July 26, 2003. The text came in at about 8:30 in the evening between bites of lechon kawali. “Unauthorised troop movements reported,” read the screen. While a text message is devoid of emotion and cannot convey urgency as emphatically as a human voice, it has its own peculiar tone which is just as effective.
I retrieved the bag I had just set down a few minutes earlier, and again slung it over my tired shoulders. As a reporter covering the police and military beat, the working day does not end when banks and offices close or even when the paper is put to bed. Troops, police forces, insurgents, criminals and in this case “rogue soldiers” don’t operate on a 9 to 5 schedule.
With the remaining lechon kawali and some rice packed into Tupperware, I headed back to Camp Aguinaldo. A soft wind swirled in Edsa’s emptying lanes as most people had already returned home, unable to hear the rumbles of restive soldiers trooping to the heart of Manila’s business district as they sighed into their pillows.
The military headquarters was beginning to tighten up when I arrived but was still allowing some vehicles in. The mood was tense and guarded as I neared the press office behind the bleachers where a few nights before, we had heard the camp’s base commander emotionally exhorting a group of soldiers to desist from any destabilising efforts. But the sombre feeling was broken when I entered the press room and was greeted by an almost festive atmosphere with regulars of the Defense Press Corps and colleagues covering the Crame beat whooping it up. “Wisegirl! Welcome to your first coup!” the veterans shouted gleefully.
Little by little, drowsy reporters wrenched from their sleep or gimmicks straggled into the press room in varying states of dishevelment and on the other extreme, stylishness. Anthony stumbled in with his hair still unbrushed, wearing wrinkled shorts and Islanders while Joy made her entrance in a dress and heels; the arrival of each new victim eliciting cheers and good-natured teasing from the rest of us who had already been corralled. By now, the press room had turned into a carnival of camera crews and print and broadcast journalists with its own burgeoning restiveness.
I squeezed into an empty space on the sofa next to Manong Cesar; a quiet, bespectacled man who had worked with the same tabloid for some 20 years and who often ghost-wrote articles for his daughter who worked at a rival newspaper. Soft-spoken, serious and the most senior among us, Manong Cesar did not join in the ribaldry. “I was here in ’89,” he said softly. “We had to run for cover when they started shelling the camp. A rocket landed just metres from the press office,” Manong Cesar said.
In 1989, I was a fourth grader waking up on holiday in the province to find my lolo sitting on my bed with a handheld radio pressed to his ear as he told my brothers and I that we would be staying with them indefinitely until things in Manila “settled down”. I remember my excitement at my suddenly extended vacation by the beach but also recall being worried by Lolo’s obviously distressed demeanour and wondered what he meant. When I heard the constant mention of a “coup”, I was perplexed at how such an innocuous one syllable word like a sound from the language of pigeons and babies could trigger such anxiety in the adults.
On old desktops lined against the wall, some reporters focused intensely on Text Twist or played war games, firing on tiny approaching enemies with bored strokes of their fingers while waiting for their editors to tell them that that they could return to their beds or parties. Others began writing their articles – templates of different versions of a coup quelled or a government toppled with blank spaces to be filled in later. Most continued to mingle around gossiping with each other or like me, smoking outside to watch fully armed soldiers march through the road between the press office and the auditorium, the sound of their boots in a perfect march rhythmically filling the cold night.
At about 11p.m., then AFP spokesman Lt. Col. Daniel Lucero entered the press room, informing the reporters that Camp Aguinaldo would soon be closing its gates as a “precautionary measure” and that access in or out of the military base would no longer be allowed. He added that anybody who wanted to leave should do so then. The announcement sliced through the babble and I could sense each reporter in the room withdraw into themselves as the potential gravity of the situation began to sink in. The moment of sobriety and reflection however was short-lived. Realising that the crew from a rival outfit had not yet arrived, a perky lady reporter from a TV station piped up. “So no one else can come in? When are you closing the gates?” she asked with a gleam in her eye, happier to think that her competitors would be pounding away outside Aguinaldo’s gates clamouring to get in than concerned about being trapped in a possible crossfire between government and rebel forces. Ah, reporters.
Shortly after, we were called into the Press Information Office next door to await a word from then Defense Chief Angelo Reyes. Reyes strutted in, dressed in his regular short-sleeved barong and feigning exaggerated bemusement at the pencil and camera wielding horde waiting for him, facetiously asked, “Why are you all still here?”
Appropriating Lucero’s desk, Reyes then cleared his throat and waited for the cameras to start rolling whereupon he launched into a speech about the military’s mandate and how government troops would remain faithful to the chain of command. “That’s what he said during Edsa Dos,” I heard Raffy mutter under his breath.
“There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing significant is happening. Everybody go home and get some rest,” shrugged Reyes as if the whole affair was just a terrible inconvenience.
“Sir, if nothing is happening, why are YOU still here?” Howie asked, his unassuming and almost innocent tone greatly contrasting Reyes’s bombastic attitude.
Reyes’s eyebrows raised, obviously offended at this quiet audacity. “I’m here because you’re still here and you asked me to speak to you,” the defense chief sputtered angrily. “Now go home!” We filed out of the office laughing at Reyes’s loss of composure. Nobody went home.
Suddenly, Joel, the DPC president who had been talking on his cell phone at a distance hurried back to the group. “It’s real. It’s happening. Soldiers with red arm bands are in Makati,” he said, his expression serious and sending us scrambling to our computers like a fighter pilots preparing to take off on an emergency mission.
In the early hours of July 27, some 300 soldiers now known as the Magdalo group descended onto the Oakwood hotel and Ayala malls, planting snipers on the roof deck and rigging mines around the premises, which their leaders would later claim were merely for pyrotechnic value. Accusing the government and military top brass of rampant corruption and complicity in a string of Davao bombings, the group led by five charismatic junior officers, called for the resignations of administration and military leaders. After negotiations, the coup/uprising/mutiny/rebellion was ended without bloodshed and the soldiers were driven back to barracks 18 hours after their “peaceful exercise” began.
“Ang bading naman ng coup na ito,” Joel said, shaking his head in disgust.
After filing my last story and clearing with the desk, I again relaxed on the sofa but resisted the temptation to fall into a deep slumber as Karl and Francis were laughingly taking pictures of other reporters who had succumbed to fatigue, their mouths hanging open as if gasping for breath after the marathon. I reached into my bag to pull out my neglected Tupperware and sighed. I had forgotten to pack utensils.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Feminism's Relevance in the Philippines
The regard for women and those with womanly qualities as sources of creation and creativity in pre-colonial Philippines and the absence of misogynist concepts in Philippine languages before the intrusion of foreign tongues indicates a culture that originally valued and honoured the feminine. The colonial experience however squashed woman’s role with a patriarchal agenda that not only relegated women to the bottom rung of its hierarchy but also began to redefine and modify her character, her usefulness, her worth. Even as the colonial masters have long sailed away, women remain oppressed and marginalised – an indication of a culture that is still moored in polluted waters. Feminism, as an eye and tool to catch and contest the machinations of patriarchy that intentionally or unintentionally subjugates the feminine is not merely relevant but imperative to ensure that women’s voices and stories will be heard and that women can re-define themselves on their own terms.
Dr. Marjorie M. Evasco shows how women are raising their voices through poetry to more authentically convey their experiences while Dr. Edna Zapanta-Manlapaz describes how the Philippines’ women’s movement through the “politization of women’s writings” has moved beyond upper-class concerns to sing for a greater population of previously silenced women – a chorus against oppressive patriarchal structures and more truly “songs” of themselves. Meantime, Dr. Lilia Q. Santiago examines the ways in which the so-called proper and ideal Filipina was constructed; how the mystical and intuitive babaylan was supplanted by the docile Maria Clara, particularly through male dominated readings and approaches in Philippine literature.
With Philippine literature an expression of Philippine culture and also a tool of social transformation, feminist writings and feminist readings must thus be vigilant defenders against male-biased appropriations of their meanings and messages, while simultaneously leading efforts to introduce alternative modes of perceiving the world beyond patriarchal preoccupations with power and supremacy and western binary models.
However, while feminism speaks from the margins, its objective is not so concerned with usurping the male at the centre. To replace one form of imperialism with yet another, even if helmed by women is not truly a liberating project. Instead, it is just the re-enactment of a tired story with new players. While patriarchy is founded on dominance, feminism is centred in balance and will be indispensable in correcting the unnatural one-sidedness in the country’s social, political, economic and cultural milieu.
Dr. Marjorie M. Evasco shows how women are raising their voices through poetry to more authentically convey their experiences while Dr. Edna Zapanta-Manlapaz describes how the Philippines’ women’s movement through the “politization of women’s writings” has moved beyond upper-class concerns to sing for a greater population of previously silenced women – a chorus against oppressive patriarchal structures and more truly “songs” of themselves. Meantime, Dr. Lilia Q. Santiago examines the ways in which the so-called proper and ideal Filipina was constructed; how the mystical and intuitive babaylan was supplanted by the docile Maria Clara, particularly through male dominated readings and approaches in Philippine literature.
With Philippine literature an expression of Philippine culture and also a tool of social transformation, feminist writings and feminist readings must thus be vigilant defenders against male-biased appropriations of their meanings and messages, while simultaneously leading efforts to introduce alternative modes of perceiving the world beyond patriarchal preoccupations with power and supremacy and western binary models.
However, while feminism speaks from the margins, its objective is not so concerned with usurping the male at the centre. To replace one form of imperialism with yet another, even if helmed by women is not truly a liberating project. Instead, it is just the re-enactment of a tired story with new players. While patriarchy is founded on dominance, feminism is centred in balance and will be indispensable in correcting the unnatural one-sidedness in the country’s social, political, economic and cultural milieu.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Taxi Drivers I Have Met 2
Met another cool taxi driver named Willy this evening. When I got into his cab, he commented on my beanie and I told him that my mom gave it to me for Christmas and that I sometimes don't like to brush my hair. He laughed and told me that another girl he drove left her bonnet in his vehicle and he said I could have it. It's dark grey with a short lid. He also gave me some tips on how to quit smoking. Thanks Willy and sorry, unknown beanie-less girl.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Ateneo accident
A grade 4 pupil was killed when he was pinned between two cars at the Ateneo campus Wednesday afternoon. His name was Amiel.
From what I have gathered, the accident occured after dismissal and students were being picked up by parents, drivers and yayas. Amiel was on his way to his car with his yaya and siblings when suddenly, a van lurched foward, knocking the boy down. The 65-year old yaya, Tata Suarez, managed to push the other children out of the way but was unable to reach Amiel in time. She also sustained serious injuries. The driver of the van was a mother, Ma. Theresa Torres who was moving the vehicle after she had instructed her driver to look for her own child. Amiel's driver and 13 year old brother pulled the boy from under the vehicle. In an interview, the boy's driver said he shouted for help but nobody came to their aid, not even the Ateneo security guards. Another parent (some reports identify her as Mrs. Torres herself) helped bring Amiel to the nearest hospital where he was declared dead on arrival with head wounds. His last words were "kuya".
My heart goes out to the family of Amiel and Mrs. Torres. I know it will be easy to demonize Mrs. Torres but this is an accident nobody wanted to happen.
From what I have gathered, the accident occured after dismissal and students were being picked up by parents, drivers and yayas. Amiel was on his way to his car with his yaya and siblings when suddenly, a van lurched foward, knocking the boy down. The 65-year old yaya, Tata Suarez, managed to push the other children out of the way but was unable to reach Amiel in time. She also sustained serious injuries. The driver of the van was a mother, Ma. Theresa Torres who was moving the vehicle after she had instructed her driver to look for her own child. Amiel's driver and 13 year old brother pulled the boy from under the vehicle. In an interview, the boy's driver said he shouted for help but nobody came to their aid, not even the Ateneo security guards. Another parent (some reports identify her as Mrs. Torres herself) helped bring Amiel to the nearest hospital where he was declared dead on arrival with head wounds. His last words were "kuya".
My heart goes out to the family of Amiel and Mrs. Torres. I know it will be easy to demonize Mrs. Torres but this is an accident nobody wanted to happen.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sign of the Times
Read a report today about an ex-convict in Taiwan who is pleading with police authorties to send him back to jail while there looks to be no end to the financial crisis. Why not? If he can be assured of regular meals and a place to lay his head, something that is uncertain with a free life these days. The police denied his request but bought him a box lunch.
The scenario may seem amusing but is also quite disturbing. It is however not the most extreme measure being taken by people as they lose their jobs, savings and pensions. One too many stories of fathers killing themselves and their families because they could no longer provide for them have plagued headlines recently. If people can consider that option, what would keep them from ensuring that they do go to jail if it is their last hope to eat? It's a bit frightening.
There are obviously wide canyons between developed and developing countries, but I think the prison system is a curious aspect. I'm sure convicts in "first world" prisons are probably better fed and accommodated than a working class free person somewhere else. What's freedom if you can't eat?
The scenario may seem amusing but is also quite disturbing. It is however not the most extreme measure being taken by people as they lose their jobs, savings and pensions. One too many stories of fathers killing themselves and their families because they could no longer provide for them have plagued headlines recently. If people can consider that option, what would keep them from ensuring that they do go to jail if it is their last hope to eat? It's a bit frightening.
There are obviously wide canyons between developed and developing countries, but I think the prison system is a curious aspect. I'm sure convicts in "first world" prisons are probably better fed and accommodated than a working class free person somewhere else. What's freedom if you can't eat?
Monday, February 23, 2009
shut up already
Have just read an editorial in the Inquirer regarding the right of reply bill. I'm so tired of media arguing a "chilling factor" and obstruction of freedom of the press whenever any attempts are made to rein them in.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Teary Eyed Over Sports
Read a story about a high school basketball game this morning. The home team's captain's mother had passed away on the day of a big game with a rival school. The captain came late for the game and requested to suit up, wanting to forget his grief but since he was not on the roster for that game, it would have meant awarding two technical foul shots to the opposing team in a close game. The opposing team wanted to waive the shots considering the situation but the referees insisted that they take them. So one player volunteered to take the shots, intentionally missing both, allowing the bereaved captain to join his teammates without any penalty.
I remember reading another story of a college women's softball game where a senior playing her last game hit her first career homerun. Rounding the bases though, her knee gave in and she crumpled in pain on the field. The closest opposing player came up to her and together with a rival player, helped the injured player officially score her homerun by carrying her to the remaining bases and gently lowering her so she could touch each base with her foot.
I don't know why, but stories of sportsmanship always make me tearyeyed.
I remember reading another story of a college women's softball game where a senior playing her last game hit her first career homerun. Rounding the bases though, her knee gave in and she crumpled in pain on the field. The closest opposing player came up to her and together with a rival player, helped the injured player officially score her homerun by carrying her to the remaining bases and gently lowering her so she could touch each base with her foot.
I don't know why, but stories of sportsmanship always make me tearyeyed.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
On Night Terrors
My room in our old house in Paranaque was close to the street so I was not initially bothered when a mechanical humming noise like a motor revving broke the night's silence. The sound continued for a few minutes before things took an ominous turn. The revving sound suddenly mutated into maniacal laughter, and it seemed directed at me. I struggled to get out of bed but found that I was paralysed. I could not even scream. Even as I mustered all my strength to move just a toe or let out a small cry - I could not. Thankfully after a few minutes, I was suddenly released and I ran from my bed to the door. Though it was dark, I could discern in the corner the silhouette of a large figure. I grabbed the doorknob but could not turn it. A hot breath moved closer to me, and I felt a weight cup my hand. I think I was crying from fear by then. I was able to open the door and was welcomed by pitch black. Knowing that my mom's room was just a few feet down, I traced my hand against the wall knowing that it would eventually lead me to safety. But the wall kept going and going... and then I woke up.
From 2003 to 2005, I suffered from night terrors. Bangnungots. It got so bad that when I finally took a vacation, I set my clock on snooze mode throughout the entire night, sleeping in 10 minute intervals to ensure that I did not drift into a deep and dangerous sleep. I knew when it would occur. My body would begin to tingle, and I would panic and shake myself to stay awake. It was as if my body would fall asleep while my mind was still lucid and so I was trapped in a dream state with all my senses and faculties intact.
The first time it happened was in an apartment during my brother's wake. Sleeping on a cot next to my mom, I heard a buzzing sound and then it felt as if the air in the room popped. Suddenly, the darkness was filled with a crowd of mixed presences. I felt as if they noticed me and I literally heard a rushing sound and a weight on myself such that I could no longer breathe.
What was strange was that I was not transplanted into a dream-like world. My environment remained the same, mulling the boundary between reality and illusion. At least if I had seen a unicorn or something, I could have known that I was really asleep. But I never knew if I was awake or not.
I remember one time, it had already become so common that when I felt the tingling sensation begin to invade, I mechanically struggled and broke its power and would run to the door. But this time, it seemed that I was waking up in my dream and thinking that I was awake when I really wasn't. I remember breaking free and running to the door and passing the mirror. I had no reflection. Instead of being frightened though, I merely sighed. "&#$%. I'm still asleep," I muttered to myself and wearily walked back to my bed to try to wake up again.
From 2003 to 2005, I suffered from night terrors. Bangnungots. It got so bad that when I finally took a vacation, I set my clock on snooze mode throughout the entire night, sleeping in 10 minute intervals to ensure that I did not drift into a deep and dangerous sleep. I knew when it would occur. My body would begin to tingle, and I would panic and shake myself to stay awake. It was as if my body would fall asleep while my mind was still lucid and so I was trapped in a dream state with all my senses and faculties intact.
The first time it happened was in an apartment during my brother's wake. Sleeping on a cot next to my mom, I heard a buzzing sound and then it felt as if the air in the room popped. Suddenly, the darkness was filled with a crowd of mixed presences. I felt as if they noticed me and I literally heard a rushing sound and a weight on myself such that I could no longer breathe.
What was strange was that I was not transplanted into a dream-like world. My environment remained the same, mulling the boundary between reality and illusion. At least if I had seen a unicorn or something, I could have known that I was really asleep. But I never knew if I was awake or not.
I remember one time, it had already become so common that when I felt the tingling sensation begin to invade, I mechanically struggled and broke its power and would run to the door. But this time, it seemed that I was waking up in my dream and thinking that I was awake when I really wasn't. I remember breaking free and running to the door and passing the mirror. I had no reflection. Instead of being frightened though, I merely sighed. "&#$%. I'm still asleep," I muttered to myself and wearily walked back to my bed to try to wake up again.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
On "Taming Waves"
I remember the first wave I caught on my own. Was on a 7'6 NSP. White deck with orange rails and a flowery design. Surf Betty. There were just a few people. Jojo and I, and two teenage boys trying to learn on their own. Lying prone on the board and facing the shore, I heard Jojo's instructions to get ready. Without looking back at the approaching wave, I began to paddle - punching my arms into the water and pulling back as hard as I could. I could hear the wave's roar getting louder as it came closer. "Tayo! Tayo!" I popped up and wobbily rode the wave to the shore. When I turned to paddle back to the lineup, there was Jojo, chest deep in water, grinning and shrugging. "I didn't push you," he said, waving his hands to indicate "wala".
I hear people talk about surfing and "taming the waves." A couple of days ago, I caught my biggest wave so far. Sitting on my board, I saw it approaching, imposing and fast. "Son of a..." I gasped. I turned the board and began to desperately paddle. Panic and fear filled me but I tried to carve out a small space to focus and believe I could catch the wave. I felt it pick me up and I scrambled to my feet. Riding down the face, I kept low so as not to pearl and when I felt it stall, I turned to the left and again began to descend... I heard and saw nothing but the wave. When the ride was over and I tumbled into the water, I felt more relieved to be alive than stoked. As I recuperated near the shore, Christian, one of the locals, paddled up. "Your board's going to break in these conditions," he told me, half-warning, half-encouragement.
I don't think you tame waves. You just hitch a ride on them like an insect on the head of a charging elephant.
I hear people talk about surfing and "taming the waves." A couple of days ago, I caught my biggest wave so far. Sitting on my board, I saw it approaching, imposing and fast. "Son of a..." I gasped. I turned the board and began to desperately paddle. Panic and fear filled me but I tried to carve out a small space to focus and believe I could catch the wave. I felt it pick me up and I scrambled to my feet. Riding down the face, I kept low so as not to pearl and when I felt it stall, I turned to the left and again began to descend... I heard and saw nothing but the wave. When the ride was over and I tumbled into the water, I felt more relieved to be alive than stoked. As I recuperated near the shore, Christian, one of the locals, paddled up. "Your board's going to break in these conditions," he told me, half-warning, half-encouragement.
I don't think you tame waves. You just hitch a ride on them like an insect on the head of a charging elephant.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Notes of An Interview with Juan S.P. Hidalgo 1
Last week, I had an opportunity to interview Juan S.P. Hidalgo - considered a mentor to many writers for his 30 plus year tenure as editor of Bannawag and as founder of GUMIL. I feel like anything I write will not do him justice so I would just like to take this opportunity to jot down some preliminary notes about the interview.
I arrived a little early for the 2:00 interview at his home in UP and was trying to look inconspicious as I walked up and down his street carrying a big red box of Red Ribbon ensaymadas. A few minutes before 2, as I was walking past his gate for the third time, a man in a sando and khaki shorts watering his plants called my attention with a simple raise of his eyebrows.
"I'm looking for Mr. Hidalgo," I called out, whereupon he smiled, pointed his thumbs at himself and waved me over to the gate. I was then led by Linda to the backyard where I sat, taking notes of the writer's home. There were about ten plastic chairs arranged in a circle, with a round table at the far end. On the table was an ashtray, a pack of Marlboro reds, Guitar matches and scattered papers with handwritten notes.
Mr. Hidalgo followed after a few minutes and we shook hands. He asked if I spoke the language of the Maharlikas and I stuttered, unsure if he meant Tagalog or Ilokano. He invited me to read a screenplay that he was editing (a translation of one of his works into Tagalog) while he took a shower. I scanned the neatly typed pages, specifically looking for his handwritten notes but only found a few corrections including one that crossed out the typewritten word "dinengdeng" and replaced it with "pinakbet" in a printed blue scrawl.
I spoke for a few minutes with his daughter Marie Sol and her husband Dexter, a film director before Mr. Hidalgo returned wearing a brown plaid polo, black plants and sandals.
Our interview was scheduled for three hours but stretched to seven such that we continued our conversation (or more aptly monologue) by candlelight. I still have three 90 minute tapes to transcribe.
I arrived a little early for the 2:00 interview at his home in UP and was trying to look inconspicious as I walked up and down his street carrying a big red box of Red Ribbon ensaymadas. A few minutes before 2, as I was walking past his gate for the third time, a man in a sando and khaki shorts watering his plants called my attention with a simple raise of his eyebrows.
"I'm looking for Mr. Hidalgo," I called out, whereupon he smiled, pointed his thumbs at himself and waved me over to the gate. I was then led by Linda to the backyard where I sat, taking notes of the writer's home. There were about ten plastic chairs arranged in a circle, with a round table at the far end. On the table was an ashtray, a pack of Marlboro reds, Guitar matches and scattered papers with handwritten notes.
Mr. Hidalgo followed after a few minutes and we shook hands. He asked if I spoke the language of the Maharlikas and I stuttered, unsure if he meant Tagalog or Ilokano. He invited me to read a screenplay that he was editing (a translation of one of his works into Tagalog) while he took a shower. I scanned the neatly typed pages, specifically looking for his handwritten notes but only found a few corrections including one that crossed out the typewritten word "dinengdeng" and replaced it with "pinakbet" in a printed blue scrawl.
I spoke for a few minutes with his daughter Marie Sol and her husband Dexter, a film director before Mr. Hidalgo returned wearing a brown plaid polo, black plants and sandals.
Our interview was scheduled for three hours but stretched to seven such that we continued our conversation (or more aptly monologue) by candlelight. I still have three 90 minute tapes to transcribe.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Ode to Sisig
Here's a poem I wrote in a TESOL class a couple of years ago:
For lunch I always eat sisig.
It's yummy and comes from a pig.
At lunch I always go to 7-11.
But their sisig is made out of chicken.
Yeah, I know, it needs a little work before I submit it to the Palancas...
For lunch I always eat sisig.
It's yummy and comes from a pig.
At lunch I always go to 7-11.
But their sisig is made out of chicken.
Yeah, I know, it needs a little work before I submit it to the Palancas...
Saturday, February 14, 2009
On Visiting the National Library for the First Time
I went to the National Library a couple of days ago for the first time. Which might actually be a shameful confession since I am a Literature graduate and all. I took the LRT to Carriedo and then took a jeep to Kalaw but got off too early so ended up having to walk even farther than if I had just gotten down at UN avenue.
I admit I was a little excited, giddy at the thought of finally visiting the library and exploring its books but after a long walk and then being turned away to get a 1x1 pic for the library card, I was a little put off. After all the requirements had been completed, I finally got to go upstairs and lose myself in its annals... meh. Not very inspiring.
You're only allowed to look for two books at a time and have to pass some sort of hierarchy of grumpy librarians who will check your call numbers before they let you near the shelves. I'd normally root for librarians but there's nothing like being treated like a high schooler to dampen any scholastic zeal, I think.
But then again, maybe I'm not giving it a chance, maybe my expectations were too high. We'll see how next time goes.
Oh by the way, happy singles awareness day.
I admit I was a little excited, giddy at the thought of finally visiting the library and exploring its books but after a long walk and then being turned away to get a 1x1 pic for the library card, I was a little put off. After all the requirements had been completed, I finally got to go upstairs and lose myself in its annals... meh. Not very inspiring.
You're only allowed to look for two books at a time and have to pass some sort of hierarchy of grumpy librarians who will check your call numbers before they let you near the shelves. I'd normally root for librarians but there's nothing like being treated like a high schooler to dampen any scholastic zeal, I think.
But then again, maybe I'm not giving it a chance, maybe my expectations were too high. We'll see how next time goes.
Oh by the way, happy singles awareness day.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Taxi Drivers I Have Met 1
Certain taxi drivers really get my goat. Some are interesting and friendly while I just want to smash others in the face. I hate it when they're selective and ask you where you're going before they let you in. I get back at them by leaving the taxi door wide open and walking away when they reject me. I heard one guy cursing loudly once when I did that as he leaned over to try and close the door. Suck it.
I also hate it when they start making comments like "Naku, traffic. Mauubos gas ko dito." Or "Naku, ang layo. Walang pasahero pagbalik." A few nights ago, I was in a really bad mood and just told the driver to let me out if it was such a hassle for him. "Ay, malapit na tayo eh." Frack.
Just venting but there are cool taxi drivers like Johntrey who I've actually ridden with twice. The first time, we had a good conversation as he told me that he was trying to fix his his papers to go to Canada. A couple of days later I was flagging down a taxi when another driver sped up in front, veered in front of him and waved at me. And there was Johntrey smiling and telling me to get in. Cool guy.
I also hate it when they start making comments like "Naku, traffic. Mauubos gas ko dito." Or "Naku, ang layo. Walang pasahero pagbalik." A few nights ago, I was in a really bad mood and just told the driver to let me out if it was such a hassle for him. "Ay, malapit na tayo eh." Frack.
Just venting but there are cool taxi drivers like Johntrey who I've actually ridden with twice. The first time, we had a good conversation as he told me that he was trying to fix his his papers to go to Canada. A couple of days later I was flagging down a taxi when another driver sped up in front, veered in front of him and waved at me. And there was Johntrey smiling and telling me to get in. Cool guy.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Favourite Passage 1
"For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, men and things, one must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the little flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that are still unexplained, to parents whom one had to hurt when they brought one some joy and one did not grasp it (it was a joy for someone else); to childhood illnesses that so strangely begin with such a number of profound and grave transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars-and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this. One must have memories of many nights of love, none of which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor, and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again. But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises. And still it is not yet enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again. For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not till they have turned to blood within us, to glance and gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves-not till then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them."
Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
Monday, February 9, 2009
Reactions On A Talk
A few days ago, we attended a talk on the need for the vernacular to be used as the primary mode of instruction for young children. There were two things that struck me about the talk.
First was the 10 minute powerpoint invocation. Really?
Second of course was the lecture itself, but my interest is not so much in the pedagogical aspects as its postcolonial/neocolonial implications. The talk was given by a Caucasian lady who grew up in Ifugao and is versed in its traditions, culture and language. She has spent the larger part of her career as an MLE advocate in a country where the two national languages are Pilipino and English. So basically, here's a white lady (not the ghost species) addressing a Filipino audience about an educational system which insists on ramming Pilipino and English down students' throats at the expense of their own mother tounge. Is there something wrong with this picture?
In my research for our regional literature presentation, one of the main concerns is the "genocide" of regional literature and the vernacular by the "Tagalog-ization" perpetuated by Manila, or the center. The oppressed has become the oppressor. And the former oppressor now speaks for the other oppressed. Would that be right?
When I was reading Ashcroft, I realised that it was difficult to see American literature as postcolonial in response to British rule. Especially as a Filipino who knows them as a former coloniser. Perhaps it is difficult for us to see ourselves as oppressors as well. Which I think opens a lot of questions regarding that character that has been hit, and now hits elsewhere...
I still have to think about this.
First was the 10 minute powerpoint invocation. Really?
Second of course was the lecture itself, but my interest is not so much in the pedagogical aspects as its postcolonial/neocolonial implications. The talk was given by a Caucasian lady who grew up in Ifugao and is versed in its traditions, culture and language. She has spent the larger part of her career as an MLE advocate in a country where the two national languages are Pilipino and English. So basically, here's a white lady (not the ghost species) addressing a Filipino audience about an educational system which insists on ramming Pilipino and English down students' throats at the expense of their own mother tounge. Is there something wrong with this picture?
In my research for our regional literature presentation, one of the main concerns is the "genocide" of regional literature and the vernacular by the "Tagalog-ization" perpetuated by Manila, or the center. The oppressed has become the oppressor. And the former oppressor now speaks for the other oppressed. Would that be right?
When I was reading Ashcroft, I realised that it was difficult to see American literature as postcolonial in response to British rule. Especially as a Filipino who knows them as a former coloniser. Perhaps it is difficult for us to see ourselves as oppressors as well. Which I think opens a lot of questions regarding that character that has been hit, and now hits elsewhere...
I still have to think about this.
The Radical Potential in Four Essays
The writing of any literature in English or the coloniser’s tongue risks perpetuating the native’s subjugation even as they attempt to assert their own identity. In their essays, four Filipino scholars investigate the ways Philippine literature can and does find its voice amid the tools of oppression, foreign and homegrown.
In their respective essays, Abad and Cruz examine how writing and reading are not only subversive acts but assertive acts as well. In his essay, A Habit of Shores, Abad suggests that the medium a poet uses is not as important as how he “reinvents the language”. Thus, the poet’s use of english should not be seen as a betrayal of the native or an acquiescence to the conqueror. Just as the colonisers scanned vistas on the horizon to claim as their own and upon which to leave their imprints, so must the poet discover and “colonise” language to his own specific ends. For Abad, language is not an embroidered costume the poet dons whether ill-fitting or not, but merely the raw material he uses to weave an original creation. By challenging the ownership of language, Abad makes english fair game for Filipino poets to speak for themselves.
While Abad focuses on the poet’s position in subverting language, Cruz hones in on the critic’s role in liberating Philippine literature from the “prison” of Western paradigms. Suggesting that Western literary theory is stunted due to its limited exposure to (and confidence in) other modes of thought and perceiving the world, Cruz laments the application of a myopic Eurocentric lens to the wild, tricky landscape of Philippine literature, especially by Filipino eyes. For a Filipino critic to see its own creations through Western eyes is not only inappropriate but indicative of a deeply penetrated subjugation which spoils and bankrupts a text. Through his lectures, Cruz warns against being wholly impressed with Western frameworks with the shocking suggestion that the native must think for themselves.
While Abad and Cruz challenge the residue of the American regime, Ramon Ileto in Pasyon and Revolution examines how a tool to encourage submission to Spanish rule instead excited the native to revolution. Informed by folk traditions and cultural values, the natives extracted their own meaning from a religious and colonial apparatus meant to instil subservience. Where the Pasyon commanded them to “sit”, the native found the call to rise and fight. Ileto’s description of the native’s exchange with the Pasyon demonstrates that in fact, although forgotten, the native can think for themselves.
Meanwhile, Legasto looks at how oppression has taken new shape in the form of State imposed notions of identity and nation from Marcos to Ramos who disseminated their own brands of Filipino-ness to bolster support for their administrations. Here, the oppressor is no easily identifiable white face but a compatriot, a native son who usurps the quest for a final defining Filipino identity for his narrow interests. For Legasto though, “there is no homogenous Filipino identity or nation. Instead, Filipino-ness might best be understood through Philippine culture and that by recognising and accepting these differences, a ‘negotiated unity’ might be brokered in the interest of creating a notion of Filipino-hood.” As these differences are articulated in the country’s culture or materials outside of the official line, literature again comes into play as a mode and vehicle of subversion and finding one’s voice. Her contention meantime of the lack of a homogenous Filipino identity or nation upsets attempts of potential tyrants to claim to speak for all Filipinos.
Through their essays, our four scholars show that the native has a mind and a voice, or rather voices, which creatively and radically subvert dominant power structures. From Spanish colonisation to the dilemma of writing in english to the new faces of a familiar oppression, those voices will be heard.
In their respective essays, Abad and Cruz examine how writing and reading are not only subversive acts but assertive acts as well. In his essay, A Habit of Shores, Abad suggests that the medium a poet uses is not as important as how he “reinvents the language”. Thus, the poet’s use of english should not be seen as a betrayal of the native or an acquiescence to the conqueror. Just as the colonisers scanned vistas on the horizon to claim as their own and upon which to leave their imprints, so must the poet discover and “colonise” language to his own specific ends. For Abad, language is not an embroidered costume the poet dons whether ill-fitting or not, but merely the raw material he uses to weave an original creation. By challenging the ownership of language, Abad makes english fair game for Filipino poets to speak for themselves.
While Abad focuses on the poet’s position in subverting language, Cruz hones in on the critic’s role in liberating Philippine literature from the “prison” of Western paradigms. Suggesting that Western literary theory is stunted due to its limited exposure to (and confidence in) other modes of thought and perceiving the world, Cruz laments the application of a myopic Eurocentric lens to the wild, tricky landscape of Philippine literature, especially by Filipino eyes. For a Filipino critic to see its own creations through Western eyes is not only inappropriate but indicative of a deeply penetrated subjugation which spoils and bankrupts a text. Through his lectures, Cruz warns against being wholly impressed with Western frameworks with the shocking suggestion that the native must think for themselves.
While Abad and Cruz challenge the residue of the American regime, Ramon Ileto in Pasyon and Revolution examines how a tool to encourage submission to Spanish rule instead excited the native to revolution. Informed by folk traditions and cultural values, the natives extracted their own meaning from a religious and colonial apparatus meant to instil subservience. Where the Pasyon commanded them to “sit”, the native found the call to rise and fight. Ileto’s description of the native’s exchange with the Pasyon demonstrates that in fact, although forgotten, the native can think for themselves.
Meanwhile, Legasto looks at how oppression has taken new shape in the form of State imposed notions of identity and nation from Marcos to Ramos who disseminated their own brands of Filipino-ness to bolster support for their administrations. Here, the oppressor is no easily identifiable white face but a compatriot, a native son who usurps the quest for a final defining Filipino identity for his narrow interests. For Legasto though, “there is no homogenous Filipino identity or nation. Instead, Filipino-ness might best be understood through Philippine culture and that by recognising and accepting these differences, a ‘negotiated unity’ might be brokered in the interest of creating a notion of Filipino-hood.” As these differences are articulated in the country’s culture or materials outside of the official line, literature again comes into play as a mode and vehicle of subversion and finding one’s voice. Her contention meantime of the lack of a homogenous Filipino identity or nation upsets attempts of potential tyrants to claim to speak for all Filipinos.
Through their essays, our four scholars show that the native has a mind and a voice, or rather voices, which creatively and radically subvert dominant power structures. From Spanish colonisation to the dilemma of writing in english to the new faces of a familiar oppression, those voices will be heard.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
sleep like love
sleep like love eludes me tonight
and if sleep like love holds the promise of a sigh
then unlucky me and my cursed eye
that beholds too much and that none beholds
and light is wary to grant respite.
sleep like love eludes me tonight
and if sleep like love holds the promise of your kiss
then deprived am i of this simple bliss
that deepens depths to fathoms fathomless
and whose silence soothes my wakefulness.
and if sleep like love holds the promise of a sigh
then unlucky me and my cursed eye
that beholds too much and that none beholds
and light is wary to grant respite.
sleep like love eludes me tonight
and if sleep like love holds the promise of your kiss
then deprived am i of this simple bliss
that deepens depths to fathoms fathomless
and whose silence soothes my wakefulness.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
In the Name of the Father, the Mother...
Every evening, my late stepfather would kneel down in front of an altar bearing the limang kadeusan, raise his right hand and recite an orasyon, beginning...
Sa pangalan ng Deus Ama, Deus Ina, Deus Anac, Deus Espiritu Santong Wagas; Deus ubod utak Karunungan ang Kalangkap sa dilim at buong liwanag.
(In the name of the Father, the Mother, the Son, the Holy Spirit; God source of all knowlege and wisdom that encompases light and darkness.)
It is only recently that I learned that he was a member of the Lapiang Malaya, who we had read about in our Lithis class, and that he had evaded a raid on their Pasay safehouse with the help of an amulet that reportedly kept him invisible even as policemen combed through the house for days. Supposedly a favorite of Valentin de los Santos, my stepfather would be assigned to buy lunch for the followers with just enough money for one jueteng bet and a winning combination chosen by the leader. My mom tells me the story with a laugh, remembering her own initiation into the group - an approval signaled by the appearance of flowing water in a lightbulb in a nondescript house in Sta. Ana.
She recites for me their version of the Sign of the Cross, and I'm struck by how beautiful and wise it is compared to the Roman Catholic Church's with its acknowledgment and honoring of the Mother and forces of light and darkness.
Sa pangalan ng Deus Ama, Deus Ina, Deus Anac, Deus Espiritu Santong Wagas; Deus ubod utak Karunungan ang Kalangkap sa dilim at buong liwanag.
(In the name of the Father, the Mother, the Son, the Holy Spirit; God source of all knowlege and wisdom that encompases light and darkness.)
It is only recently that I learned that he was a member of the Lapiang Malaya, who we had read about in our Lithis class, and that he had evaded a raid on their Pasay safehouse with the help of an amulet that reportedly kept him invisible even as policemen combed through the house for days. Supposedly a favorite of Valentin de los Santos, my stepfather would be assigned to buy lunch for the followers with just enough money for one jueteng bet and a winning combination chosen by the leader. My mom tells me the story with a laugh, remembering her own initiation into the group - an approval signaled by the appearance of flowing water in a lightbulb in a nondescript house in Sta. Ana.
She recites for me their version of the Sign of the Cross, and I'm struck by how beautiful and wise it is compared to the Roman Catholic Church's with its acknowledgment and honoring of the Mother and forces of light and darkness.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Remembering the Wowowee Stampede or Fuck You ABS CBN
Three years ago, I was bedspacing somewhere in Ortigas. I woke up one morning and walked to the carinderia next door for breakfast. To my surprise, jeepneys were plying the street, their loudness incongruous with the relatively quiet neighbourhood which saw mostly pedestrians and lost vehicles. Someone commented that they had been rerouted. When I turned my attention to the television sitting above the trays of cold hotdogs and galunggong , I learned that just a few blocks down at the Ultra, something had happened.
Three years later, survivors and relatives of victims of the Wowowee stampede remembered the incident with candles and prayers at the gates where 73 people were crushed to death.
Today, the Inquirer ran a story on the anniversary, noting that the Pasig RTC has dismissed the charges against the ABS-CBN top brass. ABS-CBN News Online meantime had no mention about the anniversary but did have some pictures of Willie Revillame and the Wowowee gang cavorting in Dubai on their first leg of a world tour. Very classy.
Three years later, survivors and relatives of victims of the Wowowee stampede remembered the incident with candles and prayers at the gates where 73 people were crushed to death.
Today, the Inquirer ran a story on the anniversary, noting that the Pasig RTC has dismissed the charges against the ABS-CBN top brass. ABS-CBN News Online meantime had no mention about the anniversary but did have some pictures of Willie Revillame and the Wowowee gang cavorting in Dubai on their first leg of a world tour. Very classy.
Detoxifying
I have been reading some classmates' blogs and can identify with their struggles to make a living out of writing. There is that gnawing feeling that you are on the verge of selling out or doing a disservice to your craft by wielding the pen as a renegade for hire. You learn how to write by template to suit the bubbly superficial temper of most magazines or the narrow requirements of newspapers.
There comes a point when you feel you can't write anymore. You don't want to write anymore because you know everything you write is crap. You hesitate and cringe at calling yourself a writer because you feel more like a monkey at a keyboard. And this is not what you had in mind or heart.
You feel a need to detoxify. You don't just want to make a living out of writing. You want to make a writing out of living.
There comes a point when you feel you can't write anymore. You don't want to write anymore because you know everything you write is crap. You hesitate and cringe at calling yourself a writer because you feel more like a monkey at a keyboard. And this is not what you had in mind or heart.
You feel a need to detoxify. You don't just want to make a living out of writing. You want to make a writing out of living.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Looking down at a dog looking up at the Buddha
Although, I'm not much of a poet, I have an experience I'd like to try to explore through that form.
A couple of days ago, as I was studying (nax!), I leaned back to take a break and caught sight of my dog lying happily by my feet. Watching reclining dogs (especially sleeping puppies) relaxes me. I watched Chelsea for while before I realised her eyes were gazing up at a faded green stone Buddha my mom bought in Bangkal.
Looking down at a dog looking up at the Buddha. Who's the really evolved one again?
A couple of days ago, as I was studying (nax!), I leaned back to take a break and caught sight of my dog lying happily by my feet. Watching reclining dogs (especially sleeping puppies) relaxes me. I watched Chelsea for while before I realised her eyes were gazing up at a faded green stone Buddha my mom bought in Bangkal.
Looking down at a dog looking up at the Buddha. Who's the really evolved one again?
Monday, February 2, 2009
Note to Self 1
When opening freshly popped bag of Caramel Apple popcorn, keep steam away from eyes. Combination is like pepperspray.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
A Letter to Mr. Arturo Perez-Reverte
Dear Mr. Perez Reverte,
First an introduction. I am a reader from the Philippines who enjoys your work and the worlds you create and convey. I am also an aspiring writer and like yourself (but to a much less notable degree), share a background in journalism.
With a knowledge of your career before fiction, some understanding of the journalistic mind and curiosity about the creative process, it was with immense interest that I read your novel, The Painter of Battles, and with some hesitation but great anticipation that I write you to pick your brain now.
In particular I am interested in your views on the act (or non-act?) of observing. In your novel, Faulques is a photographer who becomes a painter with an obsession to neatly define the nature of war or the rules of chaos. In reality, you are a war correspondent who has become a writer who in this novel depicts the nature of war and its effect on participants and observers (I apologise for my simplistic breakdown).
That you end the book with Markovic abandoning his initial goal of killing Faulques by implying that the latter is already dead inside suggests the dehumanisation of the observer. Is this the inevitable end for artists trying to make sense of the horrors of war through the instruments of their craft? Or is it a warning against obsession? If as Markovic says, "photographing people is the same as raping them", can any observer of war emerge innocent?
From behind the photographer' s camera, the painter's brushes, the journalist's recorder and the writer's pen; the observer's eye is passive but not unaffected. To be completely unaffected I think would be complete dehumanisation without even going through the process. However, in addition to dealing with the experience of war or seeing a war as a human being, the peculiar species that is the artist must also go through the creative struggle to process and express what s/he has seen – an experience that is no less tumultuous or dangerous, I think.
As a journalist who has lived conflicts, did you feel that traditional reportage was inadequate to accurately convey the story of lives lost and man's brutality unleashed ("The sound of a bullet as it bursts a skull. The laugh of a man who has just won seven cigarettes by betting on whether the foetus of a woman he just disembowelled with his bayonet is male or female.")? And how does the inability to do so feed the guilt and impotence of the observer? Does the writing of fiction somehow fill in those spaces of helplessness? Or is the presentation of the representation the safest vantage point from which to pursue the project?
If painting is the artistic cousin of photography and fiction of journalism, do you feel that journalism has too limited a palette to capture the essence of war? Or are all palettes limited to achieve that sublime?
I thank you for your time in reading this letter.
Sincerely,
Friena P. Guerrero
First an introduction. I am a reader from the Philippines who enjoys your work and the worlds you create and convey. I am also an aspiring writer and like yourself (but to a much less notable degree), share a background in journalism.
With a knowledge of your career before fiction, some understanding of the journalistic mind and curiosity about the creative process, it was with immense interest that I read your novel, The Painter of Battles, and with some hesitation but great anticipation that I write you to pick your brain now.
In particular I am interested in your views on the act (or non-act?) of observing. In your novel, Faulques is a photographer who becomes a painter with an obsession to neatly define the nature of war or the rules of chaos. In reality, you are a war correspondent who has become a writer who in this novel depicts the nature of war and its effect on participants and observers (I apologise for my simplistic breakdown).
That you end the book with Markovic abandoning his initial goal of killing Faulques by implying that the latter is already dead inside suggests the dehumanisation of the observer. Is this the inevitable end for artists trying to make sense of the horrors of war through the instruments of their craft? Or is it a warning against obsession? If as Markovic says, "photographing people is the same as raping them", can any observer of war emerge innocent?
From behind the photographer' s camera, the painter's brushes, the journalist's recorder and the writer's pen; the observer's eye is passive but not unaffected. To be completely unaffected I think would be complete dehumanisation without even going through the process. However, in addition to dealing with the experience of war or seeing a war as a human being, the peculiar species that is the artist must also go through the creative struggle to process and express what s/he has seen – an experience that is no less tumultuous or dangerous, I think.
As a journalist who has lived conflicts, did you feel that traditional reportage was inadequate to accurately convey the story of lives lost and man's brutality unleashed ("The sound of a bullet as it bursts a skull. The laugh of a man who has just won seven cigarettes by betting on whether the foetus of a woman he just disembowelled with his bayonet is male or female.")? And how does the inability to do so feed the guilt and impotence of the observer? Does the writing of fiction somehow fill in those spaces of helplessness? Or is the presentation of the representation the safest vantage point from which to pursue the project?
If painting is the artistic cousin of photography and fiction of journalism, do you feel that journalism has too limited a palette to capture the essence of war? Or are all palettes limited to achieve that sublime?
I thank you for your time in reading this letter.
Sincerely,
Friena P. Guerrero
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