal town, the story shows how the protagonist, a columnist for a Sunday newspaper El Diario de la Paz, has found love, at last, after so many trips to the brothel, with a powerful element so uncontrollable which he cannot even understand. (See, you so think columnists are invincible; they are human, too).
Told in a first-person point of view, it is a great contribution to the romantic genre. Imagine a 90-year-old man falling in love with a 14-year-old girl, certainly a virgin. The protagonist even lost count of the number of times he has had sex; it was 514 in his last count when he was at age 50, thus, “I have never gone to bed with a woman I didn’t pay, and the few who weren’t in the profession I persuaded, by argument or by force, to take money even if they threw it in the trash. When I was twenty I began to keep a record listing name, age, place, and a brief notation on the circumstances and style of lovemaking.” Imagine that. Now at age ninety, kaya pa ba ni tatang? Well, that’s the power of fiction. (Last week, I even had the pleasure of meeting a 102-year-old woman at a social lunch in a church organization here in Rochester. Well, she’s still able but I cannot think of any man in that age can be that active sexually. Okay, we have read reports about old men involved in rape cases involving minors).
Overall, Marquez has not lost the charm as a storyteller. Grossman has done an excellent translation.
The second novel is an amusing novel. Not only that it tackles gay love but it also has a controversial appeal.
Someone you know by Gary Zebrun (Alyson Books, LA, 2004, 198 pages) tells the story of a closeted columnist who got entangled in a series of controversies, primarily on the slaying of the men he had sex with. Zebrun’s character, Daniel Caruso, has a wife and a daughter whom he loves deeply but his life is a mess. Caruso lives another life far away from his reputation – a respected columnist whom people trusted.
The story began with the main character meeting a handsome firefighter in a bar, whom he ended up in bed with and whom he later learned, after waking up alone in the hunk’s pad, was brutally murdered. What was trivial was he knew that the condom his one-night-stand lover used leaked (hmm, what brand do you think it was?) but he did not stop his lover from accomplishing the act. Later he also found out a bottle of AZT tablets from the cupboard of his lover’s bathroom. AZT is the drug used to treat HIV-positive individuals. Well, our journalist author (who works as the news editor of The Providence Journal) must also be an advocate of safe-sex.
The story, told in a first-person point of view, is full with gay sexual escapades; one might think that it is the sole purpose of the story. The author takes us to the world of homosexual life – sex in bathhouses, etc. - and the bizarre twist of the story. You’ll definitely wonder who the culprit is.
The high-point of the story is our protagonist revealing to his wife and daughter that he is gay and accounted to her his sexual encounters. Even after the revelation he continued with these encounters. Well, some men cannot just control their urges.
Czelaw Milosz, I Should Know
Imagine two newspaper columnists with enormous libido - one is a closeted married gay man, the other is a nonagenarian bachelor who frequented brothels to satisfy his urges. It is a great deal for me to have read two novels that are incidentally written by distinguished journalists.
After taking a 10-year hiatus, Gabriel García Márquez came up with a powerful novel that transcends love, lust, and life in Memoria de mis putas tristes (Memories of my melancholy whores, translated from the Spanish by Edith Grossman; New York : Knopf, 2005. 115 pages). The 1982 Nobel Prize winner proved that he has still the literary flame, keeping the trademark García Márquez style in his prose, that is, tempered narrative technique. You’ll never get a headache reading García Márquez’s texts. It is simple enough to be read by majority of readers but critically Marquez shows aspiring writers how they should work on their prose.
Even with the opening sentence, Marquez draws an impact - "The year I turned ninety, I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin." Marquez has also chosen not to reveal the name of his protagonist. His name is not important. What is important is the element of the story and how it evolves.
Set in the 1950s in a Colombian coastal town, the story shows how the protagonist, a columnist for a Sunday newspaper El Diario de la Paz, has found love, at last, after so many trips to the brothel, with a powerful element so uncontrollable which he cannot even understand. (See, you so think columnists are invincible; they are human, too).
Told in a first-person point of view, it is a great contribution to the romantic genre. Imagine a 90-year-old man falling in love with a 14-year-old girl, certainly a virgin. The protagonist even lost count of the number of times he has had sex; it was 514 in his last count when he was at age 50, thus, “I have never gone to bed with a woman I didn’t pay, and the few who weren’t in the profession I persuaded, by argument or by force, to take money even if they threw it in the trash. When I was twenty I began to keep a record listing name, age, place, and a brief notation on the circumstances and style of lovemaking.” Imagine that. Now at age ninety, kaya pa ba ni tatang? Well, that’s the power of fiction. (Last week, I even had the pleasure of meeting a 102-year-old woman at a social lunch in a church organization here in Rochester. Well, she’s still able but I cannot think of any man in that age can be that active sexually. Okay, we have read reports about old men involved in rape cases involving minors).
Overall, Marquez has not lost the charm as a storyteller. Grossman has done an excellent translation.
The second novel is an amusing novel. Not only that it tackles gay love but it also has a controversial appeal.
Someone you know by Gary Zebrun (Alyson Books, LA, 2004, 198 pages) tells the story of a closeted columnist who got entangled in a series of controversies, primarily on the slaying of the men he had sex with. Zebrun’s character, Daniel Caruso, has a wife and a daughter whom he loves deeply but his life is a mess. Caruso lives another life far away from his reputation – a respected columnist whom people trusted.
The story began with the main character meeting a handsome firefighter in a bar, whom he ended up in bed with and whom he later learned, after waking up alone in the hunk’s pad, was brutally murdered. What was trivial was he knew that the condom his one-night-stand lover used leaked (hmm, what brand do you think it was?) but he did not stop his lover from accomplishing the act. Later he also found out a bottle of AZT tablets from the cupboard of his lover’s bathroom. AZT is the drug used to treat HIV-positive individuals. Well, our journalist author (who works as the news editor of The Providence Journal) must also be an advocate of safe-sex.
The story, told in a first-person point of view, is full with gay sexual escapades; one might think that it is the sole purpose of the story. The author takes us to the world of homosexual life – sex in bathhouses, etc. - and the bizarre twist of the story. You’ll definitely wonder who the culprit is.
The high-point of the story is our protagonist revealing to his wife and daughter that he is gay and accounted to her his sexual encounters. Even after the revelation he continued with these encounters. Well, some men cannot just control their urges.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Doveglion, that angel in a Barong Tagalog
Tuesday last week was Jose Garcia Villa's ninth death anniversary. I was hoping that the national publications would give tribute to this remarkable figure who put the Philippines in the map of world literature. Sometime ago I was upset upon knowing that most students do not know who he is. What was more troubling was knowing that they don't even care to research who this figure is.
The late National Artist for Literature was an interesting entity. Who could have had a more interesting life, career and aura than this slave of art or maybe to make it more apt - Art's red-thighed lover. He was suspended from UP after the publication of his famous series of prose poems entitled "Man Songs" in the late 1920s when he was just a college student. The eminent poem that earned the ire of some conservative groups was "The Coconut Poem" (formerly called "Song of Ripeness) because of its "obvious" sensuality. He was suspended from the school upon the recommendation of then dean of the College of Law, Jorge Bocobo and fined P50. Villa, however, protested, saying that his poems were not at all explicit if looked into another level. This did not, however, toned down the "sentence" he met with the school. Villa did not stoop down into the conservative group's view of art. By then he won the prestigious literary competition of the Philippines FREE PRESS Magazine for his short story "Mir-i-Nisa". With the P1,000 prize money he went to the United States to secure "greener pastures" and to seek literary roots. In the US, Villa became the poet and critic immortal he had always wanted. Every year he rated the best stories published locally and established the standards of Philippine literature. Villa's annual selection became the item of the year in Philippine literary scene. It generated both positive and negative responses. But he was never undaunted of these counter-criticisms. He was a genius and his theories were amazing. In the US Villa became a celebrity. His first collection of poems "Have Come, Am Here" generated wonderful review from gargantuan critics and poets like Edith Sitwell, Marianne Moore, Babette Deutsch, among others. That book could have been the first poetry book by a Filipino to have won the prestigious Pulitzer prize in Poetry in 1943. It was unanimously voted for the top prize by the Pulitzer committee but vetoed by the chairman as he did not want the prize to be awarded to an experimental poet. That collection contains Villa's valid experiment - the reverse consonance. The award was instead given to Robert Frost who also has a poetry collection that year entitled "A Witness Tree", however, it was only the second choice. During his prime, the Villa stories were sprouting - in national magazines and in local dailies. He was always the talk of the town because of his "acts". He believed in "Art for art's sake" approach and he applied it to his life and works. The first article I have read about Villa was authored by Jonathan Chua for the Fookien Times years ago. It was beautifully written that it lead me to research on the wonderful persona. It lead to an article written by another National Artist Nick Joaquin, who, writing as Quijano de Manila, who wrote a comely description of the life of Villa in the article "Viva Villa". Chua by the way compiled Villa's literary criticisms in one book "The Critical Villa". If anyone who wishes to know more of Villa as an artist and critic he should secure this rare volume. It also contains Villa's annual selections and other valuable essays on criticisms. The footnotes were precious, too. UP's J. Neil Garcia wrote a comely essay on Villa years back, which was published in the Free Press. In it, he brought to light the stories that missed the press when Villa's first and only collection of stories came out. These stories were said to be daring because it tackles homosexual theme - that, in the 1930s when such themes were a big taboo. Poet and De La Salle professor Cirilo F. Bautista made a fitting tribute to his friend in his column in Panorama Magazine a month after Villa's death in 1997. He said despite the haphazard articles written about Villa, he was a "sweet angel" who "sprinkled intelligence and self-effacent on the obedient throng." Villa's friend e.e. cummings, who made a great influence in his poetry, gifted him a poem which was included in the former's last volume of poetry. The poem was presented to him by Mrs. Cummings herself when Villa spent Thanksgiving Day with her. Doveglion was Villa's penname, a fitting combination of Villa's life as dove, eagle and lion. Before he died he requested that he be dressed in a barong tagalog when he'll encased in his coffin so "his nipples would show." Now, we can't say it is explicit.
The late National Artist for Literature was an interesting entity. Who could have had a more interesting life, career and aura than this slave of art or maybe to make it more apt - Art's red-thighed lover. He was suspended from UP after the publication of his famous series of prose poems entitled "Man Songs" in the late 1920s when he was just a college student. The eminent poem that earned the ire of some conservative groups was "The Coconut Poem" (formerly called "Song of Ripeness) because of its "obvious" sensuality. He was suspended from the school upon the recommendation of then dean of the College of Law, Jorge Bocobo and fined P50. Villa, however, protested, saying that his poems were not at all explicit if looked into another level. This did not, however, toned down the "sentence" he met with the school. Villa did not stoop down into the conservative group's view of art. By then he won the prestigious literary competition of the Philippines FREE PRESS Magazine for his short story "Mir-i-Nisa". With the P1,000 prize money he went to the United States to secure "greener pastures" and to seek literary roots. In the US, Villa became the poet and critic immortal he had always wanted. Every year he rated the best stories published locally and established the standards of Philippine literature. Villa's annual selection became the item of the year in Philippine literary scene. It generated both positive and negative responses. But he was never undaunted of these counter-criticisms. He was a genius and his theories were amazing. In the US Villa became a celebrity. His first collection of poems "Have Come, Am Here" generated wonderful review from gargantuan critics and poets like Edith Sitwell, Marianne Moore, Babette Deutsch, among others. That book could have been the first poetry book by a Filipino to have won the prestigious Pulitzer prize in Poetry in 1943. It was unanimously voted for the top prize by the Pulitzer committee but vetoed by the chairman as he did not want the prize to be awarded to an experimental poet. That collection contains Villa's valid experiment - the reverse consonance. The award was instead given to Robert Frost who also has a poetry collection that year entitled "A Witness Tree", however, it was only the second choice. During his prime, the Villa stories were sprouting - in national magazines and in local dailies. He was always the talk of the town because of his "acts". He believed in "Art for art's sake" approach and he applied it to his life and works. The first article I have read about Villa was authored by Jonathan Chua for the Fookien Times years ago. It was beautifully written that it lead me to research on the wonderful persona. It lead to an article written by another National Artist Nick Joaquin, who, writing as Quijano de Manila, who wrote a comely description of the life of Villa in the article "Viva Villa". Chua by the way compiled Villa's literary criticisms in one book "The Critical Villa". If anyone who wishes to know more of Villa as an artist and critic he should secure this rare volume. It also contains Villa's annual selections and other valuable essays on criticisms. The footnotes were precious, too. UP's J. Neil Garcia wrote a comely essay on Villa years back, which was published in the Free Press. In it, he brought to light the stories that missed the press when Villa's first and only collection of stories came out. These stories were said to be daring because it tackles homosexual theme - that, in the 1930s when such themes were a big taboo. Poet and De La Salle professor Cirilo F. Bautista made a fitting tribute to his friend in his column in Panorama Magazine a month after Villa's death in 1997. He said despite the haphazard articles written about Villa, he was a "sweet angel" who "sprinkled intelligence and self-effacent on the obedient throng." Villa's friend e.e. cummings, who made a great influence in his poetry, gifted him a poem which was included in the former's last volume of poetry. The poem was presented to him by Mrs. Cummings herself when Villa spent Thanksgiving Day with her. Doveglion was Villa's penname, a fitting combination of Villa's life as dove, eagle and lion. Before he died he requested that he be dressed in a barong tagalog when he'll encased in his coffin so "his nipples would show." Now, we can't say it is explicit.
(Published in Sun.Star Bacolod Feb. 13, 2006 under my column, The Mango Generation)
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