Unsorted

I've been going over some random memories. Please excuse the incoherence.

I remember being around five years old and sliding belly down the banister of the stairs. I did it with my sister who is a year older than I am. The first few times we did it, we had loads of fun. We'd climb up the steps, throw one leg over the banister, hug it tight, and then release our grip so we can slide down.

Now, have I mentioned that this was an outdoor stairs? It was cemented and pebbled all around. When we slid, the rough surface would ride our shirts up, expose our tummies and thereby scratching them when we reach the bottom.

Neither of us made the connection right away. All we know is that we were playing and then all of a sudden, our tummies had scratches and blisters. Indeed, at this point I humbly play the I-was-five card.

And as how all hurt, disappointments, and injustices of the world were addressed back then, we ran crying to our mother. For some reason, our mother promptly asked our Kuya what he did to us that made us cry. I distinctly remember feeling sorry for Kuya and insisting to Mama that he had nothing to do with our (ahem) brilliant idea of a game.

I suppose it's hard to be an eldest child. But I'd like to think that it has equipped my brother with skills needed to be a good dad. My nephew's still eighteen months old, but I pray that he grows up to be a good person. 

Right now, I hope it's not any indication that he trolls us during grocery shopping. When we're not looking, he stuffs the cart with everything his tiny hands could get. We once turned away from him for a few seconds in the frozen food aisle and afterwards found him clapping his hands in glee. We discovered half a dozen kielbasas in the cart as proof of his successful mischief. The funniest one I've heard of was when he, unable to chase his dad, threw the item in a bid to shoot it onto the cart. I'm sure when he's grown up, he'll use the I-was-one-and-a-half card.

And I know some might be annoyed that I am writing and talking about my nephew a whole lot. Truth is, I am actually already holding back as it is. He is such an adorable kid. And I have newfound sympathy and understanding for all parents or grandparents who incessantly bring up their kids and grandkids in every conversation. 

This reminds me of the old lady I met during my twelve-freaking-hours flight delay. She's seventy-five years old, but very fit for her age. We got to talking for hours. For some reason, the elderly find me charming. (Now if I could just extend my demographic...) More than 40 years ago was the first wave of the demand for nurses abroad during the Marcos era. She was one of those who took this chance to migrate to London and has lived there ever since. During breakfast, she talked about her grandkids and told me how clever and funny they are. She whipped out a homemade Christmas card that they made for her. Enclosed was a picture of the kids, three and five years old. Beautiful kids, indeed.

I wonder how they are with grocery carts, though.

Dear Adi,

I am going to miss you. I have spent everyday of the past two weeks with you, your Papa and Mama, and your Tita Mae. This has been the first Christmas that we have spent all together in a long time.

 

You won't remember much of it because you're not even two, but we had loads of fun. Let's go back to the zoo when you're older and no longer call all four legged animals as cats. And we promise to get you your own racquet when we go to the beach because you won't use it as a shovel by then. We'll also take you to a tennis match, unless you still have the need to run up and down stairs or poke kids and calling them "baby". (Which is very odd because you're much littler than most of them.)

 

I'm not sure if you'll outgrow your love for cars and balls (most boys don't). But please outgrow Justin Bieber. Years from now, we'll tease you that you dance to his songs whether you're upset, sleepy, or hungry. And that you watch the first 20 minutes of "Finding Nemo" AT LEAST once a day. But that's nothing to be ashamed of. After all, I watch it with you, too.

 

You're very lucky to have very loving parents. Don't give your Mama and Papa headaches, especially when riding escalators. And Tita Mae is always on the shopping lookout for cute stuff for you so try to spare her from your morning grumpiness.

 

I'm going to miss waking up to your "Tita? Tita!" shouts. Also sneeze-pretends and playing peek-a-"BAH" with you.

 

Give kisses to everyone for me. I love you all very, very much. I'll see you all again soon.

 

Mwah! Aaah-choo! :)

 

Love,

Tita Bom

 

The 100 Books

Have you read more than 6 of these books? The BBC believes most people will have read only 6 of the 100 books listed here. Instructions: Copy this into your NOTES. Bold those books you've read in their entirety, italicize the ones you started but didn't finish or read an excerpt. Tag other book nerds. Tag me as well so I can see your responses!

 

 

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien

3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte

4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling

5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

6 The Bible

7 Wuthering Heights

8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell

9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman

10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott

12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy

13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller

14 Complete Works of Shakespeare

15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier

16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien

17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk

18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger

19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger

20 Middlemarch - George Eliot

21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell

22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald

24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy

25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams

27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll

30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame

31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy

32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens

33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis

34 Emma -Jane Austen

35 Persuasion - Jane Austen

36 The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - CS Lewis

37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini

38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres

39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden

40 Winnie the Pooh - A.A. Milne

41 Animal Farm - George Orwell

42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown

43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving

45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins

46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery

47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy

48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood

49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding

50 Atonement - Ian McEwan

51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel 

52 Dune - Frank Herbert

53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons

54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen

55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth

56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon

57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens

58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon

60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck

62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov

63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt

64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold

65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas

66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac

67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy

68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding

69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie

70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville

71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens

72 Dracula - Bram Stoker

73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett

74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson

75 Ulysses - James Joyce

76 The Inferno - Dante

77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome

78 Germinal - Emile Zola

79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray

80 Possession - AS Byatt

81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens

82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell

83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker

84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro

85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert

86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry

87 Charlotte’s Web - E.B. White

88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom

89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton

91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad

92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery

93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks

94 Watership Down - Richard Adams

95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole

96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute

97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas

98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare

99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl

100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

 

--

I've only finished a handful from this list, but at least more than BBC's expectation? :)

 

Broken Into

I suppose getting burgled is not very interesting in the whole scheme of things. If anything, I am just another part of the statistic, some obscure news that, while unfortunate, isn't particulary surprising. People get robbed everyday on the streets and inside their homes.

But, man. Being part of the statistic doesn't make it easier. One would think the whole misery-loves-company thing would be in play somewhere, but no. I would never wish this on anyone for sheer number. Nor would I dismiss any burglary as offhandedly as I have done before.

It was a violation, not only of physical property, but of my whole concept of believing in the goodness of others. And, needless to say, it has infected the way I feel about people because it's harder to trust. There was at least one person who observed our routine, went to our door, forced it open, took our valuables. He rummaged through our closet, touched our things, even zipped open our Bible cases, and looked for anything with worth. He was there - where we slept, where we ate, where we LIVED.

For now, paranoia reigns supreme. But I do hope it wears off because it's too effing exhausting to be distrustful.

Once in a while, I catch myself wincing lately, but not out of pain. At least, not physically. More often, it's because I have let my thoughts wander back through the losses and some random memory of my mother wearing her diamond ring, some random file I can never access anymore from my stolen hard drives goes through my head.

The heaviest loss would understandably be my parents' valuables. So I'm going to steer clear of that for now because I don't want to have a breakdown.

Losing my laptop and external hard disk drive took some time to sink in. Both were very important to me but they were initially eclipsed by the enormity of losing the mementos of my parents. Days later after the robbery, it began to dawn on me that there were hundreds of drafts of writing that I will not be able to recover. Years worth of stories, journal entries - materials that I have been working on. I actually have been finishing a one-act play and was excited to send it to friends for review. I wish I already have sent it or uploaded it somewhere. Some lessons are so painful to learn. A thing about inspiration - it doesn't hang around waiting for you to create it (and back it up).

And all my pictures. Sigh. All the files from my old point-and-shoot until my DSLR. I don't often buy souvenirs when I travel because I always think that I take enough pictures to remember the places. And while I won't ever see my image library again, the only consolation I have is that I upload a few selection to Facebook or Multiply to share.

After it happened, I space out more often trying to find the reason why it had happened. Weeks before, I have contemplated on giving away my laptop to someone who needed it more. I was being nagged by the idea that if it didn't hurt when I give, then I was not giving at all. And it would be a hard sacrifice to give up my laptop because I was so attached and reliant to it. Now, I unbelievably regret that I did not heed that urge. And I resolve never to ignore it when it comes to me again.

While it is not likely that the robber held any Robinhood-like beliefs and it's not far-fetched that all the spoils went to drugs or booze, I hope that whatever amount he gained from the burglary, even a small part of it, was used to help someone in one way or another.

I'd like to take the rest of this space to thank all my family and friends who expressed their concern when they found out about what happened. Those text messages, emails, calls at 2 am, and offers of help in various forms are ALL very much appreciated beyond articulation. It is very assuring that your care is burglary-proof. Maraming salamat!

My dear nephew Adi,

I bought you two new books today. After hearing mass, I passed by a bookstore and saw two books that were very familiar to me. They are from the series: "Bright and early books for beginning beginners".

You see, when we were growing up -- your Papa, your Tita Mae and I had the whole set of these books. Your Lola read to us all the time, especially before our afternoon naps. I remember disliking that we were forced to sleep, but I did like the stories. From the books, we met The Cat in the Hat, The Berenstain Bears, and Hooper Humperdinck.

The ones I got you are: "The Big Honey Hunt" and ""The Berenstains' B Book". Those were two of my favorite. In fact, when you get older, I'll let you listen to our voice tape made by your Lola when I was three, Tita Mae was four, and your Papa was eight. Your Lola recorded us reciting the whole B Book from memory. You'll also find out that I was a very irritable kid. Not unlike you, as I hear. Your Mama and your Papa say that you are well-behaved, except when you demand to eat what everyone else is eating.

I saw pictures of your first birthday. You had two parties! And three birthday cakes! You've grown so big. I like the picture where you were poking the nose of the mascot Hamburglar. At least now I am assured that my nephew is not one of those wimpy kids who run away from mascots or big scary burglars.

When I saw you last Christmas break, your could barely crawl. Your Papa would dump you on my bed in the mornings to wake me up and you would pull my hair until I got up. That was also the time I learned that you had the propensity of biting/chewing everything that had batteries. Interestingly enough, you knew which ones had batteries. You insisted on drooling all over mobile phones, music players, remote controls, and digital cameras. They say you are still that way at one year old and you like eating your Papa's new phone. Unfortunately, that is not the edible kind of blackberry.

I enjoy it whenever your Papa calls me and then passes the telephone to you and I can hear you mumble incoherent words on the other line. Of course in between those mumbles, I can also hear beeping sounds as you press the keypad of the phone. I look crazy saying "Hello, Adi!" in varying tones forty times, but I do not mind.

It was supposed to be your Lola's birthday yesterday. She's not with us anymore, but I hope you'll still get to know her somehow through our stories. I'm sure she's happy to be your guardian angel.

Today is Fathers' Day, too, Adi. Did you greet your Papa? You probably just slobbered more all over his phone, but you'll get the chance when you grow up. Both of your Lolos are also part of your guardian angel security group. So we'll thank them in our hearts.

I will see you again soon, Adi. Be obedient to your Mama and Papa. And try to lay off on the electronics devices.

Hugs,
Your loving Tita

Some thoughts from Precinct 0440A

I consider myself fortunate that my polling place at UA&P is just a five-minute walk away. My friend Crystal and I decided to go early together to vote.

By 630am, we were out of the building. The area designated for the polls was the covered basketball court. Four clustered precincts in makeshift classrooms. It was not difficult to find our names. Just a few "nagpakaduling saglit" moments.

There were around 15 monobloc seats allotted for each cluster where voters can sit and wait. When those are already occupied, people have to stand and wait in queue. By the time I fell in line, I was one of those right behind the monobloc chairs, part of the next group to have seats after the next move.

Presidential candidate Nicolas Perlas walked in with his son, presumably. Not a lot of fanfare. A few TV crew crowded to get a shot of him while he checked for his name in the board. Perlas seemed like a decent, dignified-looking man. What was impressive is that he fell in line, along with the others. In fact, he was right behind Crystal and he tried to help keep the line orderly.

Another sidenote, TV personality Drew Arellano loitered around the court. He was interviewed nearby and joked around with the crowd.

The overall atmosphere of the precinct was friendly. There was a sense of community as most of the poll-watchers knew the voters. It was easy for them to appeal for organized queues and for patience. A fellow voter on my side struck a conversation with me. She thought I was an online reporter because I kept glued to my Twitter account on my phone while waiting for the queue to progress. I was intently checking for news and updates.

When it was our batch's turn to go inside the precinct, it was efficient. I gave my name, my precinct number, my voter number. The officer found my name, I showed my ID, I made the thumbmark and I was given a ballot. I was careful to wipe off any residual ink on my thumb with wet tissues before taking the ballot.

I was then asked to take a table which was also partly used by the BEIs. There was a bottle of ink on the table and I took measured movements to keep everything clean. I took out a face-towel and dried my hands and arms before I started to shade. I was concerned about the marker's ink absorbing through the other side of the paper. Anyway, having a codigo is very useful. I was done in four minutes.

And now, the close encounter with the infamous PCOS machine. It was an unassuming piece of machinery. Looked like a photocopier. I wanted to make a joke and ask it, "How's the family? CF card configured ok?" Anyway, I inserted my ballot, a few seconds later the little digital screen indicated that all was ok. Hallelujah.

Some guy dropped a generous amount of indelible ink on my forefinger. Another thumbmark and signature. I asked if there was anything else, the BEI smiled at me and said that was it. I thanked them and left the precinct.

The BEIs at our polling place were polite, competent, helpful, and very patient. I know the COMELEC has gotten a lot of bad rep for the number of fumbling incidents involving the automation. Sure, I continue to have my hesitations if they can pull it off, but I prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt. I choose look at them as growing pains. It's a tough job. They have to take pressures from the electorate, the candidates, the media. For whatever it's worth, I think Comm. Gregorio Larrazabal and Dir. James Jimenez are sincerely doing their best.

When we left UA&P, the queues were almost at the gate exit already. But it seemed tolerable to everyone. It was around half past 8 when we finished. Which was not terribly bad, I think, for exercising a right as important as voting.

Just a final piece of my mind on this election. I found myself saddened at some display of intolerance of opinion, especially online. I like it when voters are passionate about their candidates and try to convince the others of their choice's qualifications and share their achievements. I like it because it helps me decide. It's the mudslinging I can't stand. The condescension towards other people who do not share your opinion. It's a democracy. We have our own set of values. What is most important to you may not be most important to me. And that doesn't make any of us less. We're just different and that's ok.

We have to understand that we have to eventually heal the divisiveness that the campaign period has wreaked. We still have to all work together whoever wins and I don't think it's very productive to start off with antagonism. Enough of the mudslinging, please. I would have thought everyone else was fed up with it by now.

On that note, I don't care much who you vote for. Just please, please go out and vote.

Mothers' Day

When I was in preschool, my mother used to hold teaching sessions for me and my sister in the afternoons. Actually, it was more of a monitored playtime where we would answer puzzles from activity books - spot the difference, connect the dots, mazes. Sometimes, she would ask us to learn nursery rhymes or short poems. And then, she would read us stories before nap time.

My favorite was the stories with dogs. It had stories about anthropomorphized puppies with titles like "Bernie, the Chilly St. Bernard" or "The Puppy with the Mischievous Wink". There was also the book about fairies. I still remember the one about the pixie who always made the boy late for school everyday. Or the one of the "tiniest of the tiny fairies" - I was so distressed when she left home in fairyland to go to the beach. My mother would read the dialogues with character voices and dramatic facial expressions.

Of course, I had to interrupt often to ask the meaning of some of the words. Mama answered each question. Eventually, she taught me to take out the big red dictionary off the shelf and use it to check each word myself. When I was nine, she bought me a pocket dictionary which she told me to keep near when I read.

I must have been annoying child, I realize now. I interrupted story time. I ran around when she asked us to read out loud. I did not want to take my naps. Just to name a few.

But thank God for mothers and their patience. I was never reprimanded for asking questions. And I will always be grateful that she equipped me for finding the answers myself. I may not have her with me anymore, but I have a lot of other things to keep.

This will be a yearly favor that I will ask from you all. Please give your mothers a hug for me. Thanks.

Stay Down or Stand Up

Fire is fire.

Everyone goes through fire. Whenever we go through personal trials, we go through fire. And it is how we react to fire that reveals what we are made of. And as the metaphor goes - some get softened and turn to mush, like carrots. Some are hardened, like eggs. Some reveal their best essence, like coffee beans.

In a remote barangay in Zamboanga, an eleven-year old girl went with her uncle to fetch water. A group of men, out of nowhere, came out brandishing long knives and began hacking on the uncle until he lay dead on the ground. The girl ran for her life, but the men chased after her. They hacked their knives on her back, on her neck, on her wrists. The girl laid very still until the men went away, convinced that she was dead. When they left, she saw herself lying in a pool of her own blood.

With great pain, she stood up and tried to drag herself home. Every now and then, she would stagger and fall on the ground. She would momentarily lose consciousness. But when she regained it, she would stand up again and keep on heading home.

When she finally saw her house, she screamed for help with the little energy she was left with. Her mother, horrified at the sight of her bloody daughter, wrapped her in a blanket, cradled her into her arms. The nearest hospital was twelve kilometers away and there was no public transport. The mother carried her daughter and walked four hours to reach the hospital.

The girl underwent surgery for five hours. She had 25 stitches on her back, but the doctors could not save her arms. The very next day of tragedy was the girl's birthday. They incurred heavy hospital debts. When they came home, they found their house burned down.

Talk about fire.

That was eleven years ago. The girl is Maricel Apatan. She has recently graduated with the degree of Hotel and Restaurant Management as a scholar. She is on her way to being a full-fledged chef. A chef with no hands.

Along the way to her recovery, angels in the form of the church people, volunteer groups, and charitable organizations, helped the girl and her family. But it started with Maricel's willpower to stand up. And her refusal to stay down.

Imagine every excruciating step she had to endure. The trauma of going through that as an eleven-year old. She had every excuse to hate the world and complain for the rest of her life. But today, she is a cheerful and productive person. She uses her wrists with utmost dexterity. I saw her peel, chop, slice vegetables. No hands.

I watch her with amazement and I am humbled. It puts a lot of things in perspective. All those whining, petty complaints of everyday life. Just a quick scan of social networking updates just lets you know how many people let themselves get stuck, myself included.

Remember the three men in the book of Daniel? Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego refused to pay homage to a golden idol. They were ordered to be securely bound by ropes and thrown into a furnace. They came out of the furnace unharmed, their clothes were not burnt, only their ropes.

Fire is fire. It is how we react to it that matters. We always have the option of letting fire set us free.

Learn to Soar

Today's Sunday service prayer meeting was about eagles. Those majestic birds and the very interesting manner they learn to fly.

Eagles are spectacular parents. They build their nests high up on the cliffs. The males gather together twigs and branches to make the nest's base and include thorns as protection from other animals. Afterwards, they cover it with soft grass. The mother eagles pluck feathers from their own breasts and lay them on nest to make the eaglets comfortable.

Everyday, the parents would hunt for food and feed their young. They would shelter them from strong winds by spreading their wings over them. They kept their children safe, warm, and comfortable to nurture their health and their strength.

But after ten weeks or so, the eaglets are left on their own in the nest. The parents hover and watch over them but they rarely give in to their cries of hunger. They stop the constant feeding. They also deprive them comfort by flapping their great wings to rid of the nest's soft grass and feathers. The thorns and twigs are exposed and the eaglets are forced out of their nest. Finally, in what appears to be the cruelest thing a mother can do to her child, the eaglet is pushed out of nest, and off the cliff.

Imagine the tiny eaglet shrieking in fear as it drops from that height. Mid-air the father eagle catches him and brings him back to the cliff only to be dropped again and again until finally, out of necessity, he learns to flap his wings. And the realization settles in: he knows how to fly.

At one point or another, we have all felt like being abandoned, being deprived, being wounded, being pushed out, being dropped down. It's easy to complain and to cry out injustice without realizing that we were nurtured to be strong enough to withstand everything that comes our way. And neglecting to recognize that we are capable of flight all the while. The pain was just an instrument to open our eyes.

I was once part of the warm, loving comfort of a home. It was taken from me. I have lost a lot, but I gained the willingness to learn. Every time I hear mass - may it be Sundays or during work lunch hours, I come to be taught.

Another fact about eagles. They can sense when storms are coming, but unlike other animals, they do not cower from it. They fly somewhere high up and wait in excitement for the winds to come. When the storm hits, they just let the wind pick up their wings until they soar way up above.

Let's not stay in our nests. We were meant to conquer the skies.

Kesz

I shook the hand of a great person today.

After this afternoon's casual keynote talk, he was just sitting quietly in a corner. My friend and I asked if we could have our pictures taken with him. He willingly obliged and was so polite about it. Afterwhich, I reached out to shake his hand.

I feel compelled to mention here that I don't usually do the whole "celebrity" thing. In fact, it borders on uncharacteristic. I am unlikely to ask for pictures or autographs from anyone. (Ok, my thing for basketball players in high school, notwithstanding) . But after hearing his story, I was filled with much admiration. Here was a person worth looking up to.

He grew up at a dumpsite. He slept on the streets. At five, he would race with other kids whenever the truck would unload garbage. It was in one of these mad dashes that he was pushed into a burning tire where he badly burned his arm. He was taken in by a volunteer group until he recuperated. And when he got well, he wanted to repay his benefactors' kindness by helping in the group's Kariton Classroom project.

Since he was only six at this time, he could not help out with teaching other kids how to read or write. When asked what he was good at, he said he was good at brushing his teeth and washing his hands. And that's what they let him teach to the other children - how to properly brush their teeth and wash their hands. He attended public school on weekdays and volunteered on the weekends.

All this time, everyone called him Kesz. Eventually, they got hold of his birth certificate, found out his real full name and birthday. And for the first time in his life, they celebrated his birthday when he turned eight. When asked what his birthday wish was, he got confused. He didn't know what it meant. And when explained that a birthday wish was something you wanted to happen, he answered that he wanted the other kids from his old dumpsite to feel the same happiness that he felt at the moment. He was aware that he couldn't hold parties for them. Kesz wanted simply for them to have toys and slippers.

For his next two birthdays, he tried to raise money to buy dozens of slippers by selling candies at his school. One of the teachers helped him. He kept all he earned in a coin bank and spent it on his birthday for other kids still living in the dumpsite.

When Kesz heard that his teacher's mother was hospitalized, he asked if he could have his coin bank opened to donate his savings to her. He said his teacher would be happy if her mother got well and he wanted her to be happy because he loved his teacher.

And so he gave his birthday fund away. It was only around three hundred pesos but it was everything he had. And it was at this point of listening to Kesz's story that the waterworks started. Right there on the second floor hallway of the public school elementary school. Seated on one of the monobloc chairs.

Kesz is eleven years old now. He collects books from people and donates them to schools for students to read and enjoy. He still raises charity for children scavengers. He goes to school. He speaks to schoolchildren and fellow volunteers. He inspires.

After speaking to the students, Kesz sat back quietly on his chair. He is respectful and well-behaved. He has bright eyes and a cheerful smile. He even sang a bit at the prodding of the emcee.

I shook the hand of a great person today. And the scars on his arm are barely visible.

--

Chris "Kesz" Valdez and Vonn Manalaysay, Efren Peñaflorida's mentor were guest speakers at the opening of the book club of the public elementary school where I volunteer.

Toby and Tyra

I just found out that my mother's pet dogs already passed away. Our neighbors in the old house who were taking care of them for us texted me the sad news that Tyra and Toby passed away recently and only three days apart from each other. Mama loved those askals. Especially Toby whom she got thirteen years ago. She named the puppy Toby because she got her on an October. The dogs kept her company when we were at work. And also Papa after he retired. My mother fed them, bathed them, took care of them when they were sick. She talked to them as she would talk to children. When disciplining them, she used her stern voice which was very familiar to me and my siblings.

When Toby was still little, I distinctly remember the incident when we woke up one morning and found shreds of paper strewn about on the kitchen floor. Toby had bitten off and chewed on the cover and first few pages of my sister's copy of Salinger's Nine Stories. My sister is very particular with her things and it was a big deal. I tried to salvage what was left of the book and taped torn pages, teeth marks and all. When my sister found out, she whined to our mother. And Mama told us in all seriousness that we should not worry about it; she has already reprimanded Toby and told her that what she did was a wrong thing and she won't do it again.

I remember how my sister and I were so incredulous at the resolution that my mother offered. Toby was a dog, after all, and what good did it do that the pet was told off? BUt that's how Mama was. She believed that the pets understood. She told me that Toby was aware whenever she was planning to give the dogs a bath. Just planning, no water hose involved yet. She came to this conclusion because Toby would hide under beds every single time. Tyra was a little slower and would be the first to be subjected to the unwelcome baths. But Tyra had always been the amiable one. We joked how lousy she was as a guard dog because she was friendly to all strangers. Both dogs would always rush out of the house whenever the gate was opened. But they always, always found their way back home.

When my parents passed away, Toby and Tyra were both inconsolable. Since we did not stay at our parents' house anymore, we had to leave them in the custody of our neighbors. They told us of how the dogs whimpered at night. And how the both of them waited around at our locked house, seemingly waiting for any member of the family to come home. They shared our grief.

I texted my siblings about Toby and Tyra and got separate phone calls from them. Both are working overseas, living separately in the same city. We couldn't hide the sadness we felt and my sister unsuccessfully tried to hold back tears at work. We all just hope that the dogs were reunited with our parents and maybe Toby can even nag Salinger himself.

Some-degree burns

Ok, situational pop-quiz.

It's Tuesday night. As part of the Christmas party committee, a few officemates and I went to a resto-bar to finalize the venue booking. The events manager played the gracious host and offered as serving after serving of the menu choices. Later on, the bartender placed before each of us a shot glass with layers of liquid. Being the allergic-to-alcohol, non-drinker dork that I am, I had to be explained what was in it. Vodka, Kahlua, Bailey's. It was named something crass I don't feel like typing down right now. Anyway, here's the clincher. The waiter brought a lighter and lit each cocktail on fire. I mean, honestly - allowing a klutz within inches of an open flame indoors? What were these people thinking?!

So, question is: will anyone be surprised if I told them that at one point during the night, a significant portion of my table was on fire? Literally. Blue flame crawling on the table's surface. Someone burning the knuckle of her index finger.

Tell me, that is still considered unexpected, right? Hypothetically. >_<

Looking back now, I guess I should have given them fair warning to not light up mine. I think it should be my civic duty to responsibly inform all unknowing people the hazards of being in my company. As my dear roommate said, anywhere I am is a hard-hat zone.

Now, maybe firesuit-zone, too.

Fallen

Though news of any accident involving myself may not come to most people as "news" but mere "eventualities", I'd just like to mention it right here as a preamble so we can get that over with right away.

I injured myself tonight. I just came from watching a movie with Tal, Karl, and Gary and while walking home just off the Shangri-La curb, I tripped. Tripped on what exactly - I'm still not sure. But I twisted my right ankle, landed on and scraped my left knee, almost ripped my denim at its point of impact, scratched the heels of my hands in my attempt to break the fall.

So instead of walking our way home, we had to take a cab. And when I was getting on it, I took a misstep with the injured foot and almost did a repeat performance. Apparently, I just can't get enough of the concrete. It's not enough that I walk on it. I have to be one with it.

I am adept at falling.

I guess it's natural to acquire a sense of deftness in something you always get to do. And it's not the act itself that I have accumulated skills in. After all, falling is less of something you make happen than something that happens to you. But skills in handling the post-impact.

Here's the thing. Once you've found yourself from an upright walking biped to a sad subhuman who fell on all fours - the first thing you want (or you're likely) to do is to scream expletives in the loudest decibel your lungs can manage. I've encompassed the expletive spectrum from kolehiyala "goshes" to mild euphemisms to outright good old vernacular curses. The devil-pertaining Visayan ones are particularly accessible. The anger and frustration is expected. It's acceptable even if the anger is directed at inanimate objects like crooked floors or uneven carpeting. Also acceptable if you're directing them at yourself. Of all the stupid, thoughtless, careless things to do.

But of course, while superficially satisfying at the particular moment of impact, cursing does not dull the pain. At some point, you just have to stop and pause. Find out where it hurts. Find out if something was broken, torn, or strained. Or all of the above. This self-assessment often requires tentative movements. A lot of wincing also follows, so this is not really a part where poise is a standout presence. It's very probable that there's a trail of mess everywhere. Maybe even blood.

Once you are aware of the damages, you relocate yourself. Assuming that most of the venues of these inelegant occasions happen in open public. So you go and find yourself a quiet corner or a curb where you sit down and try to soothe your pain. Friends, if they are around at the time, can help you. Sometimes you can not fully appreciate their sympathies right then and there - because you're hurting, goshdarnit, and no one will really understand. At least, never totally. But eventually you realize how pathetic-er it is to be pathetic alone than to be pathetic with friends.

There will be a time - unimaginable as it may be - that the pain will subside and you'd be able to consider other things. Still related to the pain, yes, but other things nevertheless. Like your self-esteem. Or its consequential degradation thereof. It occurs to you now how many people have seen you make a fool of yourself. The embarrassment of it all. The implacable awkwardness of vulnerability. What will they think? Poor you. What a klutz. But trust me, unless this was one of those rare hopeless situations - there will always be a little pride and defiance left in you to to question who the hell are they, anyhow.

Hopefully, there remains enough sensibilities for you to get up from that corner, to stand up and leave. Limp painfully if you must, but get a move on and be somewhere else. Because - come on - staying and wallowing in self-pity is just plain inexcusable disservice to one's self. It's not really anyone's fault. Falling is only bad when there's no one to catch you but the cold hard concrete.

I may have taken a figurative turn in all this logorrhea somewhere, I'm not sure. I've always had a poor sense of direction. Don't mind me. I'm just the klutz with liniment on her ankle and betadine on her knee.

Ticked Off

There's a standard phrase that Luz and I say out loud before we (frantically) leave the room in the mornings.

"Money, phone, key."

It's our checklist of the things that we should not leave behind. Sometimes, there are variants of this. Mostly, additional things like "flash disk", "MRT card", "handkerchief". But the core three are the staple ones. It would be such a day's cumbersome complication if one is left behind.

I remember Tago has a good version of this during travelling. But Tago, being himself, calls it "Valuability check!" - which is like a cue for us to ascertain the current location of wallets, cameras, cellphones.

The whole checklist is a good conceptual attempt, in theory. Not necessarily fool-proof, though. Especially in the case of me and my esteemed roommate. Maybe it's because we're often in a hurry to leave. There's something about the MRT - fifteen minutes can sometimes mean a difference of easily getting on the first train or shoving your way just to get into the third.

We're experts in cutting it close. It is like bluffing our ways to our 8 am call time. But you have to give us a little credit. From the Shaw station, we go our separate ways and wave our goodbyes after inserting our tickets in the platform. Luz goes northbound to QC, and I go southbound to Makati. Commuting is bound to leave you a little frazzled and forgetful.

Our friend's sister-in-law - whom we haven't met personally - lives one floor up from us. She knows us, though. As a matter of fact (but not of pride), we're known as the two girls who always forgets something and comes back up into the elevator to get it.

Once we were almost at the village gate before we figured out what we forgot and had to retrace our steps back to our building. Also, it's not unusual to find me waiting for the elevator while putting on earrings, wristwatch, bracelet. It's efficient use of slack time, you've got to admit.

So this morning, I went over the ritual. I paused at the door's threshold and reminded myself out loud. "Money, phone, key." Mentally making tick marks, I went out and headed out into my thursday.

I decided to blog about this because upon arriving at the office this morning, I found out that - of course - I forgot my phone.

Normalcy

She seemed like just another normal kid.

She sat on her bed indian-fashioned, still wearing her jammies. She watched Ice Age with us in the tiny tv screen. She laughed at Sid's antics. She has a dimple on her right cheek that shows whenever she smiles.

Very polite kid, too. Without any prodding from her parents, she offered us candies. She angled the screen towards us so we could see the movie better. She addressed Luz and I as "ate".

As with most ten-year olds, she likes cartoons. Spongebob Squarepants, Jimmy Neutron, Ariel the Little Mermaid. Some other Japanese animations I'm not familiar with.

She told us of her pets and the story behind each of their funny names.

She seemed like just another normal kid. Except for the IV bag of chemo medicine inserted in her vein. And her inch-short hair sticking out in every direction. Her dad stroked her hair and remarked how they should have it fixed. With a small pout, she said, "Kalbo na naman..."

When the nurse came to take off her IV, she tried her best to keep still - just grimacing a little when the adhesive stuck to her skin. When we asked if it hurts whenever they stick a needle into her, she shook her head. It's already been over a year, she said, and she's already gotten used to the monthly treatments.

She missed a year of school, though. When she was diagnosed, she almost became a cripple. The nonchalant way she said it was unnerving: "muntik na nga po ako malumpo nung nagkasakit ako nung isang taon."

Another two years of treatment and she could be well again.

Just a little after the credits of Ice Age rolled, she asked her mother if she could take a bath already. We then said our goodbyes to the family.

And as we watched her wave goodbye, she seemed like just another normal kid.

Flashbacks

I dreamt about my mother the morning of her birthday. In the dream, I was with my brother and sister seated around a small table. We were sharing fond memories of our mother. Retelling stories of personal incidents during her life and our childhood. My mother was not in the dream per se. There was just a sense that if it were a video, her presence was there as an inset. And it was not creepy or mournful or even sad. She was there as if to listen to what we had to say.

And we had so many stories to share about her - even to each other as siblings. Because my mother was a great mother. I've always said that I sincerely wish everyone of my friends have met her. So they'd understand what I mean. A few minutes of talking with her - anyone would've known that she was a special person with a warm and welcoming heart. And maybe if people have known this, they'd understand why losing her has changed me so much inside. I do think that my close friends who have met her understand better why it has been so difficult for me to handle the loss.

You would have loved her, too. You see, we were the kind of children who rushed to go home after school not because our mother ordered us to but because we wanted to spend time with her. We're the kind of children who were envied because our mother read us stories before afternoon naps, sent us stuffed toys in school on Valentine's Day, baked us our own birthday cakes, helped build art projects, taught us calligraphy on weekends. She made us learn and recite nursery rhymes and well-loved poetry by Marlowe, Whitman, Longfellow. She bought me classic books like Wuthering Heights and Little Women. Also pocket dictionaries.

She was funny, gregarious, intelligent, sociable. My love for reading and writing were her influences. When she read out loud to us, she glided her fingertip along the line she was reading and so even before I actually knew how to read, I was familiar with the "shape" of the word in print. She gave me my first diary when I was eight and encouraged me to write my thoughts everyday. I've always kept a journal ever since - in the forms of juvenile scented notebooks, standard 80-sheet ruled notebooks, of .doc and .txt files, of blog entries, and more recently, a Moleskine.

In the dream, my siblings and I talked around a table. We don't do that anymore, but we used to have them all the time when we were growing up. My mother was the kind of parent who wanted to hear our opinions. The first time we transferred provinces, she all sat us around the table and told us of the many changes and adjustments that we will have to go through during the period. I was ten at the time, seated with the others in the table, asked of my concerns, and treated as an adult. And this happened often because we moved quite a lot.

And even when we were already working, she was the mother who would pick sampaguita flowers from our backyard and put some of the blossoms in my bag so that it'd smell fragrant. In fact, when I was packing my things in Azeus, I saw one of the sampaguita branches she gave me which I kept in a box. I don't know why I kept it. But I'm glad I have the dried up flowers in my treasured possessions. There was also the mask I had to wear when she was already in reverse isolation in ICU. I'm still conflicted whether to keep that one. I find myself constantly in this place where I want to forget but I need to remember.

My mother was also very human - with weaknesses and contradictions. Until the very end, she regretted not being able to give up smoking. And it was one thing that she always asked forgiveness for. To us and in her prayers. I have seen her try to quit all throughout those years. Many, many times. Often dramatic memories when she would ask us to throw out all cigarettes, lighters, ashtrays and she'd end up in tears. Weeks or days or hours later when she couldn't resist the temptation, she'd pick up the habit again.

As a kid, I never understood how hard it could be. Naively, I drew an anti-smoking poster and stuck it on one of the ref magnets complete with text copied from health books about how smoking is bad for the health and with a real cigarette stuck in the center of the paper for added effect. I think it was Papa who took the cigarette from the poster and smoked it. What irony. Yeah, we were a comedic family.

A part of me believes I'm meant to be single forever so I'm not keeping a list anymore of what I am looking for in a person, but if I were - smoking is a deal-breaker for me. I'm not being judgemental or self-righteous. In fact, it's because I'm being selfish. I don't ever want to go through all the magnificently long drawn out pain of losing a loved one because of this habit. I have gone through it with both of my parents. And it felt like you had to helplessly stand and see them kill themselves willingly and hate themselves for it. It is hell and it is as if your heart is wrenched out from chest. No, no. It would have to be somebody else's wife. Somebody else's child. I won't sign up for that all over again.

My mother would disapprove of this notion, I know. She always told me that I had a tendency to be inflexible in a sense that I have no in-betweens. Black and white - no grays. I am stubborn and she was worried that my extreme likes and dislikes would make me miss out on some of the things in life.

The way things stand, I'm set to miss out on a lot of things in life, anyway. Having a wedding where your parents give you away. Or having a family with a mother to guide you in raising a child. And a more trivial thing: my new office emphasizes on work-life-balance and they have these family day activities every now and then where you bring... well, family. I absolutely dread it. Because I can't bring anyone. Just yesterday, I had to call up an aunt I haven't spoken with for years just to ask if she could confirm my information to the bank where I was opening an account. It was funny and awkward and just utterly pathetic.

One of things my siblings and I talked about is that during those times when we were all living apart from each other - and it was not very unusual that our family of five were in five different cities at the same time - home was always where our mother was. Home was not a fixed city or even a tangible house. Home was where my mother can listen about our day, give us a hug, talk to us, let us know how much we were loved. And no matter where we're coming from - a toxic semester in college or a long day at work - we all knew where home was. Or who home was.

And it still stands true. We'll all be going home someday to where she is. In the meantime, I'm trying to live my life with intention. So I could have something worthwhile to tell her when I see her again.

Happy birthday, Mama.

Transubstantiation

I've heard a very interesting story today. A true one at that. Juicier than any of the showbiz tsismis. More incredible than any of the Ripley stories.

So a long time ago, there's this wife with a womanizing husband. What else is new, right? But this happened a really long time ago so instead of seeking annulment on the grounds of psychological incapacity or hiring a private investigator to follow him around - the wife instead consulted a Jewish sorceress to ask what to do.

So in keeping with her weirdness, the sorceress asks for a consecrated host in payment for a magical potion that will supposedly help the wife. A consecrated host - well, you know - it's the same host we get at communion. So the wife heard mass and after receiving communion, she removed the Host from her mouth and kept it in a knot in her veil. Just then, the Host began to bleed profusely. It bled so heavily that people thought that she was really, really sick. Or with a very deep wound or something. So she freaked out - naturally - and went home. She placed the wrapped Host in a wooden chest where she kept her clean linens.

When her philandering husband came home, he discovered the secret of the hidden Host because the chest was all lit up. Just absolutely beaming with brilliant light. In fact, it was so bright that it illuminated their whole house! The parish heard about the incident and after a couple of years, the Church recognized it as a legitimate miracle.

Amazing, huh?

But I just wanted to share what the priest reminded everyone - that physical miracles like that is not what people really need to see. The miracle that people - especially unbelieving ones are looking for, is the miracle of change in the lives of those who claim to follow Christ.

It's been mentioned that those who go to Church and openly pray but live un-Christian lives are so much worse than those who do not go to Church at all. Because they convince people that the Church does not change lives. But just breed a bunch of hypocrites. People shouldn't go to mass because they feel like they're being good. People should go to mass because they want to be good.

And that rang true in my head. Because I try not to miss mass not because I feel like I'm being better than those who don't go. But because I feel I need it more than others.

So what was the lesson from this Sunday's homily? Apart from the miracle of change in our lives - steer clear of sorcery when addressing marital problems.

Torrents (the non-digital kind)

I feel a little guilty for enjoying the heavy rains of this week. I know a lot of people find it bothersome - those who live in easily flooded areas, those who commute and find it inconvenient to wait for public transport in the downpour (I will be part of this demographic again soon enough). I'm sorry and I do empathize, but I couldn't help but feel gleeful over spending my bum days in the gloomy overcast of the indoors.

It is possible that I might be a hermitic, nocturnal creature in a previous life (if one subscribes to the belief of reincarnation, that is). I like being alone, being in the dark. In addition, I've always loved the heavy rains. A lot of people find this fact about me weird and most of them don't hesitate to let me know.

In college, when I have the room all to myself if I got off early from class - I turn off the lights, shut the door, and close the curtains - thereby keeping out all sunlight, noise, and movement. My roommates would find me in this state and would ask me what the heck I was doing sulking in the dark. One compared me to Anne Rice's vampires.

My current roommate, who usually shares my eccentricities, conceded that I was far too advanced in my dislike for socialization (and light) than her. Read: she thinks hanging an opaque curtain is a good idea, but closing it the whole way through is inadvisable and bordering on suffocating.

In my personality interview with Azeus, Miss Nettie asked me if I had any concern working late nights. I remember telling her that I actually preferred working when it's already dark and quiet, without sunlight. Those exact words. She laughed but she must've thought I was an absolute wacko. She was nice about it, though.

I'll be digressing a bit, but I just had to mention a little bit about my tech interview with Sir Spens - since we're on the topic anyway and I've been thinking lately a lot of how I started with my first company after my resignation. The way it went back then, you were given a problem to solve in a couple of minutes and you have to write the solution in a piece of paper. You can use any programming language or just even the pseudocode. You have to explain to the interviewer your logic. When asked "Is there a better way of doing this?" Without thinking and neglecting the hold on my sarcasm, I told him, "Well, I'm sure there is. But this is what I've come up with given the time."

I'm sure no one else remembers that incident but I've always fantasized of going back to that moment and answering that question with a little subtlety and tact. I still can't believe I got in after my seemingly disastrous qualifying interviews.

Anyway, fast forward to the present.

Just today, I woke up early and wanted to pick up where I left off on my reading. The morning light was taking a backseat to the cloudy skies and since my sister was still sleeping soundly, I couldn't turn on the light. I ended up rummaging through the shelves for my flashlight and used it for reading. A friend suggested I used a headlamp next time. Very interesting suggestion - one that I might follow. I'm still halfway through "The Time Traveler's Wife", by the way. It gets interesting once you get past the weird sense of pedophilia in the early parts.

I got the chance to do other indoor things lately. I watch movies, make origami, and follow recipes. I made something named 'Layered Cookie Cake'. It's made of raisin bread, cream, crushed chocolate cookies, and fruit cocktail. It didn't turn out to be much. Insubstantial mush. I also tried some writing. Like this entry. Oh, look. I can reuse the same adjective phrase for this: Insubstantial mush.

I owe fries.

I lost a bet today. Not really a bet. It's a result of my initial gullibility and subsequent skepticism.

Dens claimed that McDo has introduced a new menu item called McPorkchops. He said it's like porkchops covered with the same breading of Chicken McNuggets and served with the same sauce options, i.e. barbecue, honey mustard, sweet and sour.

Since I haven't been to McDo in a while and I don't have popular tv channels, I don't get to view many ads and it was very likely that I missed this new menu from McDo.

Eventually, Dens admitted that he was just pulling my leg and told me that actually it was Jollibee that has a new 39ers meal. Calamares. And it was so convincing the way he told me about how meager the serving is. Six or seven rings of squid, he said. The name escaped him - probably not jollycalamares or jollysquid.

And I have to admit, I almost bought the story. >_<

Finally, he told me about the new french fries size of McDonald's. The small one is still small, the old large is the new medium, and the new large is a very large serving. I said I wouldn't fall for it a third time. And agreed to treat him to three supersized fries.

I can't decide whether Dens is just smooth or I'm just easily duped. Whichever the case may be, I have to pay up with unhealthy carbohydrates.

Mothers' Day

On Sunday afternoons, I try to sleep. Sometimes during those moments I am about to transition from sleep to consciousness, I sense my mother's presence. I am dreaming, of course. I know it. But I feel comforted to imagine that she is seated at the base of my bed, watching television like she used to. I actually leave the TV on while I sleep so I could feel less alone.

For the past couple of weeks, advertisers have capitalized on the approach of Mothers' Day. And every print, radio, or tv ad of mother and child remind me of how much I miss my own mother.

I used to get her something every year. I guess I totally bought all the advertising pitches. When I was in high school, I'd save up on allowance and buy her roses from one of the flower stands behind our campus. Those that sell for P50 or so. In college, I also get her cake. The year I did summer OJT, I sent her a collection of CDs of piano instrumentals. And when I eventually got employed, I usually got her kitchen gadgets which she really liked.

My mother was a very appreciative and affectionate person. She'd hug me whenever I brought her anything. Even if it's just MacChicken sandwich takeouts. But well, all mothers are that way, I guess. You just get home in time before the heavy rain pours and they're thrilled. You just offer to do the dishes after dinner and they're happy. Mothers are easy to please that way. In fact, you just have to be. And you're loved.

There's a part of me that could never shrug off the feeling that I could've given her more while she was still around. Came home earlier. Took her to a vacation. Done more, said more.

But now the cards and CDs are dusting in a corner of a cabinet and the appliances are placed back in their boxes for storage. And today seems less special for me. Like last Christmas or New Year. All other occasions or long weekends. I try to cope with sleeping and the drone of television in the background.

Enough of that. Just please do me a favor and hug your mothers for me. Thanks.