sampul

Series 1 | Year 2011 166shades of gray

What this is. Ill pretend that Im moved by boredom and that this is a product of a mind that has nothing to do during weekends in Kuwait. The truth is: Its an itch that needs to be scratched. The other truth is: Im a show off! I created this in the hope that I get recognition. So recognise me, please. (I plan this as a series. New series, new topic. No timeline yet -- perhaps when the itch becomes too unbearable?). What is inside. Me thinks Im good so I (bravely, haughtily, vainly) created all the patterns, artworks, graphics and photos in this literature. The articles were all lifted from my blog Isla de Nebz. For brevity and layout, some articles were edited, reworded, slashed and burned. What you can do. You can distribute this online, quote from it if you want, talk about it with your friends, post it in your social network accounts, make a goth card out of my graphics or use it to scare some mice, but I would implore you not to alter any of its content or use it, in parts or in whole, commercially. Environmentally, I would also encourage you not to print this especially if youre in a country where there are not much trees around. Finally, enjoy.

1 we are what we... 2 unforgetting 3 wedding vow 4 memories of anao 5 deaths in the family 6 a language for the things i couldnt say 7 annually being with my family 8 certain rules 9 fear is inversely proportional to faith 10 forty three years of this

1 We are what we...

Think. Eat. Wear. Read. Enjoy the most. Watch on tv. Crave for. Do during our spare moments. Write, talk and blog about. Secretly hope for. Laugh at more often. Smile about during our silent moments (and scratch during our itchy moments).
Published in Isla de Nebz on 15 August 2008.

2 Unforgetting

You held my hand. You introduced me to forty other children. Mostly craned their necks out of curiosity. Some smiled. Others snorted. Mostly didnt even gaze at us. You said my name. They repeated after you. And that started our relationship.
One day, you asked us to practice writing our names on a piece of paper. I filled my notebook with my first name. I glanced at a classmates work next to me and I envied her. Why would her name be a paper-width long? And who on earth could have such a long name? I felt like crying because I totally envied her name. She wrote neatly, I thought. And then you came to me, pat my head and said its okay. You took my work and after some time returned it to me. On my notebook is my full name neatly written on top of the page. Ive never forgotten the day you let me discover that I own not just a single name; that I too, like my seatmate, have a full name: first, middle and last. You were talking to someone when I approached you. You smiled and you spoke my name. I asked you if I can be excused. I wanted to use the loo. And to my surprise, you introduced me to your friend and said: this boy has the best handwriting in my class. I beamed with gladness and I showed my toothless grin. I didnt even know that my handwriting was good. Year afterwards, in a conversation with a classmate, I learned that you spoke of all of us, your wards, with fondness as having the best handwriting, the most disciplined, the best leader, etc. The truth is: I believed you -- that my handwriting is good, that I am special, that I can achieve something because you believed in me. You said you think I can act and you included me in a cast of a moro-moro play -- as a Christian soldier. I, again, beamed with pride and I proudly told my playmates about it. They promised to watch and they did. We practiced for a month long and you made sure we didnt forget our lines and we didnt miss our blockings. At the show proper, although I had a hard time pulling the sword from its sheath so instead I just raised my hand, I thought we all did well.

One day you just looked at me blankly when a classmate came to you crying because I hit him. I was very afraid then and I prayed hard that you will not tell my parents about it because Im sure my father will be very mad and I will get a beating. You made me apologize in front of forty other children and you made me promise never to do it again. And then, as a punishment, you let me clean the whole room alone. The boy whom I hit that day, collared me on my way home but I didnt fight back. I went home with a bruise on my cheek but I told my mother a can hit me while playing tumbang preso. Of course she knew I were in a fight but all she lovingly said was: Whatever your reason is, never, ever be in a fistfight. I learned that day that bad deeds dont go unpunished and that anger will get me nowhere. We were together for what, six years? I didnt even ask how many kids you have nor where your house was. Now, so many years later, I found things about you. That you had four kids, one of them the same age as I. That you were a wife of a jeepney driver. That, throughout your career, you had a total of four thousand children under your wing. That out of those four thousand, one of them became a priest, mostly became fathers and mothers, some became OFWs, others migrated

elsewhere and never returned to our town. You taught me so many things; from you, I even learned how to cook rice -how to wash them, how many times to wash them, when to lower the flame. When my family transferred town, I never got the chance to see you again. Too bad, I didnt even get a chance to thank you personally. But I know that youre seeing me now and you know that I am very grateful for what you did and what you said to me and what you taught me. But it sure is uncool that I cant take you to your last trip. Youre in my prayers tonight and tomorrow night and the many nights after that. This was personal ode to a teacher who passed away. It was published in Isla de Nebz on 12 September 2010.

3 Wedding vow

To be with you until my last breath; To love you until I can. To continually teach my heart when it decides to stop feeling for you. To place my trembling hand in yours when we sleep. To feel your heart each morning that we wake. To make your coffee just like you wanted when we first met -- more coffee, less sugar, more milk. To try hard to be honest and try harder to be true. To cook the best soup when youre ill

I promise to bring you flowers everyday, something I pick from our garden. I promise to not talk back when youre angry and mad. Even if I know that its your fault. I will love the soaps you watch even if I could easily secondguess what will happen next (because Ive seen the trite twists and turns in other soaps). I will keep mum and will appear interested at your after-the-show analysis while wondering why in the world were you in love with that trashy drama. But because I love you, I will teach myself to love the things that you cherish. And that includes your mother who bickers at every thing I do and who always finds fault in me. Because shes your mom, I will forever regard her as my mother, too. Well watch the sunset together as we sit in the porch. To read to you when your eyes grow dim, To go along with your repititious stories when you go sinile. To laugh with you even if theres nothing to laugh about. To hold your spoon when youre too old to eat alone, To remind you of our past when Alzeihmers hits you. And this I promise, my love... I will forever be here for you even if times get rough or the prices of commodities sore high to heaven above. I will stand by you through thick and thin, through sickness and in health, until death -- or whatever is there beyond death -- parts us. Published in Isla de Nebz on 10 October 2008.

To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its prime function of looking forward.
[Margaret Fairless Barber, 1869-1901, author of The Roadmender].

I still remember how the dusk looked that very day: reddish, ghostly. Thats the first time I realized how cruel people can become.
Anao is where we discovered the joy of playing (sha-tong, a Chinese baseball where instead of ball, we use bamboo sticks), being responsible (diligan nyo kaagad ang mga halaman at baka dumating na si Auntie Celia nyo), the first competition weve been through (a singing contest where we cousins had to sing one by one before we could watch television; the winner gets a chocnut or something), the simple-but-filling sinangag and banana fritter over coffee. Masaya. Its where I first tasted Milo chocolate drink. I also miss Apong (kinukudkod nya yong balat ko palagi o kaya yong buhok ko habang nakahiga kami), Auntie Orang (her toothless grin), Auntie Remings puto (still the best for me), the former house of Ate Nor (before they moved to Manila which for me was a bad, bad move; I never saw them better than in Anao).

Of the strand of moments that I want to go back to again and again, one is the memory of Anao.

Memories of Anao

Of the strand of moments that I want to go back to again and again, one is the memory of Anao. Even if I spent only our summers there, it held more memories that the rented houses we had in Antipolo. I guess because Anao is where my roots are or maybe because thats the only place then where we felt we - my sister and I -- belonged. Or maybe because thats where I developed my full senses. Up to now, theres a certain summer warmth or light breeze or a silent music at the back of my mind that return me to Anao.

Of course, Apongs house is the only house I know which has the plentiest of fruits: santol, cherry, pineapple, guyabano, sampaloc, sineguelas, ratiles, kaimito, bayabas (no one dared eat the guava because its rooted near the poso negro). I also saw the changes Apongs house had been through. Still the best is the oldest model: may silong, kawayan na sahig, toilet thats connected by a small bridge. And theres my ever-favorite dulang. (I still prefer to eat there than in a formal dining table. I dont know. I felt people are more talkative, more open, funnier and informal when seated in a dulang).

I had my first nightmare in Anao. Someone was killed in Sta Inez: a man charred beyond recognition, gunned down in the head, his decapitated penis forcibly stucked in his mouth. I didnt see it. But I heard people talk about it. I still remember how the dusk looked that very day: reddish, ghostly. Thats the first time I realized how cruel people can become. As all things, those memories of Anao -- one bad and whole lot of good -- came to pass.
(Dedicated to Tita Cel and Mama -- the two remaining daughters of my Apong.) Published in Isla de Nebz on 23 September 2009.

5 A language for the things I couldnt say

Scattered papers on my desk. Sharpened pencils lined up (quite) neatly. Twirls and curls on a sheet of paper. A magnifying glass across the keyboard. Sesame seeds from a bread I just finished eating. Language for the things I couldnt say.
Published in Isla de Nebz on 24 January 2010.

6 Deaths in the family

When my moms oldest sister died, I wanted to lovingly kid her that, as the new eldest in her siblings, she may be next in line, but I held my tongue. Shes too old to take my humour. And its cruel -- no matter how lovingly I put it. My aunts death made me re-realize how short life is; how ephemeral everything is. Below is an old post I wrote in 13 July 2008.
A first cousin died today due to breast cancer. She was only in her mid-40s. She died poorly and suffering. This morning when someone texted me about it, I realized that my family members (the maternal part) are dying a slow, long-suffering death. My maternal grandmother had an injury at the age of 80-something and she was bedridden for more than one year before she succumbed to death. I know for a fact that she suffered.

The eldest of my mothers sisters died of a breast cancer too. Because she was well-off, she managed to last for two years electing to have her two breasts taken off her body. She, too, suffered, I know. My closest cousin (whom I regard as my sister) had a stroke but managed to recover (although not that well). Her speech was garbled, she walked limply and spent her remaining days joining a religious group. She died poor and suffering, I know. My other aunt (whom I regard as my second mother) died of cancer. She too suffered because of poverty. I was still fresh out of college that time and was just starting to earn money. Her death made me realize the difficulty of dying poor. I wailed when she died because I was hoping I could give her a decent life that she deserved. She failed to wait for me. What saddened me most is that I failed to give her a decent burial because I lack money. A year after, I went to Saudi. She really should have waited.

This is scary. All the people that I love and care for (especially the women) died in similar manner: long, suffering, painful. I barely know my roots to make me conclude that my familys past is haunting our future. What was it that my ancestors did that burdens this generation of women in my family? Or was it something that they didnt do? Or maybe thats how all people die nowadays because of things that we do which we shouldnt; because of things that we should do but we wouldnt. Heres a welcoming thought: I shouldnt fear pain in death because, as Christians, its my own familys share of Gods sufferings on the cross. This I believe: God waits for us in heaven.
Published in Isla de Nebz on 11 March 2008.

only God can make a tree and a dead bird...

7 Annually being with my family

Im leaving on a jetplane but, unlike what the song says, I know when Ill be back again. I fly on the 8th this month and return on the 3rd of January. This is my nth vacation since I started work in Saudi. This is also the saddest,the busiest and hopefully, the most joyful.

My mother is still sick. She has gone out of the hospital now but when I last spoke to her, her medicines are still giving her constant dizziness. Her doctor has already lowered the dosages. I told her maybe she needs to stop taking those medicines (for heart ailment, for her weakening bones and lungs, etc), but she said shes afraid that her condition will worsen if she doesnt take them. Shes getting old now. Although her will remains strong, her bodys frail now and slowly weakening. Im certain one of my future vacations will be the last time that Id see her. (I pray not this time, Lord, and the next and the next...). I will be extremely busy at home this vacation. Since my sister lost her job, shes been constantly in charge at home -- budgeting, doing errands, taking care of her two daughters and two elders and a husband. She wasnt used to that. She worked for 15 years and was used to being a career woman. Although she has acclimatized with her new home career (as I kiddingly tell her), I know deep inside that shes suffering and would gladly wanted to find a job soon. During this leave, Id be taking from her some of her menial obligations -- cleaning the house, marketing and, yes, cooking. (My sisters a registered Dietician and she always tells us that a dietician doesnt necessarily mean shes a good cook. Because, honestly, she isnt). Finally, I need to assist my father whose penchance is building (his) houses. He is neither an architect nor an engineer, but hes the one who supervised the building of our house in Angono, our for-rent house in Manda,

and now his bahay-kubo in his small farm land. (His third house, the bahay kubo, is not a simple bahay kubo at all. He has architectural plans made for it! I dont know where he thinks well get the money to build the house but I always tell my sister: Dont contradict an old mans claim or youll end up in a bigger fight). My father was a factory supervisor all his life and even after his retirement (some fifteen years ago!), he still wants to perform a lot of supervision. The two previous houses he built have that similar problem: leaking rooftops. My father said: its his workers faults. Again: old mans claim, big fight, shut up.

We ended up losing our tenant because of that leak. In this my Christmas vacation, my sister and I will have to find new workers to fix that rooftop. We cant re-roof of course but an engineer friend told me to re-apply a waterproof paint over the cemented roof. Sounds costly and scary! Some OFWs take their vacation as a rest period. The truth is: my body is more well-rested when in Saudi (whats there to be tired about in Saudi when my daily routine is work-home-workhome!). In the Philippines, while on vacation, I never rest.
Published in Isla de Nebz on 12 June 2008.

The joy from that is that I get to be with my family and they get to be with me. A tired body, a peaceful heart and my familys smiling faces, theyre my spirits balm for true joy. Once a year, at least.

8 Certain rules

Relationships, like any games, must have rules. Before chaos, order -- sort of a cushion to avoid misunderstanding.

about relationships and all

This posts title was from Friends show I saw some Fridays ago. I was so bored that I ended up not doing anything except watch whatever was on free-to-air channels. And then I saw this Friends episode (which I later learned as Season 5, Episode 12) where Ross linked up with Janis (Owwh-mmmmy-Godddd!) who was Chandlers on-and-off-and-off-and-off girlfriend. This episode let me realize what my certain rules are (those that I certainly abide in and would certainly impose on others too).

GP rules 1. If its necessary for you to take something from the fridge and youre certain that that something is not yours, you should immediately replace it; 2. You always return what you borrow no matter how small the value is i.e. a bulb of onion, a light bulb, a pack of Mamasita Tamarind, a pitcher of water, etc. 3. We always get what we pay for (also reads: you always get what you deserve, you get back whatever is that you give, etc); 4. You are always judged by your skin so you should always moisturize. 5. It pays to be honest. Anywhere. All the time. R-18 rules 6. Dont fool around with any of your friends unless your friend wants to fool around with you (and even if its mutual, you should both be unmarried or unattached); 7. Same goes with your officemates. (If you cant help it, re-read your employment contract to make sure that theres not a clause included which relates to inter-office trysts. And again, you should both be unmarried and unattached); 8. Dont commit yourself to a relationship if youre only after sex. Be honest if its just a one-night stand.
Originally published in Isla de Nebz on 18 October 2009.

Jesus said: Peace be with you. And then he asked for food (the disciples thought they were seeing a ghost and so to prove them wrong, Jesus asked for something to eat) and the disciples gave him a fish. After the reading, the priest said: Fear is inversely proportional to faith. You fear because youre faithless. Youre brave because youre full of faith. And you can only have peace in your heart if you dont fear. If you have faith. I fear a lot I fear of losing my job. I fear about my parents dying. I fear my own death. I fear about losing money. I fear the Saudi police. I fear about getting old. Its endless.

Fear is inversely proportional to faith

Now, theres that one thing I fear the most. Losing my faith -- in God, in myself, in others. And so I continually pray that no matter what the future brings, no matter what hardships I encounter, may God continually give me that gift of faith. Give us that gift of faith. And that gift of hope and that gift of love, as well. So I can be in peace. So we can be in peace. Amen.
Published in Isla de Nebz on 27 April 2009.

10

He is Bert; she is Nita. Both were young when they ventured Manila. Thus began my personal ode to my father and mother.
Originally published on 27 November 2009.

Forty three
They taught us well. We called everybody tito and tita, and always used po and opo. We were always bathed cleanly and our clothes, although hands-medown from relatives, were always freshly-laundered and pressed.

Hes from Carles, Iloilo; shes from Anao, Tarlac. Both came from poor families, He took some vocational courses in electricity;she dreamt of being a midwife. Dearth poor, both ended up in a cotton factory in Makati. There they met; there they fell in love. After a long courtship, they wed in Loreto Church in Sampaloc. I asked my mom why her gown seemed short. She said: I was on slippers when the sewer measured me; She forgot that Id be wearing high heeled shoes. It sounds funny now, but I realized how my mother must have been flustered, that her gown was bitin. Yet in her wedding photos, she never showed her desperation.

After two years, they bore me. And then another -- a girl. And then three more who all died prematurely. I thought we were well off because we didnt rent our house in Mandaluyong. We owned it.

Only later did I realize how difficult it was for them -- although both employed -- to keep both ends meet.
When the factory transfered operation in Antipolo; we too transferred abode. Three times did we change houses. I used to wonder why it was always at night that we transfer house and why we leave some of our belongings (well return for them tomorrow, my father used to say). I realized later that we transferred house only at night because we can no longer pay the rent; and we leave some of our belongings as payment to our debts.

Until high school, my father was my personal barber.

I thought he dreamt of being a barber; I realized later that although he has money to buy us food, he really had none to pay for my haircut. Lifes been kind for both of them. He is double seven now; she seventy-three. And Im certain therell be more years to come to both of them. Oh, theres so much to tell about them. And Im sure they too have lots of stories to tell too. I promise when I get home again, Ill listen.

She was aglow and beaming in her wedding gown. So does my father in his rented tuxedo -handsome in his 60s look.

years of this

I promise that the next sampuL Issue will be more exciting and a little less drab. See yow. Nebz 28 July 2011