Young Blood - Letter for Lolo

Hi, lolo.

I will probably never let go of the idea that I did not have a chance to say goodbye. I like it when people tell me that they’re leaving. When I was a kid, I would get mad at my parents whenever they would leave the house without saying goodbye.

It’s probably because I don’t like the feeling of being alone. It makes me a bit disoriented, somewhat confused, and most likely afraid. Now I am wondering if this is what my Nanay and her siblings must feel like.

I really don’t have a specific memory of you, but what I remember are the little everyday things. Like before you had an accident, you’d bring  pancit  malabon  every time you came to stay for the weekend. Every Saturday morning, your ringing the doorbell had a lingering quality to it. You’d press the button, then wait a couple of seconds to release it. I would drag my feet, still feeling very sleepy, to open the door. I would see you in your cap and oversized khaki jacket, a dark blue messenger bag on your shoulder, and in your hand a plastic bag containing the  bilao  of  pancit, or  sapin-sapin.

With your lopsided smile, you’d gruffly shove the  bilao  at my face. Ha-ha. It’s like you had to give something first before entering our house—an offering, perhaps?

I guess that’s how you repurposed yourself. You always came on weekends after Lola passed away. Maybe you were a bit lonely, and you needed a change of atmosphere. And I guess you just liked the idea of still being able to provide for your family even in your old age. You were 80+ back then and pretty much stronger than any other grandpa I knew: You were still commuting on your own, bringing snacks, or dinner even—“Chicken Sorrow,” anyone? That’s what you called Chicken Joy—and making sure that we were well provided for.

We were roommates back then. I used to hate the idea of having a roommate because I felt that I needed my own space (growing-up years). But my room had the biggest space (and the cleanest one at that). So during college, there were times when I came home late, due to academic and, most often than not,  lakwatsa  purposes. You’d always check up on me, where I’d been, who I was with. You’d always say that I should come home early and that I should be careful because “maraming  loko  sa  mundo.” Being naturally optimistic, I’d find that statement a bit off. I did wonder where you got that “mean world syndrome,” but I guess your being raised in very harsh conditions (World War II) somewhat molded your values—and showed how fiercely protective you could be for your family. Well, that’s from a man who slept with two types of  balisong  under his bed sheet. (You gave me one but I politely refused.)

We had those conversations. Random ones. Your road adventures with your friends (because you wanted to eat a certain delicacy in a certain province), how you and Lola met in a parlor. I guess my inquisitiveness also played a key role. And through that I learned that you dated many girls but in the end chose Lola to be your wife. You saw past the physical beauty of other girls and saw Lola’s inner qualities that made her beautiful inside out, with motherly qualities that you said would be needed for a family. And you advised me to look for the inside qualities in a girl as well.

You always believed in me, in what I did and what I could do. You’d say I could go far in life. You actually encouraged me to sing on stage. Every time you watched a choir in our church, you’d say I should sing with it. I dismissed that as plain nagging. But deep inside, a small part of me was actually happy and curious about the what-if and what-could-be. I needed that challenge.

So, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for being the fiercely loyal, ever practical provider-believer type of Lolo. Thank you for sharing your life with me.

Enjoy heaven. Till next time, roomie.

Ninoy

Jose Benigno Aquino Gonzales, 24, was in Singapore for training when his grandfather, Leonardo Dizon Aquino, died. This letter was read at his Lolo’s wake.

Young Blood - Pornphan

By Jesus Rafael B. Jarata

Philippine Daily Inquirer

First Posted 02:19:00 10/14/2008

Nobody in class likes her. Every time she asks a question, even if it can be answered by a simple yes or no, her classmates just rudely ignore her.

But Pornphan still tries to be in with the group. If her classmates laugh at some hilarious blunder or absurdity, she also giggles, unmindful that the joke and laughter would soon be turned on her. But even when she feels embarrassed, she still tries to flash a brave smile.

I don’t know what keeps her going. At her age of 10, she should be running in a playground with friends chasing her under the heat of the sun, or she should be in the company of kids dressing up Barbie Dolls and paper dolls, or in an imaginary parlor pretending to be little hairstylist or manicurist, or in an imaginary market playing the role of a chatty food vendor selling cold juices made from crushed red bougainvillea flowers and leaves.

But I also cannot blame her classmates completely for behaving so coldly and roughly toward her. After all, they are still children, and Pornphan seems out of place with her Grade 5 classmates who are quite surprisingly much too concerned with the Barbie culture: how they look in their uniforms, accessorized with colorful headbands and sling bags.

Pornphan’s family is poor and it is her bad luck to belong to a class of well-off, bratty children. She comes to school in a dirty white blouse tucked into a pale blue crimp skirt, with an ordinary rubber band knotted in her usually damp hair and in an old pair of leather shoes. And she has a cheap pink stroller bag and wears a cheap yellow rubber wristwatch. How could a prosperous kid of her age like her?

Her skin is dark. She has long fingernails accented by black grime hiding underneath them. She is so small that you could almost mistake her for a Grade 1 pupil. She is skinny, disheveled, undernourished and almost pathetic.

But her eyes never show hopelessness. Carefree and cheerful, she is active and lively. And she loves making fun of some things, as if the world never laughs at her.

Pornphan is smart and has a sense of responsibility and leadership. That is why the class adviser gave her the special task of looking after their “special” classmate.

I am amazed by how Pornphan and this special kid can get along so well. They are the best of friends, and the teachers admire Pornphan for giving up her own “normal” happiness to play with her “special” classmate all the time. In the classroom, they are seated together and Pornphan acts as her tutor. During lunch, they share each other’s meal. They seem to find solace in their special friendship. They live every day in their own special universe, out of reach of the menacing arms of normal and harsh beings.

For Pornphan and many others like her, life is a constant struggle not just for survival but to belong. It is always a difficult journey for someone who looks unusual, unsightly, underprivileged and neglected.

I feel sorry for Pornphan who has to endure living in a place where being different is, to some people, intolerable and unforgivable. I admire her for her audacity in always standing up after being pushed down by the crowd. And I adore her for her eagerness to please others and to belong even if her efforts always prove futile.

But I wonder how she can discover her possibilities when her peers won’t even give her a chance to establish a human connection.

Jesus Rafael B. Jarata, 21, is a teacher at Rajabhat Maha Sarakham University in Thailand.

Young Blood - Quiapo Vendors

YoungbloodQuiapo vendors
By Consuelo Maria G. Lucero

Philippine Daily Inquirer

First Posted 01:19:00 07/03/2008

The day after “Ka Bel” died, my father sent me an email urging me to go to the wake for the party-list representative. He said Crispin Beltran was once his boss and one whom he deeply respected, and he felt it was his filial obligation to offer flowers and prayers at his wake. But since he was away in Maastricht, the Netherlands, on a scholarship, he asked me to go his place.

I’m no leftist; I’m not even politically inclined, as some of my schoolmates have probably noted. So when I put on my denim pants and rubber shoes to go to Manila’s Quiapo district to buy some flowers, I thought that I was merely doing what my father had asked me to do: to offer flowers and prayers for a dead man.

When I got to Quiapo, I searched the flower vendors at the side of the church, trying to imagine what colors my father would have wanted. I stopped at a nondescript stall with green, maroon and pink flowers, not just the usual yellow and white. The vendor told the white or yellow mums would cost P100, but if I picked assorted colors it would cost me P150.

I tried to bargain, and she brought down the price of the latter to P140.

I asked if the funeral wreath came with ribbons. “Extra P20 kung may ribbon,” she said.
I did not bother to haggle anymore. Then I handed her a piece of paper on which I had copied the epitaph my father wrote: “Pagpugay sa dakilang anak ng uring manggagawa, Ka Bel; Ang buhay at alaala mo’y titis ng pag-asa sa pakikibaka ng uri. — Kas. George.”

The vendor was shocked by the long message. I figured that she was used to writing only “Condolence and sympathy” on the ribbon. But she talked so loud that the other vendors came over.

“Santissima! Kay Ka Bel mo ba ibibigay?” a vendor of Lego-like toys asked.
I nodded and smiled.

“Diyos ko, Mare, huwag mo na singilin!” she told the flower vendor. “Kay Ka Bel naman pala eh. Kapatid natin iyon sa pakikibaka.”

They called their friends, who were selling trinkets worth P10 or less. One of them offered to do the writing, declaring his handwriting was the best. Others shared their opinions about Ka Bel. Some told the flower vendor to add more flowers on the wreath.

“Nakakasama kasi namin sa rally si Ka Bel,” the friendly toy vendor explained.
“Oo, at wala siyang paki kahit mga mahihirap kami,” the man with the nice handwriting chimed in.

Some asked me if I was going alone, or if I was with a leftist group. I politely told them that I was going on behalf of my school organization.

When they asked me what school I attended, someone said, “Mabuting may mga matatalino pa ring sumusuporta sa mga mahihirap.” I did have the courage to tell them I was no leftist.

Finally they finished the wreath, beautifully done. The flower vendor told me that with all the additions, the wreath was now worth more than P200, but she was giving it to me for free as her own offering for Ka Bel. A vendor of plastic bags gave me a big red-and-white plastic free of charge. And while I was preparing to leave, a cigarette vendor came with a small bouquet of white mums and asked me to bring them to their champion. Then they all bade me a cheery goodbye, while asking me to extend their condolences to Ka Bel’s family. I rode the jeepney to Taft Avenue with a heart that was never more deeply touched.

Had my father been here, he would have gone every day to the wake. He would have go to Ka Bel’s funeral, marching with his buddies in the labor group Kilusang Mayo Uno, sharing pictures and stories of Ka Bel and the KMU. He probably would not have thought of asking me to go with him, knowing that I am not interested in rallies and leftist organizations.

But maybe it was a good thing that he was away and had to ask me to do this. I never would have come so close to the poor and neither would have known how deeply they felt about Ka Bel, their “brother in the struggle” against poverty.

Consuelo Maria G. Lucero, 17, is a third-year Bachelor of Arts in Comparative Literature student at the University of the Philippines in Diliman, Quezon City.

Youngblood - Race and destination

Youngblood
Race and destination
By Betheena C. Dizon
Philippine Daily InquirerFirst Posted 00:57:00 06/05/2008

I am hardly moved by what I see on television.

But there was this particular scene that really touched me to the core: Marc Nelson and Rovilson Fernandez running toward the final pit stop in “The Amazing Race Asia Season 2,” carrying the Philippine flag. What struck me about this scene was that these guys made it a point to show the world that as they competed, they were thinking not only of themselves but of this country as well. And to think that Nelson does not even have a drop of Filipino blood in his veins! It seemed to me that he was also running the race for the country that he had adopted as his own. These guys have not forgotten the Philippines at all. But the realization also made me sad because, today, there are quite a lot of Filipinos who have forgotten their own country.

In this age of Filipino diaspora, there are quite a number of our countrymen who seem to be intent on forgetting not only their land of birth but also their nation’s heritage. I know this for a fact because my mother was at the receiving end of a diatribe from an acerbic “ex-Filipino.” She slammed my mom for choosing to live in the Philippines, trying to make it better. The woman is now a naturalized American citizen; and by her looks, my mother said, she had exhausted every opportunity to make herself look like an American. I am saddened by the fact that there are people like her who have chosen to forget their origins. Upon arriving in a prosperous and ultra-modern city, usually in the United States or in some European country, they begin to erase from their minds their Filipino heritage. They work hard to imitate the accent of the people living there; they have their noses “re-done” just to remove what is more often than not a “trademark” of Filipinos; and do other stuff that would make them look more and more fair-skinned. Basically, they begin to systematically change their outward appearance, thinking that their Filipino identity will vanish along with it. But what they do not realize is that no matter how hard they change their appearance, it stays—and will stay—with them until the day they die.

Where we come from defines who we are and what we will become. Our present selves are the results of all that we have been through. We are products of our heritage, the hardships, the trials, and all that we have grown accustomed to. If we are strong now, it is because the storms of life that buffeted us have made us sturdier to withstand anything that may come our way. If we are weak, it may be because we have chosen not to fight life’s vicissitudes or to learn the lessons that life has been teaching us.

And we are the people that what we are now because we have been raised in a culture that is full of incredible contradictions. We are God-fearing but we tolerate corruption because it has already become an accepted part of the bureaucracy. We are a kind people but have grown apathetic to the plight of poor kids living in the streets. We profess to be poor but we have unashamedly wasted—and continue to waste—our natural resources which take a long time for Mother Earth to replenish. But despite these contradictions, it is a fact that we Filipinos are among the nicest, most polite and most caring people in Asia and, possibly, in the world.

This is what has been forgotten by our countrymen who are now on a mission to eradicate their Filipino identity. They have forgotten that what they are now is the result of living in this Third World country. They have become what they are because of the culture and heritage that they were raised in. They are struggling to make their lives better because they have lived through difficult circumstances. This has made them determined, persevering and hardworking. Incidentally, these traits are the identifying qualities of Filipinos.

This striking reality brings back to my mind a Filipino saying: “Ang hindi marunong lumingon sa kanyang pinanggalingan ay hindi makakarating sa kanyang paroroonan.” [“He who does not know how to look back to where he came from will not get to where he’s going.”] Indeed, where we came from and what we have been through are mere stages or pit stops in our journey through life. These are sort of clues that lead us to the finish line. And that finish line is the better life that we are all dreaming of.

Now, these people may argue that they have already reached the finish line, that they are now living prosperously, which has always been their dream. But to me, having a better life is not all about living in comfort and security. To my mind, having a better life is the actualization and acknowledgment of who you are. And it is this actualization and acknowledgment that will drive us to strive for better lives. If we realize and acknowledge where we come from and what we have been through, we will feel at ease with who we really are.

People who have chosen to forget where they come from may live better lives, but they will never be at peace with themselves because they have chosen to forget who they really are. And it is in this sense that they will never reach their destinations. They will never have that sense of fulfillment of having accepted every facet of their identity. They will never completely know themselves because they have chosen to forget their beginnings.

In times like these, when accusations of cheating, greed and lies can be heard at every corner, the temptation to forget our identity as Filipinos becomes more and more alluring. Who wants to be part of a nation where leaders profess to be working hard for the good of the people, when in truth and in fact, they are working hard just to satisfy their selfish interests? Who wants to be a member of a race that has become apathetic to dirty politics even though it greatly affects the future and their children? However, we should not forget that God has a purpose in creating us to be Filipinos. We may not see the good behind it yet, but let us trust that God has a perfectly good reason why He made us to be citizens of this country. If we truly learn to accept who we are and embrace our identity willingly, we will not only reach our destinations, we will also become better persons living better lives in this challenging world. It is then that we will become proud of what we are and where we come from and in everything we do.

Then, we just might be able to carry the Philippine “flag” with pride and fervor in our hearts as we run in this amazing race called life.

Betheena C. Dizon, 23, is a third year student at the San Beda College of Law.