Firelight: Verses and Illuminations

Firelight
Verses and
Illuminations
Midge K. Manlapig
Firelight
Verses and Illuminations
Poetry and Essays by

Midge K. Manlapig
2|Firelight
Originally published online via the blogs A Page from My Book and
Beauty in Darkness, this book is protected by a Creative
Commons Attribution – No Derivative Works 3.0 Supported
License.
3|Firelight
For Wayne…
4|Firelight
Verses
Firelight
5|Firelight
Photo taken on 31st October 2010
the nights grow longer,

the cold grows stronger,
and i seem
to have lost
my way.
but my
heart,
my
mind,
my
soul -
they burn
with
fervor,
with
passion,
with that
fever of
yearning so
strong.
just when
i think
i need
to grope,
stumble blind,
feel my way
6|Firelight
through
the endless
darkness
i see
a pinpoint,
a flash,
a faint
but present
flicker
of flame
and i walk
without
fear
for i know
deep
within
what i
feel,
what i
know
is true,
all true,
is you.
Conquest Most Sweet
7|Firelight
Artwork: Dominion - Natalie Shau, 2009
come hither
beloved
and let
me
kiss
you:
lose yourself
in the
sweetness,
the warmth,
the
overwhelming
softness
of flesh,
of love,
of lust
unbridled
unleash
yourself
from the
fetters,
the rusting
shackles
8|Firelight
of prudery,
of ignorance,
of innocence
unwarranted...
free
yourself
from your
inhibitions
and bind
yourself
to
me.
Vanity of Vanities, All is Vanity
9|Firelight
Artwork: Vanitas - Natalie Shau, year unknown
remember:
you are dust
to dust you
will return.
you resort
to the
paint-pot,
the surgeon,
the mask
to hide
your
uglinesses
it does not
change
a
thing:
you're hideous:
rotting flesh
stinking,
reeking
beneath rich
perfumes,
salves,
unguents.
your heart
is rotten,
your soul
is black,
10 | F i r e l i g h t
your mind
filled
with the
maggots,
the vermin
of slander,
of envy,
of greed,
of lust,
of hate.
how i
wish:
someone
would strip
you
of your
pretensions,
your follies,
your lies,
your false -
blatantly fake -
pieties,
your power-plays
your pitiful
mockable
mockeries...
...and
show
that you
are little
more
than the
devil's
precious
little
whore.
Siren-Song
Artwork: Blue Mermaid - Yoshimasa Tsuchiya, 2009
i love you
beyond doubt,
beyond pain,
beyond pleasure,
beyond joy,
beyond grief...
more than magic,

more than power,
more than substance,
more than even
life itself...
i lure you
to my
side,
i beckon you
to heed
this call,
this song,
this ode
to love
and longing
and passion
and life...
for
i love you
more than the sweet,
more than the bitter,
more than the sane,
more than the mad,
more than life,
more than death
and possibly
beyond.
Anger
Artwork: As She Began to Fade Away - Chad Merritt, 2010
i feel the
pain:
the rage
threatening,
roaring,
trying
to break out
like wings
through my
shoulders.
i am bowed,
and cowed,
and rendered
mute
and scarlet-
faced
by the
things
i cannot,
could not,
would not,
should not
say
lest i
kill with
a word.
i want
to lash out
to bash up
to mash up
to crush,
crunch,
cripple,
maim;
to rip out
slanderous
tongues,
to pop out
lying
eyes
for every
wrong
inflicted
upon my
heart,
upon my
soul,
upon my
flesh:
thrice
is the
price,
the
ransom
i name,
i seek,
i demand.
Nine Days
Artwork: While You're Sleeping - Audrey Kawasaki, 2009
the clock
ticks:
minutes pass,
seconds
of life
fluttering,
flitting
by.
i sit in
the darkness
and wait
even
as the
pain
cripples me
more than
i care
to admit.
the fear
breaks me
but i
try
not to
let it
show.
i think
of you
and think
too hard
and worry
myself
sick
and worn
and ragged.
and i
wait
still;
nine days
ere
my year
turns
and i
weep
and i sigh
and i
worry
myself
to
shreds.
Be Not Proud, My Foes
Artwork: Butterflies Trying to Escape Their Shadow - Peter Callessen, 2005
be not
proud,
my foes:
all is
not yet
lost!
i can
still
fly
free
from your
lies,
your dark
mumblings,
every
single
curse
you've
uttered
against
me.
be not
proud
of
yourselves
for you
are as
nothing,
are as
rubbish,
are as
dross:
you malign
that which
you
understand
not;
you scoff
at that
which you
fear,
which you
dread,
which you
know
will mean
your
end.
be not
proud,
my foes:
death
will have
her last
laugh
yet...
and you
will weep,
will moan,
will mourn,
and curse
the day
you
were
born.
Grief and Circumstance
Artwork: Annie Duels the Sun - Angie Wang, 2010
i weep:
my heart bleeds
sore
within
and i know
not
what to
do
for all
are against
me,
none stand
for me;
my world
is fallen,
is black,
is bleak,
and i
am too
spent
for any
struggle
my heart
is weary
and all
i want
to do
is die.
730 Days and Then Some
Artwork: The Second Look - Carin Welz-Stein, date unknown
i wrote
you off
when we
first met:
you were
a child
fresh from
school;
a pest
who plagued
and pestered
and drove
me mad
for a
fortnight.
and yet
when once
again
our paths
crossed:
you seemed
to come
alive
at the
sound
of my
name.
when we
next met,
things took
a turn:
it's been
two years
and then
some -
and you
still plague
and pester
and drive
me mad...
but
in a
good
way;
a very
good
way.
Heartstring
Artwork: Plucked - Audrey Kawasaki, 2010
i want
to play
with your
heartstrings:
stretch,
twist,
test the
limits,
pluck like
those on
a lyre,
play them
like a
violin -
play myself
a fugue -
no, dirge -
no, ballad -
no, torch
song - -
no:
play myself
a bride's-march
or, worse:
stretch them
like the
string on
a bow -
suddenly
releasing,
unleashing
every
single
emotion
you fear,
you hide,
you dread;
stretch them
till they
break
and let
you
feel
the pain
you put
me
through
every
single
waking
moment.
but that
would be
too cruel...
better for us
to play
these strings;
hearts
in
concert,
in
harmony
at
last.
To Put Down Roots
Artwork: Passage for Lost Clouds #0176 - Ken Wong, 13 January 2004
to stop
running,
to pause
mid-stride,
to take
a break
and smell
the
roses
blooming
before
they
wither:
to hold
one's tongue,
to cover
one's mouth,
to have
a finger
pressed
upon
your lips
to silence
the rampaging
thoughts,
the cutting
words:
to put
down roots,
to quiet
down,
to settle
down
in
domesticity
in the
midst
of
modernity,
progress
marching
on and on and on:
to put
away pen,
to shelve
away paper,
to don
one's apron,
to minister
to the
needs
of a
loving
spouse...
i seek,
i yearn,
i sigh...
i wish.
No Regrets, No Barriers, No Kidding
Artwork: Hamlet and Ophelia - Andrej Dugin, year unknown
i despise:
the naysayers,
the ones
who claim
that what
i want
will come
to naught...
the ones
who say
i can
do better-
but how
do you
define
better - ?
better for whom?

for me?
for them?
humanity
in general?
who
are they
to say
what i
want,
what i
need?!
drop dead,
fall flat,
leave me
be,
you wretches,
you tiresome,
worthless,
dark-mongering,
night-spewing
hags!
i tread
my own
path,
i dance
my own
measure.
i chose,
i decided,
i abide
by what
i want,
i need,
i desire.
drop dead,
fall flat,
and
leave
me
be.
Pause
Artwork: Medusa's Corner - Eugene Berman, 1943
i stop
in my
tracks
and say
a
prayer
that
i
may be
saved
from all
the
trouble,
the grief,
this tragedy
this life.
i stop
and
wonder
to
myself:
who am i,
what am i
doing here,
where do
i go
from here,
how
do i
get there,
when
does it
all
end?
Enspelled
Artwork: Ordinary Magic - Wendy S. Rolfe, 2008
i'd like to think

that there's something
that binds me
to you
otherwise:
i'd have
forgotten
about you
a long,
long,
long
time ago.
and yet:
the world has
turned
twice
and your
face
is still
the last
thing
i see
ere i
fall
asleep.
why?
why?
oh, the
never
ending
why...
i'd shoot
myself
now;
but i
wouldn't
see
how this
unfolds
now,
right?
Clock
Artwork: Why Time Goes Slower when We Get Older - Rhonald Blommestijn, date
unknown
the things,
the people,
the events
that mark
my life
like the
hours,
the rapid...
...fire
hours
speeding
away
on the
face
of
father
time
himself.
i need
patience -
a patience
so intense
as to be
surreal,
inhuman,
potent.
ticks,
heartbeats
throbbing,
flitting,
thumping,
counting
my life
away
one
second
at a
time.
honestly:
i look
like a
fool
waiting
as i
do.
To Love Dormant
Artwork: Four Unicorns of the Apocalypse - Krista Huot, 2009
do you
think,
dream,
envision...
do you
see my
face
whilst
your eyes
are
closed?
am i
but a
memory,
a trace
of things
past...
or am
i
real
to you
in
your
heart,
your
mind,
your
soul?
innocent
query
at the
break
of
dawn.
Path
Artwork: Reliquary for My Everyday III - Carmen Lozar, 2007
can i
ask you
to find
your way,
to find
the path
that leads...
the path
that leads
to what
your heart
will want,
will need,
will...
...consider...
consider
the odds
that block
the way,
consider
the words
you want
to say.
can i
ask you
to find
your way...
to find
your way...
...to me?
Angel in Prayer
Photograph from Wayne Whang
i love
the look
on your
face
in
prayer:
the peace,
the serenity
you exude.
it's like
seeing
the face
of an
angel.
i wish
i could
say
these
words
to
you ~
but i
fear
that you
might
fly
away.
Beyond Sustenance
Artwork: Because of Toast - Joe Sorren, 2008
i believe
in the color,
the flavor,
the savor
of things -
consider:
the ripe
mango...
golden, firm,
fragrant, honeyed
oval...
succulence
made tangible.
its musky
perfume
cooing a
siren song,
an almost
sexual
come-hither
signal.
tempting
in its
ripeness,
juice dripping
like sweat
from a
fevered
brow.
the flesh
soft,
yielding,
sensual.
consider:
the verdant
green,
the audible
crunch
of a
well-made
salad -
the tenderness,
the savor,
the blood-tang
of rare beef
causing
an almost
vampiric
hunger
in a
diner.
pity
the dieter,
pity
the picky,
pity
the prejudiced -
for they
know not
what they
miss.
Yearning: An Acrostic
Artwork: The Truth About Comets - Dorothea Tanning, 1945
was it
a coincidence:
you showing up,
not expected,
everything in an uproar -
whatever.
heart gone
aflutter;
now, everything is
grace.
Rage and Release
Artwork: Poison Control 1 -Kenichi Hoshine, date unknown
fighting
for my
life:
tearing out,
tearing away,
tearing apart
the very
fabric
of my
grief.
unraveling
threads of
anger,
frustration,
self-loathing
and then
some -
i will
break
out of
this
cocoon
and
emerge
fiercer,
stronger,
braver
than i
have ever
been.
i will
shatter
my fragile
self
and make
room
for the
new
me.
when that
day comes:
i feel
sorry
for anyone
who gets
in
my
way.
Lamb to the Slaughter
Artwork: The Island - Thylacine -Walton Ford, date unknown
my hands
are tied;
am bound
in chains
dragged
to parts
unknown
like a
lamb
to the
slaughter
my spirit
broken,
my heart
in shreds;
nothing
to live
for,
nothing
to die
for.
nothing
is left
for me.
muzzled,
silenced,
beaten,
hated,
spat upon
with savage
vituperation
from all
sides -
reviled
by all
who know -
orknew -
me best.
maybe
in death
i will
find
peace.
Secret Self
Artwork:Tsukuyomi- Hiromi Sato, date unknown
i write
notes
to my
secret self
and tell
her
who i
want,
who i
wish,
who i
need
to be.
under cover
of darkness,
under cloak
of shadow:
our conversations
consist
of blighted
hopes,
ruined
dreams,
forlorn conclusions
of silly
experiments,
mundane matters
of the
heart.
but i
still see
myself
growing into
her:
becoming
stronger,
braver,
wiser,
more beautiful.
someday,
i will
have no
need
to speak
to my
secret self.
when that
day comes
she and i
will be
one
and
the
same.
Making Do with What One Has
Artwork: The Fairy Queen - Wolfe von Lenkiewicz, 2009
hate me
to the very
core
of your
being;
act like
i'm not there:
i'd rather
feel your
hatred;
it's a
better
deal than
indifference -
at least
you
acknowledge
the fact
that i
exist.
i ache,
i weep,
i yearn -
to no
avail.
but
i know
you live
and breathe;
you're well.
and i
am
strangely
comforted.
that's all
i can
say.
Illumination
Artwork: The Calling - Remedios Varo, 1961
into the
darkness
i tread
the measure
the eternal
dance
the rhythm
that never
dies.
into the
darkness
i walk
the paths
that lead
to those
in need
of solace,
of tenderness,
of love.
fire of
passion
unquenchable,
spark of
desire
ephemeral...
guiding light,
watch over
my every
step.
lead me
to where
i am
needed;
lead me
to the
one.
Unrequited: A Dirge
Artwork: Dopo la Fine - Margherita Manzelli, 2008
my love:
forgive me
for loving
you.
i dread
your hate,
your rage
at finding
out.
i have
no beauty
you could
take pride
in.
i have
no wit,
no glitter,
no glamour
to mask
my flaws.
i have
naught
but the
hate,
the contempt
of my
foes -
and there
are many
of them -
who would
want me
anyway?
i tire
of weeping
but what
can i
do?
i am
nobody.
i do
not
matter.
least of
all,
to
you.
and yet,
you
mean more
to me
than
anything
and
everything
in this
world.
if i
killed
myself
maybe...
...just
maybe...
it would
make
you
happy.
A Thank You Note to My Foes
Artwork: Melancholy - Mike Robinson, 2003
to all my
enemies,
my dearest
foes,
rivals and
arch~rivals
alike:
thank you.
i swoon
with
gratitude
at the
myriad
annoyances,
those petty
madnesses
you've sent
my way.
you've sent
me
on forays
into the
very edge
of madness;
pushed me
to the
brink,
the very
border
of death.
again,
thank you.
how i
hope
someday
i can
repay
your lovely
gifts
in kind...
...and then
some.
Oracle
Artwork: I Have Many Secrets - Chad Merritt, 2009
i gaze up
at the
darkening
sky
and smile:
i see
the paths
that fate
sets up,
the paths
that lead
hither
and
thither,
those wending
ways,
those weirding
ways
where all
creation
dares to,
needs to,
seeks to
go.
i stand
on the
cusp,
the very
origin
of destiny:
the moon
waxes, wanes, withers...
another
year
passes.
where do i
go,
what do i
do?
i cannot
see,
cannot
discern
the path
but am
grateful
for the
hands,
the
eyes
who guide me.
another year
has passed,
another set
of scores
settled,
tears shed,
gifts given,
gifts received,
lives taken,
lives given
and a love
that burned
brightly
burns brighter
still.
is this
the year,
is this
the time?
i stand
at the cusp,
the very origin
as the
rain
begins to
fall;
its patter
echoing
your name
over and
over and
over...
Yearning
Artwork: Coco and India (Cascade) - Ryan McGinley, 2008~2009
the moon
waxed,
waned,
darkened
nigh
two-score
times
since we
first met...
i've dreamed
and every
dream
is a
nightmare.
i've thought
and every
idea
is a
conflict.
it's true
then:
i feel
so
useless,
so
unfinished
without
you.
Whose Move is It Anyway?
Artwork: Eternal Game - Marina Korenfeld, 2001
i hate
the way
things are:
i hate
the fact
that i
keep
moving,
running
a
r
o
u
n
d
hither
thither
trying
to find
the way
the path
the solution
it's
burning
me
out.
not knowing
where you
are,
seeking but
not finding,
made dizzy
runabout
rushabout
spinning.
just when
i think
it's over
i should
give up
just when
i think
failure
looms
near...
you smile.
...
here we
here i
here you
go
again.
and here
i am
suckered
into
loving
you
yet
again.
Insomnia
Artwork: A Want to Believe - Eric Fortune, 2009
i lie
awake...
enveloped
by the
cold
darkness,
shrouded
by fragrant
mist ~
for once:
neither
lavender
nor
valerian -
none of
the elixirs
of
morpheus
serve to
quieten
my restless
senses.
the numbing
fatigue
beckons me
to shut
my eyes ~
but i
cannot
haunted as
i am
by my
demons,
beguiled as
i am
by the
memory.
if i
could
- and i
can! -
put a
name
to my
restlessness:
it would
be
yours,
o fair
one;
it would
be
yours.
Reach
Artwork: Out of Reach from Troglodyte Rose - Teetering Bulb, 2009
to soar
into the
wide blue
yonder...
to fly
in the
face of
tragedy...
to face
the odds
insurmountable
as they
are...
...to get
to you;
it is
worth it.
Search and Find
Artwork: Queens of the Sky - Teetering Bulb, 2008
tell me
where you
are:
i think
i have
lost you.
will i
ever
find
you?
should i
give up,
should i
give in
to darkest
despair?
tell me
where you
are:
i cannot
give up,
i cannot
give in ~
not now,
not at
this late
hour ~
not when
i already
am
so
close.
tell me
where you
are:
i mean
no harm,
my heart
means it.
i only
want you
to know
i care
for you
deeply ~
but
alas
i
dread
telling
you ~
because
i know
you will
run
away.
Abandon Ye All Hope for All is Lost
Artwork: Poet - Rudolph Kurz, date unknown
someone
please:
kill me
now.
my life
has no
more
meaning.
every
effort
wasted,
every
tear
shed
worthless,
my heart
has
nothing
left
but hate
and dread
and envy
and pain.
i cannot
help but
be
who i
am:
i have
no beauty,
i have
no worth,
i have
nothing
left.
the most
precious
thing
in my
life...
...i fear...
now
belongs
to
another -
fairer of
face,
lither of
limb.
someone
please
kill me
now.
all,
alas,
is
lost.
Necessary Burden
Artwork: Fragments - Teetering Bulb (Kurt Huggens and Zelda Devon), 2008
it is a
burden:
tiresome,
wearying,
annoying,
maddening
little
lump
of
tissue.
subject to
the whims,
caprices,
ins and outs,
the litany
of a million
human
tragedies
and
comedies.
can't live
with it ~
can't live
without it.
but a
heart
without
love
is a
poor,
pitiful
thing
indeed.
Teacup
Artwork: Kittens' Tea Party - Walter Potter, c. 1871
i would
rather be
sipping tea
and resting
my weary
head.
i am
numb;
tired
out
by the
tedium.
come sit
awhile
with me;
amuse me
with idle
chatter...
make me
remember
that this
life
is still
worth living
regardless
of the
callousness
of
the world.
Aftermath: Post-funeral Thoughts
Photo by Jojo Vitug for The Philippine Daily Inquirer
let this not

be the end;
the be-all,
the end-all ~
instead:
let this
be the
end
of the
beginning.
let not
the feet
that trudged
dutifully
end the
journey,
let not
the voices
that cheered
in mourning,
in gratitude,
in faith
be
silenced.
the great
work
remains
unfinished,
undone:
the lady,
the tireless
one,
has gone
to her
rest ~
(well-deserved,
well-earned
much as
we grieve...) ~
let us
take up
the
cudgels,
the
shovels,
the
pikes
in her
name
keep the
fires
burning;
never let
them
die.
Study in Sepia
Artwork: Sans (Female) - Eric Fortune, 2009
i sit,
i wait,
i am coming so
close
to falling
apart.
the landscape
is bleak
is grim
is grey - is...
is neither
here
nor
there
is nowhere
not quite
like the
twilight,
not quite
like the
dusk,
not as
sinister
as the
deep, deep
darkness
of
midnight.
but there
is no
sun,
neither
starlight nor
moon.
i rise
i walk
i trudge
wearily
in the
shadows,
barely more
than a
shadow
myself.
is this
all i
am now?
is this
the grand
wreck,
the
remnant?
i see
no hope,
no reason
for
release,
for
ease...
is it just
me ~
or have i ~
am i ~
dead to
the world?
Joyeaux Anniversaire, Mon Amour
Artwork: The Rebirth of Beauty in the Midst of Conflict - Joshua Field, 2008
here's to
another
year;
here's to
you.
may your
days
be filled
with:
sunshine
despite
the rain,
pleasure
despite
the pain,
your life's
work
on rapid
rise,
(it's up
and running,
i surmise)
for friends,
for clan,
for colleagues
keen -
(oh, and
don't let
them say
anything
too mean~!)
for
experiences
new;
the man
you are,
the man
you'll be;
and perhaps -
perhaps! -
maybe...
a place
in your
heart
for
me?
here's to
another
year;
here's to
you.
Squeeze
Artwork: "Lemon Aid" - Jeff Battocletti, 2009
i feel
like i've
been drained:
my brain
is like
a sponge
squeezed
dry
of every
single
original
idea...
the people
around me
are
vampires
out
to suck
every
last ounce
of
creativity,
of
magic
i have.
i won't
let
them.
because
if the
fount
of my
knowledge
dries up -
- they'd
never
survive
the drought.
Before Battle
Artwork: Judith and Holofernes - Keith Thompson, date unknown
i prepare
myself
for
battle;
i gird
myself
for
war...
i put my
sword
to hand;
it is sharp,
and keen,
and my arm
is strong.
i set my
eyes
on the
prize:
my heart,
my soul -
they both
need
saving.
feel my
anger,
let my
fury
burn:
let me hack
at the
heads
of my mortal
foes -
self-loathing,
fear and dread,
insecurity -
fall dead
at my
feet!
no mercy
for the
fallen;
with my
blade -
of truth,
of passion,
determination,
acceptance -
they will lie

bleeding
before me.
they enslaved
me
once;
it shall
never
happen
ever
again.
A Demitasse for One
the scent makes me think:
silent memoirs, lonely days -
i sigh, cup in hand.
W
A Poem in Two Parts
One
Artwork: Blue - Audrey Kawasaki, 2009
i want
to be
there
to wipe
away
the tears
you shed
in your
silent
hours,
your hours
spent
alone -
away
from them,
from them
all:
those who
smile
in public
but sneer
in private
behind your
back
against the
walls
scribblers
of
insults and
whatnot -
those
scamsters
who claim
your
friendship.
i want
to hold
your hand
in the
best,
the worst,
the most
of times,
hours, days,
weeks, months,
years -
forever
and then
some.
the earth
has
journeyed
thrice
and more
since that
day -
that day
you
ingrained
yourself
into my
mind.
i
no
longer
care
what
frenemies
may say,
scream,
rant
and wail:
i don't care
if you
turn away
so long
as i
know
for a
fact
this
admiration,
infatuation,
inspiration...
is
purely,
simply,
sincerely
love.
Two
Artwork: Boy in Static - Audrey Kawasaki, 2010
i look outside
into the bleak
the cold
the grey
the wet
world
below
and
sigh
and think
and wonder
and look
back
on a
sunny
warm
may
day:
how i
wanted
to say
something
other than
the
technobabble
gobbledegook
we were
conversing
in,
how i
wanted
to speak
of hope,
of life,
of faith
and then
some...
but i...
am a
coward
and i
spoke
not.
and i
regret
my silence
every second
minute
hour
day
that has
passed
and i
look out
at the
cold
world
below...
and wish
it was
may
and wish
you were
here
and i
could say
what i
want
need
wish
to
say.
Illuminations
On the Deterioration of English in the

Philippines
I had the opportunity to interview some of the country's finest financial minds last
week for a project and, while the photographer was setting up the lighting
equipment, the conversation turned to the communication skills of today's young
people. Both the gentlemen I was interviewing at the time were appalled by what
they'd been hearing from the mouths of modern Filipino kids:
• If you speak English with an American twang, a British lilt, or even an Aussie
drawl, people make fun of you. They think you're stuck up or putting on airs;
• If you speak straight English to anyone under the age of twenty-five, they'll
ask you to stop: Ate, Tagalugin mo naman; ka-nosebleed naman kasi English
mo, e. And the aforementioned statement will be accompanied by a wry,
even pained grimace;
• If you speak straight English with a "foreign" accent, people will throw you a
look of wonder and say "Wow, ba't 'di ka mag-trabaho sa call center?";
• Kids these days swear a lot - and, whenever they swear (or try to swear) in
English, it sounds so wrong.
English was the very first language I was exposed to, having been born into a family
of educators and civil servants. Television served as my babysitter and I picked up
an ambiguously American accent because of Sesame Street and various cartoons
on RPN's Saturday Fun Machine weekend block. My earliest memories are of books
(all in English), of learning to read from Reader's Digest, of watching my younger
aunts rehearsing their lines from numerous plays or classic pieces for elocution, of
teaching my younger brother how to read because he wanted to read the Bible. I
remember that English was the lingua franca for conversation in school; any words
in Tagalog were reserved for recitation in Filipino or Araling Panlipunan or any
number of idiomatic expressions used to spice up a conversation. If you have a
chance to read Arnold Arre's soul-stirring graphic novel Martial Law Babies, keep a
keen eye on the conversations: they're pretty much the way my peers and I spoke
to each other in the late eighties' and early to mid 1990s.
Fast forward to 2010: I have this sinking feeling that I am one of a dying breed of
English-speakers / writers. Most people younger than me are more comfortable
with Taglish - that bastardized mix of English and the mother tongue - and their
conversations are peppered with all sorts of vulgarities, expressions picked up from
loud, crass transvestites who have come out of their closets to shock us through
mainstream media. When I was a schoolgirl, it was considered de rigeur to listen to
FM radio stations like RX 93.1 and Magic 89.9; today, I don't bother listening to FM
radio because every station I tune into sounds like a cheap club filled with filthy-
mouthed showgirls and their sleazy customers. I don't watch local television
anymore except for the news because I know that scumbags like Willie Revillame
will be screaming at me while selling pipe dreams to the hapless masses. It
disgusts me to no end that even kids from the Big 3 Universities - schools whose
alumni have long been known for their linguistic superiority - can't speak or write
English properly at all.
Who do we blame for this? Can we blame the media for unleashing a tsunami of
cheap, uncouth, sickening programs on the public? Do we blame the late Corazon
Aquino and the much-reviled Joseph Estrada for their insistence on putting an
emphasis on subjects other than English in the national education system? Do we
blame the yayas hired by middle-class households for exposing their young charges
to local pop culture? I honestly don't know.But what I do know is that young people
today are getting an extremely watered-down linguistic education - and this, I
believe, is a damning factor for our failure to rise to the same level as our Asian
neighbors. In the 1980s, we were the third largest nation in terms of functional
literacy in English; today, I don't even want to know where we stand.
English is still my personal lingua franca: my language of choice for conversations

both in business and among friends and family, my language of choice to express
how I feel, my language of choice for the writing that serves as my bread and
butter. Not to disparage the mother tongue, but English makes my life a whole lot
easier - and much more colorful.
And if anyone is stupid enough to either laugh at my accent, think that my

vocabulary and grammar give them nosebleeds, and believe that I ought to be
working as a lackey for stupid Caucasians to rail at, that person is going to die a
slow, painful, lingering, and very public death.
On Bullying – and Why the Parents of Bullies

Should be Punished Along with Their Children
Those of you who grew up with me at Benedictine Abbey School know this: I was
bullied horribly as a child. I have no idea what I did to merit such treatment, but I
spent eight years getting stuff thrown at me and being called names. My unusual
surname was made fun of, I was derided for being bookish and bespectacled. It was
as if everything I did was wrong in the eyes of those around me.
I had my hair permed when I was eleven - and ended up being called an Aeta
because the resulting perm was so damned kinky. My grandfather died when I was
twelve - and the boys in my class said it was because he had a heart attack at the
sight of my ugly face. I was told I was ugly and stupid and naive - by girls whom I
considered my friends. I was kicked down a staircase, but the school did nothing
because the kid who gave the push was the spoiled-rotten youngest son of a
prominent official. In fact the school made me look like a villain, that I brought it
upon myself because I would not behave like all the other kids.
Is it really so wrong to be different? Is it really wrong to dance to the beat of a

different drummer? When I was growing up, that seemed to be the norm. If you
were different, you were considered weird, ugly, stupid, crazy - all manner of labels
would be plastered over you. The school guidance counsellor used to say I was
severely maladjusted and needed professional help. I tried everything I could to fit
in and I failed miserably.
It's been nearly twenty years since those horrific times. I have since grown up;
we've all grown up - except for the kid who kicked me down the stairs; he died
when we were nineteen - kidnapped and brutally murdered. It was all over the
papers - but, strangely enough or perhaps not - I felt no sympathy. The big bully
finally found bigger bullies who tragically knocked him into his place - most likely
one of the lowest circles of hell.
I wrote this entry because I just saw something on one of those cheap, hastily done
local soap operas. The old tragic tale of the ugly, outcast kid bullied by prettier,
wealthier, but spiritually uglier brats is still one that harrows up my soul after all
these years. Children who bully others are the ones who need professional help.
They are the maladjusted ones. They are the ones with the real issues. I mean,
really: who cares how pretty you are, how smart you are if you have a mouth full of
insults and a mouthful of hate. The parent who encourages his or her children to
bully others should be sent to jail and kept there for rest of his or her life.
Because behind the little brats who make life miserable for their peers are parents
who are little more than monsters themselves.
On Food, Life, and Being Gorgeously Full-
figured
I was imperially pissed off by a little word-bite I read in the Rushes column of the
Sunday Inquirer:
Phoemela Barranda - masibang kumain [Phoemela Barranda - glutton]
For those of you who don't know or have never been exposed to the Philippine
fashion scene, Phoemela Barranda was - and still is - one of the country's more
popular model-celebs. When she first hit the scene over a decade ago, she was as
slender as most models in the biz. In recent years, however, she has certainly
gained some magnificent curves that have made her more beautiful.
So it seriously irks me to hear these ridiculous canards make fun of her eating
habits.
What's wrong about women enjoying their food? That's the problem with this
media-addled world: unhealthy stereotypes have been keeping us from becoming
who we want to be, from becoming who we really are.
There ought to be more women like Phoemela who love to eat. Women like us have
a certain joie de vivre; we do not shy away from new tastes and textures. Ergo, we
do not shy away from experiencing new things.
There ought to be more women like Nigella Lawson (shown above, enjoying a hot
cuppa tea) who look fabulous thanks to a healthy combination of a good appetite
and a perky disposition. Women like us can look at the darker side of life and take
it with a grain of salt (or a couple ounces of very good chocolate).
There ought to be more women like the late Julia Child who teach people to slow
down and enjoy life. Child's book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, is not the
easiest cookbook to work through. (Ask Julie Powell of Julie and Julia fame!) But it
teaches one to do things a step at a time and that it's okay to make mistakes.
There ought to be more women like Maya Angelou who show people that you can
recover from even the most devastating tragedies. I would recommend her
cookbook-memoir Halleluijah! It shows you the sort of hurt she went through when
she was younger and how food and verse took her from humble beginnings and
turned her into someone special.
We ought to be telling younger girls that it's okay to be curvaceous, that you should
be happy with the body you were born with, the body you're growing into. We
ought to be telling younger girls not to listen to those hypocrites who tell them that
women can only be pretty if they're Kate Moss-scrawny. That's not beauty; that's a
mocking caricature of beauty, a useless, sickly stick figure with no real purpose
except for clothes to hang onto.
It's only now that I'm in my thirties that I have begun to take pride in my
Rubenesque, Baroque figure. I am proud to be a 38C with a trim waistline and
generous hips - and I never went to some idiot with a scalpel to get this figure. I
have good skin and hair. I have a good smile. I may not be the sunniest-tempered
person, but I do my darndest best to cheer people up.
I love to eat. I'm darned voluptuous.
And I am beginning to learn to appreciate my life.
I am beautiful.
And no anorexic fashion hag is going to tell me otherwise.
Besides, Italian director Fedrico Fellini said it best:
Never trust a woman who doesn't like to eat. She is probably lousy in bed.
Think about that, boys...
100 | F i r e l i g h t
Lolo Papa: Memories of My Maternal
Grandfather
I remember waking up on the morning of September 9th, 1988 and asking my
father how my maternal grandfather was doing. The previous evening, you see, my
mother's sister and her husband came to our house to tell us that my grandfather -
my Lolo Papa - had been rushed to a hospital in Daly City; my younger aunts in
California said he had a heart attack. I remember how my elders whispered
frantically among themselves; I remember hearing snippets of conversation where
the words extreme unction were mentioned. I asked my younger brother who, even
then at barely nine, had an encyclopedic knowledge of liturgical terms what an
extreme unction was. It turned out to be the term for the Anointing of the Sick -
but, in this case, was more appropriately referred to as the Last Rites.
I did not like the sound of that.
Nor did I like what my father said in reply, "He's dead, Ritzie; he's gone."
Gone. The grandfather who wrote my school speeches, the one who opened his
extensive library to his bookish grandchildren, the man who opened my eyes to the
world beyond Philippine shores was dead at the age of 64.
I don't remember much from that day, but I remember coming to school numb in
both body and soul. I remember breaking down when a classmate crassly said that
my grandfather probably died because he saw my [ugly] face. Other classmates tell
me I nearly killed the boy who said those words, that I put my hands around his
throat and tried to throttle him. They say my grief and the rage that came with it
were terrible to see. Strangely, I have no memory of that particular event. All I
remember is that my mother sent a note to my adviser, Mrs. Abot, telling her that I
would be out of school for a while as we were in mourning and waiting for my
grandfather's body to be flown home from California.
It was the first time that I actually experienced a death in the family; the death of
my great-grandmother in 1985 didn't count as I was so young at the time. I could
not make heads or tails of anything; while my grandfather was never really in the
best of health - indeed, the Lenten fast usually had him bedridden - I could not
imagine him dead. Not even, alas, when the coffin finally arrived with him in it: a
frozen statue, a wax dummy of the man we knew.
I remember being a spoiled rotten little princess; the first grandchild on my

mother's side of the family, one precocious enough to speak straight English from
the cradle and read old Reader's Digests by the time she was two. My grandfather
indulged me with a wealth of Barbie dolls, stuffed animals, and tons of chocolate
from his many trips abroad. However, even an indulgent grandpa has his limits and
I likewise remember the sarcasm that punctuated his occasional scoldings: sharp
biting wit that would shut me up faster than any spanking ever did.
101 | F i r e l i g h t
I remember him teaching me how to count in French as we rode the elevator in our
Paris hotel, how to toss coins into the Fontana di Trevi in Rome. I remember him
showing me the greatest works of art at the Louvre: paintings and sculptures that,
until that point, I'd only seen in books. I remember him taking time out of his busy
schedule in Singapore to join me and my parents at the zoo.
I remember how French and Italian kids would point to him and shout "Japonais /
Giapponese" because of his distinctly Japanese features. I remember him sorting
me through my first real French meal (yes, there were frogs' legs!) and him giving
me my first taste of a Chinese fish-ball soup in Malaysia.
I remember how he was always impeccably dressed, seeing how he'd been a
military man, a public servant, and a diplomat. If I close my eyes, I think I can still
catch a whiff of the Old Spice cologne he wore. I remember his laughter, the
sparkle in his eyes. I remember how dapper he looked even in his house clothes. I
remember how he liked ube cakes and fresh atis in season; how he cooked a mean
embotido that appeared on our Holiday table every year without fail.
I remember his graciousness, his integrity; how, as a government official, he took

no bribes and kept his own counsel. They don't make public servants like him in
this debauched day and age.
I remember disappointing him by losing the student council election just a few days
before he died.
I remember curling up in my room and weeping inconsolably when I got home from
school. I remember thinking how unfair the world was (it still is, come to think of
it). I remember wondering to God why He took my Lolo away and left the big
bullying kid in school alive when he deserved death more than anyone else did.
Truth be told, however, I still grieve; I still mourn.
Why?
I was never able to say a proper goodbye.
102 | F i r e l i g h t
On Taking a Walk to Clear One’s Head
Admittedly, I am not really a park person. Despite the fact that my parents used to
take me and my brother to jog at the Luneta or ride bikes at the CCP Complex, I
never really developed a strong liking for green lawns dotted with benches and the
odd bit of statuary. However, there are days when a walk in the park seems to be
the only logical solution to a severe case of writer's block or, more frequently, the
pangs of [still to-be-admitted and] unrequited love.
I developed this particular habit way, way back in grade school. Benedictine Abbey,
you see, was built on a hill and this resulted in a rather peculiar design for the
school complex. While the high school building and surrounding grounds
(specifically the track oval and covered court) were constructed along conventional
lines, the grade school building was a split-level affair built into the side of a hill that
sloped appealingly down to the pre-school buildings at its foot. The hillside was a
verdant expanse that was mowed infrequently and there were a number of other
plants growing haphazardly on it, specifically on the unusual rock formations that
became "personal" spaces for a number of children at the time.
I would know; I was one of those kids. My little spot of solace was a jutting bit of
rock that looked for all the world like a preacher's pulpit in an old-fashioned church.
It was where I would sit and think when I felt that everyone was picking on me. I
would just sit there; not crying for once, unusually silent. I would just stare at the
foliage around me and take deep breaths of clean, fresh air. With the blahs out of
my system, I would go back to class.
In college, trekking over to Harrison Plaza to pick up new David Eddings novels or
audio cassettes (CDs being prohibitively expensive at the time and mp3 technology
but a dream) between classes replaced those treks to my little "balcony" on the
hill. Later still, getting acquainted with the different schools where the oratoricals I
competed in kept me from getting too jittery before those nerve-wracking (and
throat-drying) contests. (And, truth be told, if anyone told me then that most of the
more significant people in my life would be Lasallites, I probably wouldn't have
deliberately flunked the entrance exam. But that, my friends, is a story for another
day...)
These days, I rarely ever get the chance to get out and take a walk. But, whenever
I do, I make it a point to take deep breaths to clear my heads of the cobwebs that
have gathered in it over time.
103 | F i r e l i g h t
Ten Things to Keep Yourself from Going
Bonkers
Ask me what I'd rather be doing right now - at this very moment - and I'll tell you off
the bat that I would really rather be baking several dozen cookies right now.
However, since I am miles away from my kitchen and oven, one needs to rethink
that particular option and do something else.
Truth be told, I feel like I'm just quietly simmering, brewing, stewing, cooking
something up in my brain and getting ready for something new. My mind is like a
teabag soaking in hot water: a little patience, some waiting is required before you
can enjoy whatever it is I have in mind.
So what does a girl do whilst her mind is simmering? From experience, there are
actually ten things you can do to keep yourself from going crazy:
1. Brush up on your existing skills. Attend workshops on subjects that play

to your strengths or read up on new developments in your existing field. In
my case, this has involved writing workshops and poetry readings.
2. Pick up new ones. It always pays to learn something new.
3. Work out. Not only will you get a better body, but you'll also be able to
keep your mind off your stresses.
4. Try something new. Whether it's a new hairstyle, a new food, or a new
sport, new things always serve to broaden your horizons and improve your
outlook.
5. Spend some time solo. You don't always have to be part of a crowd; in
fact, you can probably get your best ideas whenever you take solitary walks
or just curl up someplace and dream.
6. Keep reading. You'll never know what you'll be able to pick up.
7. Stay away from stressful people. Otherwise, you might end up becoming
the unfortunate sponge that absorbs their negative energies. Run away while
you can!
8. Keep your eyes open for new opportunities. If you aren't happy where
you are, keep a keen eye out for those possibilities that will let you use your
talents to the max.
9. Give hugs. Because everyone needs comfort, after all.
10.Pray. Because our Heavenly Father is the greatest source of comfort and
will always be our rock and fortress.
104 | F i r e l i g h t
Memories of a Classmate’s Suicide
The year was 1992; the date was August 11th.
We were in the school chapel; not the little one on the second floor of the high
school building but the main one whose cross then dominated the Alabang Hills
skyline.
The day began grimly enough; the whole senior class turned out for the requiem
Mass for Michael Hachiya of Section 45. Mike was supposed to be a batch ahead of
us, but stopped school for a year to undergo dialysis. We all thought he was going
to be okay; he had, after all, come back to school with our batch the previous June.
Towards the end of July, however, he took a turn for the worse. And, sadly, that was
that.
The day began grimly enough; but as if that weren't bad enough, a horror story
began to be whispered amongst ourselves. The night before, one of the most well-
liked guys in the batch shot himself in the head. At first, we all scoffed at the news.
Fidel Castillo was a cheerful guy; what reason would there be for him to kill
himself? But what we thought was a bad joke turned out to be the horrible truth
when Fidel's coffin was wheeled into the chapel barely five minutes after we bade
Mike goodbye for the last time.
The death of a young person by his or her own hand has long been the topic of
many songs, poems, films, and television shows. My generation - specifically, my
batch at Bene - knew this from watching Robert Sean Leonard's touching final scene
in Dead Poets' Society, listening to Pearl Jam's Jeremy, and seeing Scott Scanlon
play a tragic game of Russian roulette on Beverly Hills 90210. We just didn't think
that such things were real, that it would never happen to us, to one of our own.
Least of all Fidel, alas.
We were freshmen when he played the nefarious Mr. Smirnov in the school
production of Anton Chekhov's The Boor - a role not normally given to freshman
boys short of their thirteenth birthday. But it was a masterful performance, one
that would not have been out of place in a professional theatre group. This would
105 | F i r e l i g h t
be followed by several prizewinning performances in various school plays from
Delubyo to a deliciously comic turn as Tony in that perennial crowd-favorite A New
Yorker in Tondo. He had a gift for mimicry and copied Mr. Ylarde, one of our
favorite teachers, to the hilt one Teachers' Day to everyone's delight. I remember
hearing our then-head of the English department say that Fidel had a future
treading the proverbial boards.
He was a gentlemanly sort - rare even in those less debauched days. He'd carry
girls' books and do the heavy lifting whenever necessary. He was always polite and
I don't remember ever hearing him say anything harsh to me or to any other
member of the fairer sex.
I remember him going in for COCC in our junior year, but also remember that he
was never an officer. Rather he was a member of the militarily-oriented Spearhead
Club. To us, this was unusual. Still, he definitely embodied the words "an officer
and a gentleman".
I also remember a grim time in my freshman year when I stood at the balcony at
the back of a third-floor classroom and wondered aloud what it would be like if I
jumped and fell upon the spiky fence below. Fidel was there with JP Simbulan, one
of our other classmates and a very good friend of his. They both told me that it
wasn't worth it, that life was still worth it even if I felt that the world was too much
with me and too soon. He was that sort of person.
Which is why we felt that it was impossible for him to kill himself.
Fidel has been gone for seventeen years, but most of us still don't know why he did
it. Of course, there was a lot of gossip that came in the days following his death
and even after he was buried - but does anyone know anything at all about the
truth of what happened on the night of August tenth? A few do, but I'd rather not
ask.
Currently being under treatment myself for bipolar disorder, I think I have a bit of an
idea as to why.
I think Fidel felt that he was under a lot of pressure.
But pressure is something all high school seniors experience. It's the "make or
break" year: there are colleges to apply to, courses to be considered. You're finally
top dog after three years of being an underling - but now the faculty expects you to
be on your best behavior, to be a good example for all the younger kids. You have
terror-teachers issuing the grave threat "You will not graduate!"; and that's on top
of one's parents' expectations that - somehow, some way - you'd come out of the
ruckus shining and smelling of roses. You play-act the game of love with other
inexperienced players, going into the game starry-eyed and coming out of it
wondering if any of it was worth it.
We all felt the heat, but while it pushed many of us (myself included) to the brink of
madness, we were pretty sure it wasn't going to kill us.
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Or so we thought until Fidel killed himself.
I was thinking of Fidel today not only because we marked the seventeenth year of
his passing yesterday, but because of the violent death of another batchmate's
cousin the other day.
Not a suicide this time, but a murder.
Times like these, I drive myself half-mad trying to make sense of all the
senselessness involved. Why them? Why that way? Always the eternal "why" that
no one seems to ever have been able to answer. My mind shrinks from the violence
of it all, the brutality that seems to have overcome any form of civilized behavior
Seventeen years on, my classmate's death still makes me sad. I wonder what he
would have been like if he lived and went on to grow up with all the rest of us.
What line of work would he have gone into? Would he be married now? Would he
have kids? Would he have fulfilled Mrs. Grape's long-ago prophecy of him becoming
a thespian, playing to audiences across the globe?
It grieves me to admit that, like those questions on why he chose to take his own
life, those questions will remain unanswered.
On Throwing Away Bad Memories and

Keeping the Good Ones
One of the things I'm currently trying to do to keep myself from going completely
bonkers is to throw out practically everything that gets me down, to purge myself -
and my personal space - of just about everything related to the worst times in my
life.
I've already done this several times in the past and it has involved the burning of
old diaries filled with painful memories of a wretched adolescence, the banishment
of old yearbooks to the storage room below stairs, writing off exes as good as dead
whilst all of them are very much alive.
As much as I can, I try not to join my family whenever they go to Pandacan on

Sundays. My paternal grandmother and the rest of the motley crew in the old house
can bicker and backstab each other for all I care, but I refuse to be dragged into
their dramas.
I've tossed out retreat letters that were written for the sake of saying "Oh, I sent
everyone in class a retreat letter." I've ditched snapshots of faux friends - the
snakes and vipers all burned.
A few memoirs, however, have been kept.
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One such item is the very last handwritten letter I received from the best friend who
died; it's dated sixteen years ago, October in our freshman year in college. She was
at UP-Diliman whilst I was at PWU-Manila. The letter was a response to one I wrote
to her a couple months before.
I told her that I was enjoying myself at my school, that I could breathe easier and
feel freer; quite a change, I said, from the stuffy environment we had at Benedictine
Abbey. I asked for her advice on what languages to study; at the time, I was
learning to read Greek and Japanese on my own and was planning to cross-enroll
somewhere to learn either French or Italian. She, on the other hand, spoke
glowingly of the UP campus in Quezon City and how she, too, was enjoying her new-
found freedom. She wrote of her then-boyfriend and how they were getting along
quite swimmingly. She told me she'd opted to go for psychology as a course and
that it was going to be her pre-med (turned out to be pre-LAW, instead). We missed
each other, of course; how were we supposed to know that we would only see each
other again after seven years and that - alas! - would also be the very last time?
There are the postcards I sent to my parents while on that long-ago tour of Europe
and North America with my maternal grandparents and one of my aunts. I have to
laugh at the innocence of my words, my child's scrawl declaring my first taste of
steak (it was in KL, well-done, and I didn't like it at all), my wonder at being in
Disneyland for Donald Duck's 50th birthday, how excited I was at having seen Pope
John Paul II in person in Rome. I read them and remember being in the pilgrimage
town of Lourdes on my mother's birthday and how my grandfather told me to tell
the Blessed Mother to send blessings to my Mom. My postcards are mixed with the
ones my elders wrote to my parents and I see how much they all loved me despite
the fact that I was quite the brat at times.
"We bought chocolates in Belgium," says the missive from Brussels, "and Ritzie [my
home nickname] is really enjoying herself. She has saved some for the babies. [my
younger brother and two cousins]"
The hourglass that was given away as a souvenir when I graduated from high school
still sits on my desk at home. I suppose I could have smashed it in one of my fits of
temper, but I guess I kept it with the old adage "This, too, shall pass" in mind.
The anime stuff accumulated during my fangirl phase was gradually given away to
friends with an artistic bent. Magazines, comic compilations - I've passed them on to
my sister and some of my former students at Mapua. What I have kept, however,
are the ones that matter: first editions of Mamoru Nagano's The Five Star Stories
manga compilations in both English and Japanese, and signed prints given to me by
manga artist Yuu Watase when she came to Manila in 2000. And no: I have no
intention of giving those away.
I have kept no pictures of any of my exes or long-ago crushes. Seriously: what

would be the point of keeping a rogues' gallery? It'll only give me a headache! (I
have pictures of the current apple-of-my-eye, though; but that's another story...)
I make it a point to give away things sent to me by the cousin I hate the most. For
one thing, she just forces things on me to make herself look magnanimous. For
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another, I'm actually allergic to all the stuff she gives me.
I know I can't get rid of all the emotional baggage overnight and I have also realized
that removing the physical - the tangible - part of my worst memories has been
helping me cope with my bipolar disorder.
In the meantime, I need to clear my spaces - and, yes, bake another huge batch of
cookies whilst I'm at it.
Obedience and the Cross

Christ, in the days of His mortal life, offered His sacrifice with tears and cries. He
prayed to Him who could save him from death, and He was heard because of His
humble submission. Although He was Son, He learned through suffering what
obedience was, and once made perfect, He became the source of salvation for
those who obey Him.
Hebrews 5:7-9
What is the measure of human obedience?
Do you suppose that you, as an individual, could be as obedient as the Lord Jesus?
Would you have willingly allowed your enemies to torture you to within an inch of
your life? Would you have willingly carried that heavy beam of wood from the
center of Jerusalem, through the city's cobbled streets, past crowds of people who
taunt you with the greatest insults and spit with impunity into your face, up the
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rocky face of Golgotha - the notorious Place of the Skull? Would you have been
willing to let coarse and crass soldiers smash iron nails into your wrists and ankles,
to let them rip your arm out of its socket so you could be properly balanced when
the cross was hoisted up?
I didn't think so.
Yet, someone was willing to go through this arduous, bloody ordeal. Someone
willingly gave up every comfort in life to die in this most hideous manner. Someone
gave up the possibility of fame and reknown to endure a form of execution that
people of the time considered most shameful.
Why?
To save us from our sins! To free us from the bondage of wickedness, from the
slavery to which our first parents, Adam and Eve, condemned us because of one
foolish act.
To us as Christians, we look up at the cross - an object once abhorred and reviled -

and look at it with great reverence and awe. This symbol of shame and agony has
become our battle standard in our daily fight against the snares of evil.
It galls me that those who live lives of debauchery - rock stars, fashion designers,
faux artists trying to make "a point" - mock this most sacred of symbols, this very
core of our faith. It is horrible how they have tried to turn it into a fetish object, a
parody.
Christ suffered for us. He obeyed the Father's Will out of His great love for us. His
Death saved us and earned us the right to Eternal Life.
Remember that; keep that in both your heart and mind.
From a Triumphant Entry to Triumph on the Cross
Blessed is the King who comes in the Name of the Lord; Peace in Heaven and Glory
in the Highest!
- Luke 19:38 (New American Standard Bible)
It is mind-boggling but true: just a few days after the Jews saluted Him with palm
and olive branches, strew their cloaks before him like the proverbial red carpet, and
greeted him with mighty shouts of Hosanna!, they had Jesus nailed to a cross.
Historically, this was considered one of the most shameful methods of execution
devised by any culture since the dawn of civilization. The Wikipedia entry on
crucifixion during the time of the Roman Empire makes it sound very heinous,
indeed:
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The goal of Roman crucifixion was not just to kill the criminal, but also to mutilate
and dishonour the body of the condemned. In ancient tradition, an honourable
death required burial; leaving a body on the cross, so as to mutilate it and prevent
its burial, was a grave dishonour.
Given the harshness or severity of the punishment, it is no wonder that Pontius

Pilate hesitated about having Jesus executed. He was probably thinking, "The
guy's just a rabble rouser - no call for nailing him to a cross! Maybe I can just have
him roughed up and then let him go." Pilate, unfortunately, did not count on the
blackmail of the High Priests ("...you are no friend of Caesar's...") and was
presumably taken aback by the vitriol and vehemence of the Lord's primary
accusers. Matthew 27:24-25 captures a scene involving a man hopelessly backed
into a corner and a mob so consumed by hate that they invoke a blood oath/curse
(taking responsibility for someone's violent death) upon themselves and their
children:
When Pontius Pilate saw that he could not prevail at all, but rather that a tumult
was rising, he took water and washed his hands and said: "I am innocent of the
blood of this Just person. You see to it." And all the people answered and said: "His
blood be upon us and on our children."
A crown of thorns and briars rather than a crown of gold and precious stones; a
cross and nails of iron instead of a throne and scepter. And yet: more than all the
wealth won by any earthly monarch, Jesus won something far greater for each and
every single one of us.
He won us our freedom from sin. By His Blood, we have been cleansed of all
impurities. By His Pain and His Wounds, we have been healed .
Non-believers may claim that it is a hollow victory, one marred by the fact that the
world is currently under the throes of a new wave of materialism, a new wave of
hedonism. But why should we, as Christians regardless of whichever Church we
belong to (and, as far as I'm concerned, we're all bound by the same Covenant in
Christ), listen to these spiritually poor prophets of doom and destruction?
We have been saved, redeemed by the Blood of the Lamb on that fateful, glorious
Friday over two millennia ago.
Remember that.
On Faith and Healing
There was a Jewish festival, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. Now in Jerusalem next
to the Sheep Pool there is a pool called Bethesda in Hebrew, which has five
porticos; and under these were crowds of sick people, blind, lame, paralysed.
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One man there had an illness which had lasted thirty-eight years, and when Jesus
saw him lying there and knew he had been in that condition for a long time, he said,
'Do you want to be well again?' 'Sir,' replied the sick man, 'I have no one to put me
into the pool when the water is disturbed; and while I am still on the way, someone
else gets down there before me.' Jesus said, 'Get up, pick up your sleeping-mat and
walk around.' The man was cured at once, and he picked up his mat and started to
walk around.
Now that day happened to be the Sabbath, so the Jews said to the man who had
been cured, 'It is the Sabbath; you are not allowed to carry your sleeping-mat.' He
replied, 'But the man who cured me told me, "Pick up your sleeping-mat and walk
around." ' They asked, 'Who is the man who said to you, "Pick up your sleeping-mat
and walk around"? ' The man had no idea who it was, since Jesus had disappeared,
as the place was crowded.
After a while Jesus met him in the Temple and said, 'Now you are well again, do not
sin any more, or something worse may happen to you.'
The man went back and told the Jews that it was Jesus who had cured him. It was
because he did things like this on the Sabbath that the Jews began to harass Jesus.
- John 5: 1-16
Physical illness is something I don't worry about much of the time, save perhaps for
the occasional bout of allergic rhinitis and the eczema that flares up almost as soon
as the temperature hits the middle and high thirties.
Well, that is until my doctor told me to start taking breaks earlier this year.
But even burning out physically pales in comparison to depression, to the pain that
gnaws at your heart and mind rather than your muscles. Take it from someone who
has had to deal with the Big D for more than half her life: the idea that you're
experiencing feelings of unexplainable feelings of sorrow, despair, and
worthlessness in varying degrees is frightening. It's worse when you realize that
you don't know when your blues are going to set in. Sometimes, you're absolutely
blissful - then something comes in to rain on your parade and everything pretty
much goes downhill from there.
I was under medication for depression about five years ago, around the time I left
Trend Micro. I don't care what medical practitioners will say about the matter:
medication does not work. All it will do is render you numb. You aren't sad
anymore, but you aren't happy, either. No amount of Tofranil or Zoloft or Efexor will
help. Indeed, the nausea, dizziness, insomnia, hypertension, and weight gain (yes,
antidepressants can make you fat!) just aren't worth it.
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The whole time I was on antidepressants, I was like a zombie. It was as if I was on
auto-pilot, everything I said was a pre-programmed response. It wasn't a picnic at
all. Even worse, my doctor at the time told me that I would have to keep taking
antidepressants for the rest of my life.
What the hell...?!?
Now, antidepressants aren't the cheapest of medicines. To be truthful about it, one
box - good for about 30 doses - will set you back a whopping P 1,750.00.
Depressing, isn't it? As if that wasn't bad enough, most HMOs do not provide
coverage for psychotherapy and its related medications. The worst part of it all is
what I discovered when I did research on venlafaxine, the active ingredient in
Effexor: it causes debilitating migraine-like headaches in the long run and also has
the potential to damage one's liver.
Ah, adding insult to injury, alas...
I have had calls from several "well-meaning friends" who told me to stay on the
meds. Well, with friends like them, who needs enemies? While it isn't good to
suddenly stop taking a prescribed round of medications, I actually felt better when I
quit taking mine cold turkey.
Except for a few really bad patches caused by some very bad people, I've actually
managed to survive. In the years that followed my desertion of chemical aid, I
realized that one also needs to have a healthy spirit to gain balance in both body
and mind. You remember the old Latin proverb Mens sana in corpore sano? It
applies here and then some.
I'm not a very religious person. Most people consider this an irony because my
brother is a priest, both my parents are active in church, and my sister plays piano
for the choir. To be perfectly honest, however, I have no aversions to my religion -
but I hate the hypocrisy of various individuals who have done nothing but mislead
people from proper service and worship. Indeed, there have been times when I
actually considered atheism and even satanism (I was sixteen and more than a little
put out by the little whores who only joined the campus ministry to meet boys.)
because of the disgust I felt over the anomalies I saw around me.
Yet, despite this aversion towards my parish, it was in my Christian faith that I
began to find the comfort I'd been craving for since the blues first hit back in high
school. I may not say the rosary as often as my parents probably want me to, but I
start and end each day with a prayer. I don't go to Mass every day, but I do read
the day's Scriptural readings. I may not be active in any individual ministry, but I
help my mother in her ministry whenever I can. (Usually as her typist /
transcriptionist / researcher!) Whenever things really get to be too much, I hurry
over to the nearest Perpetual Adoration Chapel where I can tell the Lord everything
that's been going wrong and ask for His help to get over it.
I cannot say that I've recovered from my depression; my recent blog entries attest
to that. But if there's one thing that's stuck to my mind from all those therapy
sessions years ago, it's that recovery doesn't happen in the blink of an eye. It can
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take a long time, possibly even a lifetime. (Case in point: the man from the Gospel
passage above.) So long as the Lord is with me, though, I think I can plod along
with a smile on my face and hope in my heart.
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Nigella and Me
Even as a kid, I was never really the sort you would refer to as skinny. However, I
wasn't even particularly fat, either. To put it bluntly, I would say I was somewhere
in between. However, even that is a matter of perspective.
I inherited my father's heavy bone structure and, alas, my maternal grandmother's

curvaceous figure. If I were, say, five or so inches taller, I'd qualify as an Amazonian
beauty. Unfortunately, I'm only five-foot-two-and-a-half; that I'm not particularly
athletic either doesn't bode too well for Amazonian ambitions, ne?
It is not easy being an overly voluptuous woman at this point in time. Despite the
growing emphasis on maintaining healthy, natural figures as opposed to stick-thin
androgyny, people still make fun of me for being Botticelli's Venus or a Rubenesque
damsel amidst all the scrawny Paris Hilton / Lindsay Lohan / Nicole Richie clones.
(Damn it, ladies: eat something, for the love of all that is sacred!) Of course, they
laugh at me - up until the time I show how much smarter I am than most of them or
up until the time I have them stuffing their faces with one or another of the
decadent baked things I've been blessed to have the talent to whip up.
(Incidentally, you must have some of my potentially addictive quadruple
chocolate cake and put some flesh on your bones...)
I am grateful for positive role models like Nigella Lawson who has singlehandedly
made baking and curvaceousness sexy again. I remember buying her book How to
be a Domestic Goddess at a time when a truly boorish boyfriend dumped me; I
found comfort and encouragement in her words. Far from hating myself because I
didn't party like the girl my ex replaced me with, I actually grew to like the fact that
I had the old-fashioned skills, the actual knack for baking and cooking that most
women in these harried times have lost. I learned to channel my anger into
kneading bread dough and rolling pie crusts. I re-learned the value of perseverance
by cooking a dish again and again until I got it right and added my own personal
stamp to it.
Plus, I also realized that Nigella herself was like me: a woman whose body was
magnificently fleshy, curved and dimpled in the most appealing places. It amused
and fascinated me to no end that men actually found this mountain of a woman
seductive and almost infiinitely desirable. I could identify with her greediness, her
gluttony; the way she scarfed down food with lustful abandon. (I could also identify
with the state of untidiness her kitchen, pantry, and library always seemed to be in.
However, that's a story for another day.)
Frankly, though, I doubt if anyone will ever consider me as appealing as La Lawson.

In fact, I was telling my mother the other evening that I'm the ugliest of her three
children. (My mother vehemently denies this. Let us be honest, though, and state
quite plainly that mine is a face only my parents could love.) However, I am proud
of the fact that my vital statistics are the envy of most women at work (and my
waist is quite small considering my weight), my complexion remains beautifully
clear, and many people are actually shocked when I tell them how old I am. (I'm
thirty-two; I never lie about my age.)
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And while I'm starting to believe that I'm going to be an old maid, my father tells me
that I'd make some lucky guy a great wife someday. (Ah, the loyalty of fathers to
their offspring!) For one thing, I can cook ("Unlike," Dad would declare scornfully,
"all your cousins who wouldn't know one end of a ladle from the other..."); for
another, I'm supposed to be built like a brick house.
Some guys actually find that combination sexy, so I'm told.
Add the fact that I have a brain between my ears and my father thinks whosoever
lands me is in for a major treat.
Sometimes - no, make that, most of the time - I wish my dad was right about that.
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All Women are Sisters
I spent my college years at the Philippine Women's University, the first
university for women in Asia founded by Asians. My alma mater has, alas,
deteriorated over the years, but nevertheless it will always have a special place in
my heart. Why? Apart from guiding me in the intricacies of the craft from whence I
earn my bread and butter, it was also the place where I learned that there was
more to being a woman than just staying beautiful for the boys.
In the summer term between my freshman and sophomore years at the University, I
took up a class coded as GESS 216 - known more colloquially as Women in
Society. Our professor did not do the usual run of lectures and quizzes. Instead,
she had us write essays every single day of the term on how we perceived women
in modern Philippine society.
Coming from a family where women were both seen and heard, my essays had a
decidedly sharp bent to them. I wrote of how I hated Filipino soap operas where the
heroines were beaten, slapped around, and abused to within an inch of their lives. I
couldn't stand Philippine cinema's need for catfights and such throwaway lines as
the classic "You're nothing but a second-rate, trying-hard copycat!" We had, at the
time, already had one female president (Corazon Aquino) and a number of female
senators who had earned the respect of the people - why couldn't fictional heroines
be more like them rather than the weepy-eyed milksops on both the small and
silver screens? Where were the Gabriela Silangs, the Trinidad Tecsons, the Melchora
Aquinos, even Josefa Llanes-Escodas of my generation?
As time went by, we went on outreach programs to places like The Haven in
Alabang, a sort of nursing home / halfway house for battered women. When we
started shooting documentaries for our Radio-TV and Media Application classes, we
were exposed to the plight of squatter wives, of blue-collar working women, even of
bar girls and hookers who plied their trades in the old Tourist Belt in Ermita.
Most of these women were broken by poverty; many of them came from farms in
the provinces. They came to Manila in the hope of finding better lives. Alas, what
many of them got were abusive husbands and lovers, pregnancies that came one
after another, the harrowing squalor of impermanent shelters in slums and garbage
dumps. Some were lured to the city by illegal recuiters who promised them
glamorous jobs in showbusiness but ended up turning them into prostitutes in
cheap, shady brothels instead. Others fled from fathers who beat them or mothers
who tried to marry them off under the most spurious circumstances. To my much
younger mind, still rather fresh from a Catholic high school, it all seemed like an
unending litany of horrors.
I remember my uber-feminist scriptwriting professor Janet Tauro railing against

these abuses against women. She encouraged us to write about their experiences,
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to tell the world about their plight. She said that, as writers, we had a moral
responsibility to our sisters - for all women are sisters in one way or another. We
had to make sure that society never forgot about them. That people would be made
aware of what they'd gone through. That we were to help them in any way that we
could.
It has been over a decade since I left school. In the dozen years that followed, I met
women of substance and women of power. Great beauties - supermodels, beauty
queens, glamorous film stars - and political mavens, businesswomen, fine teachers,
all experts in their respective trades. But, for every great woman, hundreds more
are still being beaten, hundreds slave away in badly kept factories, and still more
are trafficked in the grim world of the flesh trade.
I wish people would open their eyes to the truth, other women most especially.
We are all sisters. What have you done for your sisters lately?
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Confessions of a Culinary Late Bloomer
I find it funny - yet touching at the same time - whenever people tell me I ought to
start selling the stuff that I bake. For one thing, I still stand in awe of people like my
godmother, Ella Fuentes-Dimalanta, who can turn home baking from a hobby into a
lucrative business. For another thing, people don't seem to believe me whenever I
tell them I didn't really learn how to bake till after I'd graduated from college! It's
true, though: I was already in my early twenties when I was finally able to whip up
batches of cookies or a pan of cake without either maternal intervention or making
a complete and utter disaster.
I've always liked food. Mom used to tell me that I was never a fussy feeder even as
a kid; that I quickly progressed from breast milk to infant formula to Cerelac to
several different varieties of Gerber baby food (to this day, Mom reminds me I liked
turkey best) until the day came when I could sit at the table, propped up by a pile of
cushions, and eat the same stuff my parents were having for dinner. Dad attributes
this gustatory precociousness to both the Chinese and Kapampangan genes I got
from his side of the family. My mother, however, begs to differ, citing her mother's
love of good food as the reason why started eating solid foods so early. It also
meant that I was easier to feed than my brother who only ate ham, bacon, and
Kentucky Fried Chicken (and mind you, it was just the skin he wanted) until the day
he entered the seminary where his eating habits changed forever. But, that's a
story for another day...
Anyway, the fact that I liked food and was always keen to try something new was
good enough. Unfortunately, if one loves to eat, one must eventually learn how to
cook.
To put it frankly, I tried to learn how to cook in the same way I learned how to read:
by watching the legendary Nora Daza on her show Cooking it Up with Nora and
Stephen Yan on Wok with Yan. When that didn't work, I tried reading every
cookbook in my Lola Mama's library and every single one in my mother's own
collection. Ate Sion, our nanny who's still with us even after nearly three decades,
taught me the rudiments of sauteeing - and that, alas, was as far as it got.
In the Philippine educational system, girls in the fifth and sixth grades and in their
freshman year in high school have Home Economics classes. I thought that I'd be
able to learn a lot - heck, I even joined the Homemakers' Club for the additional
cooking lessons! - but I had a hard time with the way classes were conducted.
Cooking was considered groupwork in both grade school and high school. Now, I'm a
bit ashamed to admit this, but I've never really been what you'd call a team player -
especially in the kitchen. And, when you're a student in either one of the two higher
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sections in the level, even the simple act of chopping onions or peeling garlic
becomes a privilege, a chance for extra class cred that you'd be willing to trash your
best friend for. That said, I felt that I learned nothing at all.
[Just an aside: this is one of the reasons why I hate looking back at my childhood.
Well, I had a happy childhood, but my elementary and high school days would make
a good plot for one of those teen flicks where everyone bullies the weird girl.]
I had better luck in college where Home Economics for Seniors was taught to us
females in lieu of ROTC. Mrs. Lea Doctor, my professor and one of our fellow
parishioners at home, told me I had a good palate: I could tell what tasted good and
what needed to be disposed of ASAP. However, she also told me that my baking was
a disaster waiting to happen. (Ah, yes... I remember too well the angel's food cake
that turned into something even Ol' Nick himself would turn his nose up at!) Again, I
felt disheartened. It didn't help either that my hateful paternal grandfather would
often insinuate that I would never marry. In her opinion, what man in his right mind
would want a woman who couldn't cook?
But, like Mikage Sakurai in Banana Yoshimoto's memorable tale Kitchen, I knew that
there was only way to learn: I tried to make everything - and bother the fact that it
earned me singed eyebrows and burnt fingertips!
My work in the kitchen progressed from cakes with scorched bottoms and sunken,
molten middles to main courses lacking in seasoning to breads that were stale the
second they left the oven. It wasn't easy, it was frustrating. But, unlike in most
things, I never felt like giving up. I was so obstinate, so obsessed with getting the
recipe just right or making it just a little bit better than the original. It had to taste
good and look good. People had to like it.
And the day finally came when I got a recipe right.
I remember a batch of peanut butter cookies, one of those things that was so simple
to make yet I failed time and again to get it right. I remember crossing my fingers
as I opened the oven to take out the cookie sheet. Et voila: they were perfectly
golden, deliciously aromatic, and had a homey, comforting, salty-sweet flavor that
made people grab one cookie after another off the rack even as they cooled. My
boyfriend at the time swore by those cookies. He raved about them to friends, he
took some home for his mother, and ate as much as he wanted. That particular
relationship ended very badly, but I can never forget the glowing compliments and
the sheer delight over and about that first batch of properly done cookies.
in the years that followed, I learned how to bake bread, cook Filipino staples like
adobo (albeit with a Thai twist) and menudo (with an Italian accent), and even
decorate cookies for the Holidays. My siblings plead in wheedling tones for me to
bake lasagna or moussaka and my sister's friends fought over gingerbread cutouts
during the last Holiday season. My officemates swear by my cinnamon rolls and
chocolate cake; they badger me for a fresh batch of chocolate chunk cookies from
time to time.
Of course, I can't claim to know everything. My sponge cakes have the texture of
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Scotch Brite scouring pads and I still haven't gotten over the trauma of using
sinigang broth cubes by mistake when I attempted to cook pancit Canton from
scratch. (Long story...) There was even a time when I made a pizza and it came out
inedible! I still can't make siopao and siomai the way Mom does, nor can I cook
paella unaided. However, that doesn't mean I won't try.
I like it that I can bake or cook gifts for the people who mean a lot to me as opposed
to going to a shop and just picking something off a shelf. I feel that doing so puts a
little bit of myself into the gift - be it cake or pie or cookies or even a homemade
pasta sauce - and makes it more special. I like picking out ingredients at the
supermarket or places like the weekend market in Salcedo Village: I would wonder
how this or that person would react to the taste of cardamom in a lemon cookie, a
hint of ginger in pork adobo. I'd try Japanese curry cubes in a stew for a family
dinner and smile when my relatives demolish a platter filled with my homemade
char siu.
When I was putting a seal on a canister filled with triple chocolate chunk cookies
and lemon-cardamom shortbread for a certain person of my acquaintance a week
before last Christmas, I wondered how he would react at what would probably be an
unexpected gift. Then, I suddenly stopped what I was doing and laughed as I
realized how far I'd come since those first botched attempts at cooking and baking.
The kitchen, at the time, was still filled with the tangy scent of lemon, the nutty
aroma of cardamom, and that pleasing fragrance emitted by sugar baked with
butter. I was tired from the morning's exertions - all that mixing and molding and
forming! - but I was happy.
It was then that I accepted the fact that not only did I know how to eat, but I also
knew how to cook.
And I knew how to cook well.
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Reflecting on Job 7: 1-4, 6-7
“Isn’t a man forced to labor on earth?
Aren’t his days like the days of a hired hand?
As a servant who earnestly desires the shadow,
As a hireling who looks for his wages,
So am I made to possess months of misery,
Wearisome nights are appointed to me.
When I lie down, I say,
‘When shall I arise, and the night be gone?’
I toss and turn until the dawning of the day.
My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle,
And are spent without hope.
Oh remember that my life is a breath.
My eye shall no more see good."
- Job 7: 1-4, 6-7
The phrase The dark night of the soul is one known to both Catholics and non-
Catholics alike, seeing how it is the title of a classic book on spiritual desolation and
emotional loneliness written by the Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross. I do not
know if this is true, but it has been said that John of the Cross was inspired by both
his own personal miseries and the Biblical Book of Job when he wrote his book.
Then again, it is my personal opinion that reading Job during one's darkest hours
can become a particularly uplifting experience.
I was listening to the First Reading at Mass yesterday and the poignant way Job
lamented about his current state of being made me think of how I felt these past
few weeks. Like Job in the passage, I would often lie awake at night and wonder if
everything that happened during the day was just a dream - a very bad dream. I
wondered if I would ever wake up from the nightmare; sometimes, I would ponder
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about not waking up at all if it meant that I would be spared from yet another
miserable day.
As the days passed, it seemed as if the hours just flew by without me being able to
do anything constructive or meaningful for the day. I felt that I had been reduced to
an automaton: a machine programmed to do certain repetitive tasks without it
being appreciated by those around it. Paranoia began to set in and I really felt as
though I didn't have any hope left; it was all gone and I was worthless.
When one feels as if he or she is being pushed against a wall, surrounded in a way
that one is left without any escape routes, it is easy to believe that one has been
abandoned by everyone including the Lord. Both Scripture and numerous spiritual
reflections, however, remind us time and time again that all is not lost. In a spiritual
context, the trials one experiences are but a refining fire that is meant to burn away
one's imperfections, leaving at the last purity and goodness. John of the Cross put it
quite succinctly in the final chapter of the first part of The Dark Night of the Soul.
One verse, in fact, stands out, taking its cue from Ecclesiastes 34: 9-10:
God generally sends these storms and trials in this sensory night and purgation to
those whom he will afterward put in the other night - although not all pass on to it -
so that thus chastised and buffeted, the senses and faculties may gradually be
exercised, prepared, and inured for the union with wisdom that will be granted
there. For if a soul is not tempted, tried, and proved through temptations and trials,
its senses will not be strengthened in preparation for wisdom. It is said therefore in
Ecclesiasticus: He who is not tempted, what does he know? And he who is not tried,
what are the things he knows?
Remember how Job's sufferings came about? The Devil simply wanted to see how
far the man's faith went - but, oh, the horror of it all! The man lost virtually
everything: every coin to the last penny, all his livestock, his beautiful house, and -
to add brutal insult to injury - all his children. Yet, the man stood firm: he kept his
faith in the Lord. He knew that the Lord would never forsake him no matter how
bad things got. Job survived the worst of his trials - and got back everything he lost
in the end.
I am grateful at this point in time that the Lord answered the prayers I cried to Him
during the darkest hours of the past few weeks. Quite recently, someone threw me
a well-needed lifeline that has - so far - kept me from falling into the worst sort of
despair. There are new opportunities now, new possibilities just waiting to unfold. I
am still unaware of where this current path will take me; only the Lord knows that,
of course. But I place myself in His Hands now, and say with all my heart, soul, and
being:
I know that You can do all things, And that no purpose of Yours can be thwarted.
- Job 42:2
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On Cirilo Bautista: Family Friend, Uncle of
Sorts, Mentor…
The collage pictured above was given to my mother as a housewarming gift when
we moved from Manila to Muntinlupa in 1984.
"What's it supposed to be?" I asked my mother while she sought a blank patch of
wall where she could hang the piece, cumbersome frame and all.
"What do you think it is?" she said, replying to my question with another question.
"It's a typewriter!" I declared.
My mother laughed and told me it was supposed to be a ship with a couple of

tugboats alongside. However, some years later, I realized that my first guess was
not too far from the truth because the person who made the collage was a writer
and teacher by profession. The artist was a man named Cirilo F. Bautista.
***
The Bautistas have been a part of my family's extended circle since even before my
parents were married. Tita Rosemarie, Tito Cirilo's wife, was a member of the
faculty at the Philippine School of Interior Design (PSID) along with my mother and
has been one of Mom's closest friends for many, many years. While my brother and
I were growing up, Mom used to take us along to PSID where we were exposed to
the intricacies of art, design, and - in my case - poetry.
Tito Cirilo was always sending copies of his books and my mother - a pragmatic
woman who believes that the only way to say something is to say it outright sans
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drama - was forever telling him to "write something people can understand!" One
of my earliest memories involves trying to decipher the verses in Telex Moon, the
second volume of his award-winning Trilogy of Saint Lazarus. My parents were
amused by the faces I pulled as I tried my darndest best to find meaning in what
appeared to be randomly written words. The poor dears, alas, did not know that I
was already on the garden path towards becoming a writer myself.
***
In the years that followed my days of face-pulling over unintelligible verses, I:
* Received a typewriter for a birthday present;

* Joined the school paper;
* Published a poem in Teen Magazine;
* Got bullied by everyone at my oh-so-snottily-suburban school;
* Learned how to use a word processor (Wordstar 3, 4, 5, and 6; WordPerfect
5.0); and
* Fell in love and got my heart broken several times.
And in December during my eighteenth year, Tito Cirilo sent me an invitation to join
the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center's young writers' workshop in
Baguio.
It was an amazing experience: it was the first time my work was read by real writers
- published writers, those who had books out and had won awards both here and
abroad. It was during this time that I first felt appreciated; people were actually
telling me to keep on writing!
It was a fun weekend; I exchanged points of view with other young writers from
different schools and was asked for my opinion about their work even as they
commented on mine. Writers Juaniyo Arcellana and Lakangiting Garcia took the lot
of us over to Baguio’s famed Café by the Ruins for tapuy (Ifugao rice wine, like
sake but more fiery), shiitake mushroom tempura, and an evening of live, free-verse
poetry read or recited around the café’s dap-ay (fire pit). We attended a Christmas
party at a boarding school run by the Brahma Kumaris group and explored the city,
seeing it through the eyes of our artistic and literary mentors rather than as a
bunch of Manila-born and –bred college kids. More than that, it was a time of self-
discovery, a time when one’s talents were bared for all to see. After a quietly
uttered impromptu poem about the July 16th earthquake that shook Baguio to its
very foundations, our mentors took one look at me and pegged me down for a poet.
"You have a gift for poetry," Tito Cirilo told me as we all stepped out for a bit of
fresh air. I remember that all the sunflowers growing inside the Teachers' Camp
were in full, glorious bloom. The crisp, cool mountain air, the huge sunflowers, and
the company I was in had made me extemporize and I was uttering verses with
glee.
"No, I don't," I remember contradicting him. "I just play with words because no one
else wants to come out and play."
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He just laughed and shrugged and told me that it was a gift that would stay with me
and would manifest itself sooner or later. "Just be sure it doesn't become a monkey
on your back," he advised me soberly.
***
I graduated from college a couple years after that Baguio sojourn and I threw myself
into the business of writing ad copy, scripts, speeches, and what-not.
I wrote short stories and story concepts and the essay that earned me the ire of
convent-bred queenlets across the archipelago. And Tito Cirilo would ask "But
where's the poetry? Where's the lyricism? Where's the beauty of your words?"
Truth be told, I could not - I did not have the heart to - tell him that something died
in me over the years.
Or so I thought until recently...
***
Just this Saturday, I trekked all the way from my home in the southern suburbs to
the Bautistas' charmingly old-school house in Sta. Mesa Heights all the way in
Quezon City. Why? I wanted my old mentor to look over a manuscript I compiled
over the past ten months, poems I posted on my blog.
I nearly turned tail and gave up because I - grief and circumstance! - got lost. My
mother told me the house was on the corner of Kanlaon and Mayon Streets; it
turned out to be on the corner of Kanlaon and Maria Clara - several blocks away!
(And to think I've always prided myself on being a no-fail navigator!) And so, I
found myself before the russet gate, trembling in my strappy-sneaks and wondering
if this whole adventure-of-sorts was worth going through, and was welcomed with
hugs into the sanctuary within.
Tito Cirilo and Tita Rose looked older than when I last saw them, but the friendliness
was unmistakable. I was ushered into a quaint, old-fashioned sitting room smelling
of old, well-read and loved books, the place already decorated for the Holidays.
Tita Rose accepted the fruit I brought them as a gift (well, more like an offering
from a trembling literary supplicant!) and left me with Tito who took one look at the
red Morocco folder I handed him and said "You've been busy, haven't you?"
To have a nine-time Palanca Award-winning author tell you that you've been busy
may not mean much to most people, but it certainly meant a great deal to me. As
Tito flipped through the poems in the manuscript, he had several comments to
make:
“Computer poetry! You used the formatting thingamajig in your word processor to
create this format! Try to let the words guide you as to how they should be
formed.”
When I told him the poems were meant to represent needles: “Well, it’s all very well
and good – but you know you’ll be bucking trends with this format of yours.”
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“Love poems, I see!” Then he proceeded to tell me about how love poems are,
essentially, an old tale told over and over but from different perspectives over time.
He spoke of Shakespeare and how the Bard of Avon’s sonnets were actually a
chronicle of his many love affairs, most of which ended tragically. As far as Tito
Cirilo was concerned, the poet who is serious about writing verses on love should
write them with such a passion so as to become memorable, so that the poems
could stand the test of time long after the love has faded or the author long buried
beneath the sod.
He looked at the title of the manuscript. “And who,” he inquired, “is this wandering
muse of yours? Anyone we know? And does he know?”
To this, I stammered that the muse in question didn’t know (hasn’t a clue, as far as
I’m concerned!) and would probably kill me if he found out.
“The circumstances are all against me,” I remarked morosely at the end of my
confession.
“Use the words,” Tito advised me. “Use the words and plot some better tactics; an
inventive young woman like you ought to know what to do. If you think he’s worth
the aggravation – and I can see that he is given the output! – then do not lose
heart. Use the words which are your greatest strength.” He smiled and then, “In
the meantime, keep writing – but keep reading, too! Expand your horizons; there
are many female poets worth reading out there, not just Maya Angelou.” (He said
this because I admitted I was a Maya Angelou fan.) There was a faraway look in his
eyes as he said, “The whole world is your subject. Try to write about different
things, see things in a different light and your work will improve.”
He told me my work was still raw but it was written with passion, that it had a soul.
He told me to submit my work to the Philippine Graphic, the Free Press, the Sunday
magazines of the major broadsheets. He told me to have my manuscript read by
people who understood the process, the emotional investment involved in writing.
Keep writing… Use the words…
***
As I write this, Tito Cirilo’s words ring in my ears, in my heart, mind, and soul. I
write from within the four confining walls of my office cubicle, but while my physical
body is stuck here, my brain is all over the place and exploring so many new things.
It’s only Wednesday, but it’s already getting to be a trying week for me. Nobody
seems to take me seriously at work. My aunts are all telling me to give up on love.
My body is screaming for me to get some rest. My own family doesn’t seem to be
supportive of my work, the poems I’ve sent out for beta-reading, the manuscript I
hope to publish. But even as the tears run down my face and my fingers falter on
the keyboard, I take Tito Cirilo’s words to heart:
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I will keep on writing no matter what happens. I will use the words, use the talent I
have within me to win that which my heart yearns for the most.
Eshet Chayil: On Women of Valor

I confess that, despite being baptized into the ranks of those saved by the Blood of
Christ (and one with a priest for a brother and a family that actively does church
work), I didn't get into the habit of reading the Bible until about a month ago.
During a personal crisis that came close to me taking my own life, some of my more
devout friends and mentors (both Christians and hardline Catholics) told me to try
and read a chapter a day from the Gospels, a Psalm, and a chapter from the Book of
Proverbs. Trust me: it helped in a major way.
But even before these daily readings, I had a favorite passage from the Old
Testament that made a significant mark on me way, way back when I was
nineteen. The passage is actually the latter half of the final chapter of the Book of
Proverbs - Proverbs 31:10-31, as a matter of fact. In Hebrew, it is referred to as
Eshet Chayil, in English, it is popularly known as The Woman of Valor.
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It is such a beautiful passage that I have chosen to share it here:
A woman of valor who can find? She is far more precious than jewels.
The heart of her husband trusts in her, and he will have no lack of gain.
She does him good, and not harm, all the days of her life.
She seeks wool and flax, and works with willing hands.
She is like the ships of the merchant; she brings her food from afar.
She rises while it is yet night and provides food for her household and portions for
her maidens.
She considers a field and buys it; with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard.
She dresses herself with strength and makes her arms strong.
She perceives that her merchandise is profitable. Her lamp does not go out at night.
She puts her hands to the distaff, and her hands hold the spindle.
She opens her hand to the poor and reaches out her hands to the needy.
She is not afraid of snow for her household, for all her household are clothed in
scarlet.
She makes bed coverings for herself; her clothing is fine linen and purple.
Her husband is known in the gates when he sits among the elders of the land.
She makes linen garments and sells them; she delivers sashes to the merchant.
Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.
She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
She looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all."
Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the LORD is to be
praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her works praise her in the gates.
Whenever I read it, I think of all the women who have had a significant impact in my
life. There's my mother, that amazing woman who gave birth to me, the one who
nurtured me and who still, after the passage of over three decades, hasn't
completely lost her mind with all the madness that went on while my siblings and I
were growing up.
How could I forget Mom's mother, my amazing Lola Mama? How can I forget all the
stories of what happened during the war, of her daughter Josephine who died in
infancy, of her many travels, of her struggle to bring up seven children whilst her
husband was away on one business trip or another?
Of my mother's four sisters, it is the younger three for whom I have the greatest
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respect. (The eldest of the four? Well, I think I've already told the tale of an aunt
who took advantage of a niece's naivete...) Tita Anne - my Tita Mommy - mothered
me to an extent before she left for the States and still gives me advice via email
from time to time. Tita Ging taught English at UP-Diliman and is partly responsible
for the public speaking style that helped me win my way through numerous
competitions in high school and college. And, of course, there's my madcap Tita
Vicki who's only twelve years older than me, is in theatre, gives killer massages,
and has pop-diva looks. Ging and Vicki, in particular, were more like sisters to me
whilst I was growing up.
I remember my teachers: Tina Presa from my year in Prep who discovered that I
came to her class already literate, Avel Cristobal-Ocampo who called me "Meg"
because that was the nickname of the eldest sister in Alcott's Little Women. (She
thought the nickname suited me for some obscure reason.) Ofel Anda was the one
who gave the assignment that forever opened the Pandora's Box of writing for me
back in the fourth grade; Lita Abot, my sixth-grade adviser, was the one who
consoled me on the day I came to school in tears because my beloved maternal
grandmother died so far away in California.
And there were the women who spurred me to keep on writing even when I was on
the verge of giving up the ghost during my high school days: Wria Lamug who was
our adviser for The Abbey, Hortencia Marzan who told me when I was fourteen that
she was proud that I could actually write, and Thelma Sayson who was completely
unperturbed by the fact that I wrote a treatise on film and adolescent behavior for a
junior-year term paper.
In college, I was blessed to find myself under the guidance of our then-director for
student affairs, Dr. Cindy Dollente-Ang (who eventually moved to Trinity College the
year before I graduated) and Janet Tauro, the irascible, no-nonsense, hard-line
perfectionist / feminist / confidante of half-a-dozen PR majors. Dr. Ang taught me
that true leadership didn't come from standing at the helm, but by working heart
and soul alongside the rest of the team to get the job done. Bruhang Kumander
Janet, on the other hand, is the reason why I developed an OC thing with regard to
writing and editing. Truth be told, on days when I feel like I'm at my worst, I can
hear her strident voice at the back of my mind screaming, "MANLAPIG! ANO KA
BA?! IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO?!?" (And people wonder why I have issues
regarding grammar, spelling, and context. Now you know...)
My kid sister Isabelle is another woman of whom anyone could be proud of. She's
only eighteen, but is already displaying a talent for writing high fantasy that can put
the likes of Christopher Paolini to shame and is also a gifted illustrator. The fact
that she's my partner in crime for numerous weekend romps in Little Tokyo and
elsewhere shows you how close we are - despite the fact that I'm fourteen years
older.
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Of the many friends I've made over the years, three strike me as the most
wonderful, most exemplary women I know. There are the women I privately refer to
as the Nixies, because they're both nicknamed Nix - Lara Garcia and Nicole Cue-
Nicolas. The former is a sister in faith, one who has gone through a great deal in life
but has remained strong in heart and spirit. The latter was a colleague during my
short stint at Trend, but has - amazingly - become one of the closest friends I have
ever had. I am grateful to them both for helping keep my sanity every time things
go absolutely mad, mad, mad.
There's Connie Vivero-Luayon who was a schoolmate in PWU and a co-editor for The
Philwomenian. I haven't seen her in the longest time, though we do keep in touch
via Multiply. Connie is one of those rare people who can see both sides of me at
any given time and, though we hadn't seen each other in ages, was sweet enough
to drop me a line when I was ready to throw in the towel.
There are a number of other women who have played significant roles in my life,
but I can't mention them all and all the good they've done in one sitting.
Nevertheless, I feel so blessed that they've all been a part of my life. These are the
women, those modern embodiments of the Biblical passage. They may not all be
homemakers, some are even spinsters, but all of them do their best to nurture their
families and the people around them in the best manner possible. I thank God for
them, these women of valor.
Writing and Me
Someone recently asked me about why I chose to become a writer - of all things! -
rather than anything else. Well, there was a time in my life when I could have done
something else. Believe it or not, I actually planned to study medicine. Seriously!
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However, when I got wait-listed for UP-Manila's Physical Therapy program and my
father refused to let me sit for the entrance exams at the University of Santo Tomas
("Do you really want to wade through the floods there?" he asked. "I refuse to buy
you the necessary SCUBA gear!"), the possibility of playing to my strengths and
studying writing for real opened up for me. But I'm getting way ahead of my story
here...
I was ten years old and in the fourth grade when our homeroom adviser, Mrs. Ofel
Anda, instructed us to create something that would say something about ourselves.
Most of my classmates decided to draw self-portraits of themselves and this left me
in a quandary because, as stated here, I can't draw. Well, stick figures, yes; but
anything else would look like a shrink's Rorshach inkblot. So, what was a girl to do?
I wrote a poem:
When I think about all

All about myself,
I think of fairies
And a small elf…
I seriously wrote a poem - one that followed the highly basic ABCB rhyming style,
one that sounded like a nursery rhyme when read aloud. But, you know what? It
worked, I was able to express myself in words rather than images. Because I
couldn't draw or paint, I used my pen to draw images - not on paper nor on canvas,
but directly onto the mind of the reader. It was a thrilling realization, but a
frightening one at the same time. Thrilling because it helped me discover that I had
a talent for putting words together; frightening because it opened a Pandora's box
of horrors that lasted until the end of my stay at Benedictine Abbey School. You see,
it was bad enough (to my peers) that I was the bookish one with the volatile
temper; it was worse because writing was [in the late 1980s to the early 1990s] not
exactly what people expected average ten-year-old girls to do. However, since the
dam was irreparably broken, I went on writing.
I worked for the school paper in both high school and college. In the process, I was
just amazed at how words could bring things and people together or rend them
apart in the most horrific manner possible. I wrote poetry for the paper, essays in
class, did a bit of news reporting from time to time, coined captions and
catchphrases - it was all so amazing. In the process, I learned that, unlike the visual
artist who imposes his visions on people, the writer as an artist describes a scene to
the reader who can later close his eyes and envision the scene in his own mind
based on his own impressions. They say creativity begets creativity, and I think
writing not only opens the door for the writer but also those for his or her readers
into a completely new world.
Having worked in several fields over the years has exposed me to different writing
disciplines used for various purposes. Journalism taught me how to strip things
down to the bare facts and to go beyond the mere act of informing people and into
making them take a stand over one issue or another. Development communication,
on the other hand, exposed me to governments and aid institutions, to writing bare-
bones documentaries that changed the way people looked at the world. Advertising
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and public relations writing showed me how to teach old dogs new tricks:
how classic products could be made to look absolutely new by a few well-turned
words and phrases. Technical writing and editing, coupled with my year or so of
teaching, enabled me to show readers how to do certain things, to understand
certain concepts.
My work in the fields of cinema and animation opened my mind to the creation of
various concepts for both the big and small screens. Paul Daza, then creatives
director for NEO Films, was the one who showed me the proper form used for
submitting storylines to the bigger studios. "But that's just form," he said. "The
content, my dear, should come entirely from you." I learned the hard way in those
six months at NEO that I had - at the time - neither the drive nor the talent to write
romantic flicks, but I did have a flair for writing science-fiction and high fantasy
tales. Later on, during the dark times when I tried to get into the bigger world of
the Asian animation scene, I began to veer away from those themes and went into
grittier, more realistic realms.
It hasn't all been fun and games, though. I've had editors from hell over the years
and I worked with some complete bastards who tried to edge me out of creative
endeavors, but that's nothing compared to the way one of my aunts took credit for
everything I wrote. From 1993 to 1996, my years in college, an aunt of mine who
worked in broadcasting got me to write some scripts for PTV-4, the government
channel. She said it would be good exposure for me in the way the industry worked
and it was. However, when it came to getting paid and taking credit, I discovered
much later that she took all the credit; it was her name that appeared as
scriptwriter on each and every single script that was produced by the network. It
came as a shock; I couldn't believe my own flesh and blood would screw me over in
such an underhand manner. The shock was so bad that I began to have second
thoughts about writing professionally. I prayed for the strength to pull myself back
together and, mercifully, I was able to get up and go.
People have asked me time and again where I get my ideas or how I think up my
scenarios. The answer is very simple: my life is interesting enough as it is, so I use
certain facets of it in my work. The base premise for No Need for Normalcy! is a
case in point; those who are close to me are aware that certain sequences actually
did happen in real life. My poetry is influenced by my moods and how I'm affected
by the world around me; of course, lately, you may have noticed that it's been love
that's been driving me to write, and write, and...
Will I ever stop? Well, there were times when I was so disappointed with myself
that I didn't want to go on. But, I don't really know... Writing is a God-given talent
that I first resented and eventually became grateful for. So, until the good Lord
Himself tells me to drop the pen or put away the keyboard, I'll keep on writing.
133 | F i r e l i g h t
Remembering My Grandmother
You, dear reader, are probably wondering what the torta de Cebu shown above has
to do with Todos los Santos or the Feast of All Saints. Well, it has something to do
with the fact that this sort of cake is tied in with someone who I miss very dearly:
my maternal grandmother, the late Francisca Esperas-Kagawan who passed on
ten years ago.
People who have met either my mother or myself (sometimes both of us) tell us
"Oh, you're quite a character!" You know the sort: strong-willed, rather quirky,
moody sometimes (well, often in my case), but always hospitable and friendly.
Well, they never met my Lola Mama; the woman was always a law onto herself.
She was one of the great beauties of Tacloban City in her youth, a much-sought
after belle who just so happened to be the daughter of the provincial governor.
She loved to sing and dance; she was crazy about the movies. From the stories
told by her sisters, my great-aunts, my Lola was rather popular and had many
friends as a child and suitors as a young lady.
However, the popularity was not enough to dispel her frustration about not being
allowed to push her education after the fifth grade. It wasn't a lack of money that
kept her out of school, but her mother was a dreadful old biddy who said "If you
know how to read love letters, then you're done with school" - obviously, she was no
great fan of education. Throughout her life, my grandmother made it a point to
read everything she got her hands on; it was as if she wanted to compensate for
what had been denied to her.
It was my great-grandmother who cast a pall over what should have been an idyllic
childhood. Lola, and my mom after her, told me that great-grandmother was a
heavy drinker, a gambler, and the sort who spoiled her sons and neglected her
daughters. Lola used to say that the whole lot of them would have starved to death
if an aunt hadn't been there to see to them; great-grandmamma was that neglectful
a parent.
During the war, a runty Army conscript was billeted in the Esperas home, a runaway
from Pangasinan who joined the war effort to get back at his tyrannical family. He
looked none too promising at first, but Lola took a shine to the fellow and eventually
married him. Apparently, she made a good choice as her young man eventually
rose in the ranks of the Philippine Air Force, joined the diplomatic service, became
presidential economic adviser to Macapagal and Marcos, and was director of the
Southeast Asia Technical Advisory Council. He took her on trips to every part of the
world, gave her lavish gifts, and treated her like a queen. When my grandfather
died in 1988, Lola was inconsolable for the next ten years.
Lola loved to cook; she was very good at it and having seven children allowed her to
134 | F i r e l i g h t
indulge her passion for trying out one recipe after another. When I was a child, she
would regale me with tales of this or that dish, go through the pages of all the
cookbooks - hers and my mother's - we had, and we'd watch cooking shows on TV.
Her torta - a magnificently buttery cake baked in fluted tins and dusted with sugar -
was her piece de resistance and her children clamored for it whenever they could.
Alas, she was not one to write down her signature recipes. Like most old-school
cooks, she was rather secretive about her specialties and, alas, she took the secret
of her magnificent torta to the grave.
Even in her twilight years, she still looked fabulous. Her curly hair was silvery white
and was always neatly coiffed even if she was at home. Her skin remained
magnificently clear, making her Castillian features shine even more. Lola wore
elegant batik caftans at home, those little souvenirs she got whenever she and Lolo
Papa needed to stay in Singapore and Malaysia for long periods of time. Whenever
she went out, she was always dressed in her very best with the right fragrance and
the right jewelry. People always wondered if she was a socialite (quite true, as she
was a diplomat's wife) or an actress from the golden years of LVN and Sampaguita
Pictures. When she died in 1998 - at dawn on her 73rd birthday - we laid her in her
casket in a white dress and her coral jewelry: still fabulous-looking. It could have
been a trick of the light, but one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows was raised as if
to say: "See? You can take your good looks to the grave! Take that, you peasants!"
I remember how much she loved me, her eldest grandchild. She always thought I
was the most wonderful little girl - even when I behaved like a little barbarian. She
made me feel special even when everyone else - especially the kids at school - told
me I was worth nothing. She would hug me with those plump arms of hers, and I
would feel safe. In her eyes, I was beautiful despite the thick glasses and frumpy
clothes I wore as a teenager. She wanted me to study medicine, but was as proud
as Lucifer when I got my degree in Public Relations. She always believed I would go
on to do great things; I still hope that time would prove her right.
Lola has been gone ten years, but - in some ways - I feel she's still with me in one
way or another. Her buxom figure skipped a generation and is now reflected in my
own shape (a 1.5-liter bottle of Coke made flesh). I inherited her insatiable thirst for
learning, her liking for the printed word. Her tales about her favorite dishes and
our romps through the pages of cookbooks have paid off and - though I'll never be a
professional chef - I pride myself on my work in the kitchen. I also got her love for
quirky brooches and chunky faux necklaces, and shades of red and green look as
good on me as they did on her. I've been told I even inherited her temperament:
volatile when riled, sullenly sulky when disappointed, tear-sodden when upset, but
gloriously warm and laughter-filled when happy.
One of my favorite childhood memories involves my grandmother. When I was

seven and we were spending my summer vacation in Europe, we went to Rome and
headed to the Vatican to hear Mass. Lolo and my Tita Ging joined the crowd in St.
Peter's Square and insisted that Lola and I stay in the tour bus lest either of us got
too tired. I was squirming in my seat, but Lola smiled and pointed out the window
to a man in white waving from a window somewhere in the Basilica.
"See that?" she said. "That's Pope John Paul!"
135 | F i r e l i g h t
I scrambled over to where my grandmother was sitting and stared pop-eyed and
gaping at someone whom I'd only seen on television and in magazines. We actually
saw him and saw the Pope smile - something neither my grandfather and aunt could
see from where they stood in the crowd.
Years later, when Lola suffered her final illness in the hospital, I sat by her bedside
and promised her we'd go back to Rome, we'd see the Pope in person again.
"And we can go back to Lourdes," she whispered back with a small smile. "And go
to Fatima afterwards. Then on to Spain and back to Italy and France."
She loved to travel (I got the travel bug from both her and Lolo) and I couldn't
blame her for wanting to return to the places she loved the most, to eat the nicest
things, dance the night away, and warble to the most romantic ballads. (The
Visayan classics Usahay and Matud Nila were her favorites.) How was I supposed to
know that she would make her final journey two days after my visit.
It's been ten years and I still miss that wonderful, loving, dynamic woman. I haven't
found a torta recipe to match hers, so my torta fix is always store-bought. But
every time I take a bite, I murmur a prayer of thanks that there was someone in my
life who was like torta for my hungry soul: forever sweet and eternally comforting.
Wherever you are, Lola, I love you and I miss you dearly.
136 | F i r e l i g h t
Acceptance: Some Thoughts on Death, Faith,
and Community
The night of October 15th, some college classmates and I were all online and quietly
discussing what would eventually be the very last status update regarding Noralyn
Mendoza-Lina. As of nine that evening, Maureen, her best friend from college,
relayed a message from the family:
"Hinihintay na lang namin na magstop ang heartbeat nya. Kasi respirator na lang
ang nagpapahinga sa knya, heart na lang nya ang nag pa function sa kanya..."
The mood online was appropriately somber and, while many of us haven't spoken to
each other since we graduated in 1997, it was as if the years no longer mattered.
We were classmates again, bound as we were by a common grief, a mutual
impending sorrow.
"It's all happening so fast," we said. "What happened?" we said. "It's too much; we
can't take it."
That was nothing to what another classmate - now banned from my contacts list
because of her churlishness and boorishness - posted the following day: Noralyn is
dead. As if that wasn't bad enough, she added a cheeky smiley at the end of the
sentence. What the hell?!
There is a line in Kitchen, one of my favorite novels, wherein the bar manager Chika
mourns the violent death of her friend - and former boss - Eriko. The night Eriko
was murdered, Chika was on her night off and was not there to see the tragedy
unfold. As a result, she is consumed with guilt for what might have been and the
death leaves her in serious doubt about beings more powerful than humanity:
...I'm so miserable. Why do things like this have to happen? I can't believe in the
gods.
This sort of reaction is consistent with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's Five Stages of

Grief:
137 | F i r e l i g h t
• Denial We refuse to believe that a loved one is dying or is actually gone. At
this specific stage, psychologists say that the human mind is reeling back
from the reality that the person has ceased to exist as a corporeal, temporal
being. In extreme cases, some people never get past this stage; these are
the ones who go mad in the sense that they go on believing that the person
is still alive, that the person has simply gone on a trip and will be home soon.
• Anger Here is where the finger-pointing, the whole blame-game ensues.

Anger is said to give one purpose, to steel one's backbone in the face of one's
loss. You blame the doctor, you blame the family, you even blame the
deceased for not taking the necessary care. One personal experience of
mine revolves around my paternal grandfather: Before Tatay Ponciano died,
he lived with my grandmother, his younger brother-in-law, and my two
cousins. In 1994, during a storm, Tatay tried to lift his car onto some blocks
to keep it above the rising floodwaters. Thanks to my stupid-ass cousin, the
car fell and crushed my grandfather's pelvis. He recovered, but he was never
the same man up until he died a few years later. When he passed away in
early 2003, I was appalled by what happened before his death. For all the
solicitous care my father and my aunt gave to their father on their Sunday
visits, it was all undone by the horrendous neglect of the people he lived
with. If they had taken better care of him instead of playing up their own
selfish agendas, Tatay would have lived longer. And trust me: I'm still
furious with my grandmother and my two cousins for their neglect. It just
isn't forgivable.
• Bargaining This is the part where we appeal to God, the part where we tell
Him "Why did you take him/her away? She/he had so much to live for!" If
you have depressive episodes like I do, the next line would be "You should've
taken me instead. I have nothing to live for." But we all know that, in the
end, not even the best doctors in the world can cut bargains with the Great
Leveller. Which leads us to...
• Depression This is the part where we wonder what might have been, where
the tears begin to fall, when we feel lost and broken, bereft and separated
from everything we know to be good, familiar, and proper. Banana
Yoshimoto, author of Kitchen describes it in this beautiful, meaningful
passage:
Now I felt really alone, at the bottom of a deep loneliness that no one could touch.
People aren’t overcome by situations or outside forces; defeat invades from
within… Maybe someday I’d be able to think it over calmly, in a brighter place than
this, full of sunlight and flowers. But by then, it would be too late.
138 | F i r e l i g h t
• Acceptance With everything said and done, however, accepting the fact
that our loved one is gone is the terminal stage of mourning. Psychologists
say that once we have accepted this glaring truth, we are ready to go on and
go back to normalcy. But let me ask you: do things really go back to normal
once we have accepted the truth? Of course not! At the end of it all, things
have changed immensely - and all we can do is accept.
One other thing I have learned to accept with regard to dying is the fact that it is
not the time to start dabbling in anything outré that can cause serious
misunderstandings within a community and may actually be a violation of
someone's faith. As Noralyn fought for her life on Thursday, an acquaintance
actually chatted me up on Facebook and offered his group's services to pull her
back from the brink of the grave. This unsolicited bit really got me angry as this
man is the head of a group of occultists who are willing to consort with the elements
of darkness to do what has to be done. Admittedly, I personally have the gifts of
healing and prophecy to certain limits but to use the darkness to bring back a good
Christian woman ~ ?!? Some people are so tactless they'll do anything... I simply
thanked him and politely told him to go to hell and take his minions with him. And
honestly, I don't know who was a bigger bastard in this case: the tactless classmate
or this demon-lord wannabe.
But going back, death sometimes serves as a magnet, pulling back together
communities that have lost touch. It is a true thing for the current situation: even
though it's only online, I'm actually talking to people I haven't seen or
communicated with for over a decade. Death also brings home those abroad and
those who have gone astray. Not only is it the Great Leveler, but it also becomes
the Great Unifier as it binds those left behind with both grief and love.
Saint Pio de Pietrelcina famously stated the words Pray, hope, and don't
worry - an apt motto for both mourning and for life in general. We pray, we hope
for the best, and we stop worrying because we leave it all up to God, letting His
great will, His great plan for each of us be done.
And, as we do so, we pray as a community - and accept the fact that things will
never be the same again.
139 | F i r e l i g h t
To Sit Down and Sip the Coffee
The trouble with the modern world is that many people - if not all people in
urbanized areas - no longer take the time to sit down and savor the simple
pleasures of life. Nine times out of ten, people tend to rush to and fro, grabbing
sustenance of any form on the run - something to fill the belly without thought to it
being healthy or satisfying. As far as communicating with others is concerned,
short SMS messages and tweets have taken the place of earnest, face-to-face
conversation. We are all so caught up in so many things that we have begun to
take for granted the many blessings we have been given.
I also take issue with the young people I see in the morning: the ones who speak
with loud voices, the ones who try to get themselves roaring drunk at 7:00 AM after
a gruelling graveyard shift. They have no respect for the people around them, the
ones scandalized by their appalling behavior, their obvious lack of manners. How
could they afford to behave so badly at a time when children going to school can
see them? Are they so addled by the riches of their jobs and the inherent vices that
they fail to become proper examples to the younger generation. It is also
deplorable that these people also believe in a culture of indulgence wherein bed-
hopping, partner-swapping, and all sorts of depravity are considered hip things to
do. At the risk of sounding like a prude, all I can say it this: Hang it all;what the hell
is this world coming to?!
140 | F i r e l i g h t
I wish people would just take things easy, enjoy things in moderation they way
they're supposed to be enjoyed.
For those who are always in a hurry:
• Take the time to sit down and have a proper meal. Take the time to savor
each bite of your food; experience the both the extreme and the subtle
differences in flavor, aroma, and texture.
• Take the time to strengthen your relationships with others. When was the
last time you had coffee with friends, when you shared a meal with your
family, when you hugged someone? I agree with Terry Pratchett that these
truncated messages flying around from one mobile device to another have all
the warmth and gentleness of a knife thrown in someone's face. A little
warmth never hurt anyone, after all.
• Slow down! Ever heard of the Japanese word karoshi? It means "death by
overwork" - you know the sort: a perfectly healthy salaryman suddenly
slumps dead at his desk. While multitasking is a plus in the workplace, ask
yourself: Do I need to multitask all the time? Trust me; you'll be better off for
doing things a step at a time.
• Stop and smell the coffee - or the flowers. Or just sit back, relax, and do
something you actually love to do.
Now for those hedonists who still believe in the old saw about eating, drinking, and
being merry...
• Be moderate in your indulgences. Binge drinking, gluttonous eating, and

smoking may seem fun right now, but I'd think of my liver and lungs if I were
you. Have you ever seen anyone die of cirrhosis, emphysema, or cancer?
Believe me: it's not a pretty sight.
• Be responsible for your actions. In relation to the still-ongoing debate on the
Reproductive Health Bill, it isn't so much the distribution of contraceptives
that's the issue. It is moral degeneracy. Thanks to the irresponsibility of
the media and the behavior of certain public figures, people are made to
think that sex is okay - completely forgetting that it's only okay within certain
parameters. And if there's anything I hate more than anything in this world,
it's a smug idiot who says that sex is free and that nobody cares about love
anymore. Yeah, till the said idiot contracts an STD, ends up pregnant, or
manifests the signs of AIDS. Jeez...
• Is your high-paying, graveyard-shifting, "highly exciting" job going to be
worth it in the end? Not to knock the BPO sector, but if the related lifestyle is
going to kill you in the end, it would be best to start thinking of a different
career choice.
Admittedly, I am the sort of Roman Catholic, the sort of Christian who rarely ever
opens her Bible. But if there's a set of passages I love, it's 2 Timothy 4:6 - 8
(NIV):
For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the
time has come for my departure. I have fought the good fight, I
have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in
141 | F i r e l i g h t
store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the
righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to
me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.
When the time comes for us to face God, we will not be judged by our
accomplishments, our glories, or our contributions to the world around us. The
questioning will revolve around how we lived our lives and how we made use of the
blessings God gave us. It will be a question of whether or not we lived our lives to
the best of our ability. It will be a question of whether or not the lives of others
were changed because of their contact with us. It will be a question of whether or
not we did fight the good fight. After all, as in sport, the game of life is never about
winning: it's about how we play.
And, sometimes, the game of life isn't about keeping score, about keeping up with
the Joneses, or even about being the best.
In the end, life is about appreciating what we have, sharing it with others, and
making the best of it all.
142 | F i r e l i g h t

Firelight: Verses and Illuminations

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Firelight

Poetry and Essays by

the nights grow longer,

Conquest Most Sweet

Vanity of Vanities, All is Vanity

more than magic,

Be Not Proud, My Foes

Grief and Circumstance

730 Days and Then Some

To Put Down Roots

No Regrets, No Barriers, No Kidding

better for whom?

i'd like to think

Rage and Release

Lamb to the Slaughter

Making Do with What One Has

A Thank You Note to My Foes

Whose Move is It Anyway?

Search and Find

let this not

they will lie

A Demitasse for One

On the Deterioration of English in the

English is still my personal lingua franca: my language of choice for conversations

And if anyone is stupid enough to either laugh at my accent, think that my

On Bullying – and Why the Parents of Bullies

Is it really so wrong to be different? Is it really wrong to dance to the beat of a

Phoemela Barranda - masibang kumain [Phoemela Barranda - glutton]

I love to eat. I'm darned voluptuous.

And I am beginning to learn to appreciate my life.

And no anorexic fashion hag is going to tell me otherwise.

Besides, Italian director Fedrico Fellini said it best:

Think about that, boys...

I did not like the sound of that.

I remember being a spoiled rotten little princess; the first grandchild on my

I remember his graciousness, his integrity; how, as a government official, he took

Truth be told, however, I still grieve; I still mourn.

I was never able to say a proper goodbye.

1. Brush up on your existing skills. Attend workshops on subjects that play

I think Fidel felt that he was under a lot of pressure.

Not a suicide this time, but a murder.

On Throwing Away Bad Memories and

As much as I can, I try not to join my family whenever they go to Pandacan on

A few memoirs, however, have been kept.

I have kept no pictures of any of my exes or long-ago crushes. Seriously: what

Obedience and the Cross

What is the measure of human obedience?

I didn't think so.

To us as Christians, we look up at the cross - an object once abhorred and reviled -

Remember that; keep that in both your heart and mind.

From a Triumphant Entry to Triumph on the Cross

- Luke 19:38 (New American Standard Bible)

Given the harshness or severity of the punishment, it is no wonder that Pontius

On Faith and Healing

What the hell...?!?

Ah, adding insult to injury, alas...

I inherited my father's heavy bone structure and, alas, my maternal grandmother's

Frankly, though, I doubt if anyone will ever consider me as appealing as La Lawson.

Some guys actually find that combination sexy, so I'm told.

I remember my uber-feminist scriptwriting professor Janet Tauro railing against

And the day finally came when I got a recipe right.

And I knew how to cook well.

- Job 7: 1-4, 6-7

"It's a typewriter!" I declared.