From time to time, I think about death. Now at this stage of my life, I think about it even more. Or more often. I like to call this stage "the September of my life"--the fall time when it comes to the four seasons. The beginning of the end.
There was a time when I was new in the States, I attended a seminar at work. I think it was a meeting actually of managers in the big cities of Southern California. Sometime during one of the symposiums, there was a question raised, asking "Where do you think you will be 25 years from now?" It caught me by surprise, because at the time, I was not thinking 25 years into the future. I was not even thinking five years, much more 25 years. Yes, I was young and restless. More like young and stupid. Somehow, I was not thinking I would live that long.
Well, that was 37 years ago. And I am still alive. And of course, a lot of things happened in those 37 years.
Last week, one of our long-time friends died. Actually, she was the mother of my siblings' friends, but since she was closer to our age than my younger brothers and sisters, we were friends with her and her husband.
The news was sudden, and we tried to squeeze some time to attend either the novena or the rosary in her honor. My work schedule did not allow me to attend the interment, and I was a little bummed about it too.
So the first chance I got, I went to the cemetery a couple of days after she was buried, and with the help of the cemetery personnel, I was able to visit her
plot and paid my respects. Said a little prayer.
The interesting thing about it was that she was buried at the cemetery that I pass by twice a day to and from work. There was a time when I showed interest in that cemetery, one of the places we considered in case of our death, my wife and I. And to make it more interesting, we found out that it is a Catholic cemetery.
So while I was there, I went ahead and picked up some brochures, and I even asked the Family Service Counselor (that is his title) about some prices and "accommodations," if that is what they call it. He showed me the new phase that they just opened, because the other 37 acres are mostly sold out. I found out that I could talk about this with no emotional reservations, just being practical. The counselor gave me a tour of the cemetery.
During the tour, there were even moments when I almost started laughing out loud, because he was asking me questions if I had preferences of where we would like our plot. "Do you like one that is under a tree?" was one of those questions. "Would you like it on higher grounds?" "How about what type of lapida?". Wow, he even knows about lapida, although I suspected maybe it is the same word they have in Spanish, this gentleman being a Latino.
There were big signs all over the cemetery saying what is and is not allowed in the cemetery, like only fresh flowers and plants, no artificial flowers, no balloons, no whirligigs, etc., and yet on the way out, I found a lot of balloons and even whirligigs everywhere. And since this was close to Memorial Day, there were American flags all over. Another sign at the door said all decorations are taken down every Thursday, no exceptions. And that the place closes at 6:00 pm at this time of the year. I guess they will stay open later during summer.
Here is what it is in financial terms. The plot for two would cost around $8,900, including all basic arrangements at today's prices. If we are serious about it, we could put down ten percent, and the balance is payable in 60 monthly installments of $149 each. I forgot to ask about cremation.
I remember Edwin, our insurance agent, told me at one time that it is not a good investment to buy a plot. Things happen. Changes happen. Couples end up getting a divorce. Or moving out of town or even out of state. Children--whom you are considering in the location of the cemetery--might move out, too. To buy a certain plot now may not be the same one you would like to use later. On the other hand, of course, like anything else, in 60 months or five years from now, the basic cost of the plot would have gone up from $8,900.
The another way could be to save money for it. Set aside some savings for this purpose. I think this is what we ought to do. And include it in our Living Will where we want to be buried just in case.
While I was driving to work one morning this week, I thought of the business of dying again. It just dawned on me why human beings--the only animals in the kingdom--bury their dead. (Some cultures burn their dead.) Even way back in the beginning of human history, it is not because of religious reasons, although religion plays a role on how, but human beings bury their dead, because, you and I know it, decomposing bodies stink. We cannot just push it aside and endure the smell for months. Or we cannot just pick up and move residences. Or throw the body in the dump. Although, I would assume, some have done it.
As grim, or ghastly, or simply unpleasant as it may sound, death and dying produce some element of jokes themselves. And sometimes, it comes from the person who is facing it.
Several years ago, some distant relative told us about the conversation they had with their father who had a terminal illness. When they, together with the mother and other children, were discussing where he wanted to rest permanently, the son brought up a place he knew. The father said, "O, ang layo naman!" ("Hey, that place is far from here!"). To which the son replied: "Huwag na kayong mag reklamo, 'Tay. Hindi naman kayo ang mag da drive." ("Don't complain anymore, Dad, you are not going to do the driving.") They all had a good laugh about it. See what I mean?
Another friend told this story. When he and his divorced father were talking about cemetery plot, his father commented: "Pag nauna akong namatay, huwag nyong isasama sa aking pantion 'yung nanay mo. Kaya nga kami naghiwalay, mara malayo ako." ("I want a plot all to myself. If I die first, make sure your Mom gets her own when it is her turn. I didn't stay away from her for nothing.") Of course, he was just kidding, and years later, the mom--sure enough--was buried next to him.
Because I like writing, I even wrote my own eulogy. It may not have been done before. I call it AutoBiEulogy. Of course I did not praise myself or listed any of my accomplishments (because I could not think of any at the time). It is more of a poem, actually. I plan to pass it around at my wake, something my friends can remember me by. I also told my family which picture I want on top of my casket. It is the one taken when I was a teenager, in black and white, with me showing a sexy pose lying on the sand at the beach. I chose this because it provokes laughter all the time when visitors see it at our house.
And that is exactly what I want on my wake. My last party. I don't want people to cry at my funeral, with the exceptions of those I might owe money from. I want to celebrate my life not my death, with my families, relatives, and friends.
And if I survive them all? I guess I will just have to see them all later, and like a celebrity, make a grand entrance. In heaven or that other place.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Blogging Rights
First, a short history...
Men, and obviously women, have always wanted to keep a record of their written expression. At first, they did this mostly by drawing pictures on the walls of caves. Mostly pictures of animals. Mostly buffaloes. Mostly, male buffaloes. They were doing all kinds of things. The buffaloes in the drawings, I mean. The first or oldest ones were discovered in a French cave. At the time of discovery, which was almost a million years after the pictures were painted but not quite, the French people did not have a name for it, so they called on their neighbors, the Italians. When the first Italian, who studied Latin, saw it, he exclaimed "Muy graffito!", and the name stuck. Then they named the collection "graffiti."
Somewhere back in time, at another part of the world where they did not have many caves, people became more sophisticated. They got together and used symbols to standardize the pictures, so that they can write more articles and statements per space. This is known in today's lingo as "the fine print," which is popular with lawyers. Anyway, the Egyptians used this system. They did not have a name for it yet at the time because they had not invented written words. Later on they asked their Greek neighbors what to call the system. They said hieroglyphic, from the words hieros (sacred) plus glyphein (carve). The Egyptians--although did not have plenty of caves--had plenty of walls, so they filled them up with writings. They used sharp and pointed instruments to write on stone walls. Only adults were allowed to write, because children could not have sharp instruments, even way back then. Some of the adults even used tablets of stones to write on, but it was not very practical because they were both heavy and cumbersome, and could not take them easily from place to place.
To solve this problem, someone invented the use of the bark of trees for their writing implements. This was better. The word paper was not yet in the Webster dictionary at the time, so they called it papyrus. When the ink dried in those writings, they were able to roll up the bark. They called them scrolls, short for "spiral coiled rolls." And they could take them from place to place. The most famous ones were found--guess where, of all places--in a cave! What irony. Some enterprising individuals tried to write on the dried skins of animals, but it did not catch on because the skins were smelly. Instead, they used the hide to make shoes, and that is how smelly feet were created.
Even though the new symbols were smaller and easier to write and understand, the new system was still outdated. Thus they invented the letters and words. This was practical because now you could use the same letters again and again in the same word. It was okay until someone, for lack of a better reason, used the same word to give it a different meaning. A Chinese philosopher, whose name I cannot remember, called this "confusion." This confusion was helpful to women, so it caught on with women fast. The women also found out that giving the word a different pronunciation, they could alter its meaning. Take the word "fine" for example. It means, well, fine. Until a lady says it with heavy emphasis, storms out the room, and slams the door behind her. Then the adjective word "fine" became a noun, which now means "a levy a man has to pay." Or so it seems... but I am digressing now.
Later, they invented a printer which made possible to write on both sides of the paper. The environmentalists lauded this discovery because now they did not have to cut down a lot of trees to make paper. Then they bound the papers and called them books. Some books are so small that they fit inside their pockets and called them "pocketbooks." Ladies used these books sometimes to put their money in-between the pages when they forgot to bring their purses, so these also became known as pocketbooks. I'm not sure if it was the men or the women who coined this term.
At home, people wrote in longhand. This was very tiring, and it felt like your hands were stretched, thus the term "longhand." At first they used quill pens, then pencils were invented, then the fountain pens, and then ball pens. People in Asia way, way back used brush and paint or ink to write. They still do it today.
Elsewhere, the later generations of men used a new invention, called spray paint. They used this mostly in painting crude inscriptions or messages on somebody else's walls or public surfaces. Why they didn't use their own walls to do this baffled mankind in the beginning, but now the real reason surfaced: their mothers would kick their asses if they did this on their own premises. They learned this when they were young--no writing on the walls at home.
From longhand to typewriters, from typewriters to computer printers, and from computer printers to websites, the history of men's and women's attempts to preserve their written record of expression has come a long way. Now, we can just log on to any website, and read someone's blogs, blogs, blogs.
And now, the blogging rights...
I am almost convinced that writing is a calling. It may be a gift, a talent that is inherent in some people, and with little coaching, could blossom into a wonderful work of art.
People write for different reasons, but the underlying purpose is to tell a story. Whether he or she is a journalist, a playwright, a book author, or a comic writing his or her own materials, the desire to convey an idea is the motivating factor.
It used to be that the avenues for such endeavors were limited. You had to send in your manuscript to the publishers, producers, editors and executives and if you are both good and lucky, your articles could be produced and printed for millions of people to read and enjoy. It would show up in books, newspapers, and magazines. Thank goodness for the Internet--now you can have your own studio where everything can be produced and processed and distributed to your captive audience.
Why do people blog?
Before website blogs, there were diaries. Teenagers mostly used them all the time to capture their emotions while they were still fresh on their mind. They wrote their feelings, their aspirations, their hopes and dreams, and even their anxieties on paper on small notebooks--usually with a lock and key--and aside from them, nobody else had access to their writings. Speaking of diary entries, one teenager wrote a series of them and it became a best-selling book later, and also was turned into a movie. But most diaries are kept in their rooms by the writers, and nothing much happens to them. Until sometime later, when because of a simple mistake, their diaries are included in the list of items sold at a garage sale. And when this happens, usually one of three things occurs: if the writer is nobody, the diary ends up in the trash; if the writer happens to be somebody, and the writings are juicy, the lawyers get involved; or it may just end up on eBay before anybody can do anything about it.
I would suspect there might still be a smidgen of people who still write in their diaries to keep a log of personal records they want to keep for themselves, but lately, the process of people writing about themselves and telling the world about it has become more and more popular. There was a time when people wanted to have their space and away from anybody. Nowadays, people have their MySpace and wanted to be with everybody.
People just want to tell a story. They are the producers of their shows. They are the directors of their own movies. They are the editors of their own manuscripts. And they are the critics of their own writings.
Speaking of criticism, it was only recently that a comprehensive study was made of the old drawings and paintings on those cave walls mentioned earlier. It seems like there were other drawings in an around the buffaloes that were undetected before and that now just came to light. The paintings unmistakably depicted animal excrements under the buffaloes. Under the male buffaloes. And this, the scholars decided were the first recorded message of the phrase, "bull sh*t."
Those cave men and women, they were funny, weren't they?
Men, and obviously women, have always wanted to keep a record of their written expression. At first, they did this mostly by drawing pictures on the walls of caves. Mostly pictures of animals. Mostly buffaloes. Mostly, male buffaloes. They were doing all kinds of things. The buffaloes in the drawings, I mean. The first or oldest ones were discovered in a French cave. At the time of discovery, which was almost a million years after the pictures were painted but not quite, the French people did not have a name for it, so they called on their neighbors, the Italians. When the first Italian, who studied Latin, saw it, he exclaimed "Muy graffito!", and the name stuck. Then they named the collection "graffiti."
Somewhere back in time, at another part of the world where they did not have many caves, people became more sophisticated. They got together and used symbols to standardize the pictures, so that they can write more articles and statements per space. This is known in today's lingo as "the fine print," which is popular with lawyers. Anyway, the Egyptians used this system. They did not have a name for it yet at the time because they had not invented written words. Later on they asked their Greek neighbors what to call the system. They said hieroglyphic, from the words hieros (sacred) plus glyphein (carve). The Egyptians--although did not have plenty of caves--had plenty of walls, so they filled them up with writings. They used sharp and pointed instruments to write on stone walls. Only adults were allowed to write, because children could not have sharp instruments, even way back then. Some of the adults even used tablets of stones to write on, but it was not very practical because they were both heavy and cumbersome, and could not take them easily from place to place.
To solve this problem, someone invented the use of the bark of trees for their writing implements. This was better. The word paper was not yet in the Webster dictionary at the time, so they called it papyrus. When the ink dried in those writings, they were able to roll up the bark. They called them scrolls, short for "spiral coiled rolls." And they could take them from place to place. The most famous ones were found--guess where, of all places--in a cave! What irony. Some enterprising individuals tried to write on the dried skins of animals, but it did not catch on because the skins were smelly. Instead, they used the hide to make shoes, and that is how smelly feet were created.
Even though the new symbols were smaller and easier to write and understand, the new system was still outdated. Thus they invented the letters and words. This was practical because now you could use the same letters again and again in the same word. It was okay until someone, for lack of a better reason, used the same word to give it a different meaning. A Chinese philosopher, whose name I cannot remember, called this "confusion." This confusion was helpful to women, so it caught on with women fast. The women also found out that giving the word a different pronunciation, they could alter its meaning. Take the word "fine" for example. It means, well, fine. Until a lady says it with heavy emphasis, storms out the room, and slams the door behind her. Then the adjective word "fine" became a noun, which now means "a levy a man has to pay." Or so it seems... but I am digressing now.
Later, they invented a printer which made possible to write on both sides of the paper. The environmentalists lauded this discovery because now they did not have to cut down a lot of trees to make paper. Then they bound the papers and called them books. Some books are so small that they fit inside their pockets and called them "pocketbooks." Ladies used these books sometimes to put their money in-between the pages when they forgot to bring their purses, so these also became known as pocketbooks. I'm not sure if it was the men or the women who coined this term.
At home, people wrote in longhand. This was very tiring, and it felt like your hands were stretched, thus the term "longhand." At first they used quill pens, then pencils were invented, then the fountain pens, and then ball pens. People in Asia way, way back used brush and paint or ink to write. They still do it today.
Elsewhere, the later generations of men used a new invention, called spray paint. They used this mostly in painting crude inscriptions or messages on somebody else's walls or public surfaces. Why they didn't use their own walls to do this baffled mankind in the beginning, but now the real reason surfaced: their mothers would kick their asses if they did this on their own premises. They learned this when they were young--no writing on the walls at home.
From longhand to typewriters, from typewriters to computer printers, and from computer printers to websites, the history of men's and women's attempts to preserve their written record of expression has come a long way. Now, we can just log on to any website, and read someone's blogs, blogs, blogs.
And now, the blogging rights...
I am almost convinced that writing is a calling. It may be a gift, a talent that is inherent in some people, and with little coaching, could blossom into a wonderful work of art.
People write for different reasons, but the underlying purpose is to tell a story. Whether he or she is a journalist, a playwright, a book author, or a comic writing his or her own materials, the desire to convey an idea is the motivating factor.
It used to be that the avenues for such endeavors were limited. You had to send in your manuscript to the publishers, producers, editors and executives and if you are both good and lucky, your articles could be produced and printed for millions of people to read and enjoy. It would show up in books, newspapers, and magazines. Thank goodness for the Internet--now you can have your own studio where everything can be produced and processed and distributed to your captive audience.
Why do people blog?
Before website blogs, there were diaries. Teenagers mostly used them all the time to capture their emotions while they were still fresh on their mind. They wrote their feelings, their aspirations, their hopes and dreams, and even their anxieties on paper on small notebooks--usually with a lock and key--and aside from them, nobody else had access to their writings. Speaking of diary entries, one teenager wrote a series of them and it became a best-selling book later, and also was turned into a movie. But most diaries are kept in their rooms by the writers, and nothing much happens to them. Until sometime later, when because of a simple mistake, their diaries are included in the list of items sold at a garage sale. And when this happens, usually one of three things occurs: if the writer is nobody, the diary ends up in the trash; if the writer happens to be somebody, and the writings are juicy, the lawyers get involved; or it may just end up on eBay before anybody can do anything about it.
I would suspect there might still be a smidgen of people who still write in their diaries to keep a log of personal records they want to keep for themselves, but lately, the process of people writing about themselves and telling the world about it has become more and more popular. There was a time when people wanted to have their space and away from anybody. Nowadays, people have their MySpace and wanted to be with everybody.
People just want to tell a story. They are the producers of their shows. They are the directors of their own movies. They are the editors of their own manuscripts. And they are the critics of their own writings.
Speaking of criticism, it was only recently that a comprehensive study was made of the old drawings and paintings on those cave walls mentioned earlier. It seems like there were other drawings in an around the buffaloes that were undetected before and that now just came to light. The paintings unmistakably depicted animal excrements under the buffaloes. Under the male buffaloes. And this, the scholars decided were the first recorded message of the phrase, "bull sh*t."
Those cave men and women, they were funny, weren't they?
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Trisha's Take: What "basaang gilagid" means to me
The first time I heard the phrase basaang gilagid was from my dad, right after I went to the Philippines for the very first time. This was in the year 1992, when I was a freshman in high school and my older sister was a senior. We were going back for my grandparents' 50th anniversary, and I was going to meet my numerous Filipino cousins for the very first time.
When I was growing up, I was raised to be American first and Filipino after. My parents didn't teach me Tagalog because they wanted me to be proficient in English so I could do well in school. Their plan worked, because I was in all the GATE (Gifted and Talented Education) classes in elementary school, all the honors classes in middle school (and I think I even got to skip a lot of 8th grade English class), and I had tested into all of the Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate classes in high school, the same as my sister. I was even already in my second year of French class, and one of the top students. With Tagalog, though, I was at a loss.
Imagine, then, a young girl getting out of a plane in a sweltering airport. She has just come from Seoul, South Korea, where she and her family were put up in a 5-star hotel because a baggage handler's strike forced Northwest Airlines to cancel the previous day's flight. She is nervous, she is excited. This is the end destination of the very first plane trip she has ever undertaken.
She exits the customs area where the balikbayan boxes her family has stuffed full of T-shirts and shorts purchased from the Kmart where her father works were opened in search of possible contraband. She leaves the safety of the airport, and is greeted by her oldest male cousin, perhaps an uncle or two. Her mother and father are talking with them excitedly.
She doesn't understand a single word they're saying.
The entire trip was filled with a lot of silence and hard listening on my end because while my parents were busy chattering away with first his relatives, then hers, my sister and I were lost until someone spoke to us in English. Luckily, many of my cousins wanted to teach me Tagalog, so many long car trips were turned into impromptu Tagalog lessons. (However, the only sentence I seem to have retained other than "Mahal kita" is "Ako ay kenegut ng lamok." Make of that what you will.)
Despite their good intentions, though, I still felt out of place. Until I went over there, it had never really struck me how conservative and religious the entire country is. I wasn't used to the extreme humidity like my cousins were, so we got to sleep in the only air-conditioned room in my grandparents' old house. Also, they kept making jokes that only my sister and I kept getting eaten alive by the mosquitos because our American blood was spicier. Add those factors to the language barrier, and you get one confused girl who is trying to keep up with everyone else the best she can.
There was one night, however, where I didn't have to keep up with anyone. We had journeyed by jeepney to the parish where my dad's oldest brother works as a priest. Actually, I take that back. I tried to journey by jeepney, but I was too tired to hold on, and instead was ferried along in a car with one of my then-youngest cousins (who I think vomited on the floor). When we got there, I don't even remember what time it was, but I do remember nodding off in church during the Easter vigil and having some of my hair burnt off by a candle's flame. I passed out on a couch somewhere, and woke some time later to laughter.
Wandering outside, I found my dad and all of his siblings drinking beer on the verandah. Some of my cousins were there, too, and my dad and I proceeded to go into our "Casablanca" medley, where you start by singing "As Time Goes By" but immediately switch over to "The Christmas Song" after the second verse. Everyone cheered, and then I sang something from either Les Miserables or The Phantom of the Opera and everyone cheered again.
That night was described to me as what basaang gilagid is. It's singing songs or dancing in public with your dad. It's sneaking cigarettes from my aunts to hide them from my mom at my cousin's wedding in Canada. When my male cousins and I discussed the relative merits of various wines, whenever I see my brother-in-law who teases me about my behavior at my sister's wedding. It's whenever family or friends get together and you share your lives.
It's time to basaang gilagid, my new Internet friends.
When I was growing up, I was raised to be American first and Filipino after. My parents didn't teach me Tagalog because they wanted me to be proficient in English so I could do well in school. Their plan worked, because I was in all the GATE (Gifted and Talented Education) classes in elementary school, all the honors classes in middle school (and I think I even got to skip a lot of 8th grade English class), and I had tested into all of the Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate classes in high school, the same as my sister. I was even already in my second year of French class, and one of the top students. With Tagalog, though, I was at a loss.
Imagine, then, a young girl getting out of a plane in a sweltering airport. She has just come from Seoul, South Korea, where she and her family were put up in a 5-star hotel because a baggage handler's strike forced Northwest Airlines to cancel the previous day's flight. She is nervous, she is excited. This is the end destination of the very first plane trip she has ever undertaken.
She exits the customs area where the balikbayan boxes her family has stuffed full of T-shirts and shorts purchased from the Kmart where her father works were opened in search of possible contraband. She leaves the safety of the airport, and is greeted by her oldest male cousin, perhaps an uncle or two. Her mother and father are talking with them excitedly.
She doesn't understand a single word they're saying.
The entire trip was filled with a lot of silence and hard listening on my end because while my parents were busy chattering away with first his relatives, then hers, my sister and I were lost until someone spoke to us in English. Luckily, many of my cousins wanted to teach me Tagalog, so many long car trips were turned into impromptu Tagalog lessons. (However, the only sentence I seem to have retained other than "Mahal kita" is "Ako ay kenegut ng lamok." Make of that what you will.)
Despite their good intentions, though, I still felt out of place. Until I went over there, it had never really struck me how conservative and religious the entire country is. I wasn't used to the extreme humidity like my cousins were, so we got to sleep in the only air-conditioned room in my grandparents' old house. Also, they kept making jokes that only my sister and I kept getting eaten alive by the mosquitos because our American blood was spicier. Add those factors to the language barrier, and you get one confused girl who is trying to keep up with everyone else the best she can.
There was one night, however, where I didn't have to keep up with anyone. We had journeyed by jeepney to the parish where my dad's oldest brother works as a priest. Actually, I take that back. I tried to journey by jeepney, but I was too tired to hold on, and instead was ferried along in a car with one of my then-youngest cousins (who I think vomited on the floor). When we got there, I don't even remember what time it was, but I do remember nodding off in church during the Easter vigil and having some of my hair burnt off by a candle's flame. I passed out on a couch somewhere, and woke some time later to laughter.
Wandering outside, I found my dad and all of his siblings drinking beer on the verandah. Some of my cousins were there, too, and my dad and I proceeded to go into our "Casablanca" medley, where you start by singing "As Time Goes By" but immediately switch over to "The Christmas Song" after the second verse. Everyone cheered, and then I sang something from either Les Miserables or The Phantom of the Opera and everyone cheered again.
That night was described to me as what basaang gilagid is. It's singing songs or dancing in public with your dad. It's sneaking cigarettes from my aunts to hide them from my mom at my cousin's wedding in Canada. When my male cousins and I discussed the relative merits of various wines, whenever I see my brother-in-law who teases me about my behavior at my sister's wedding. It's whenever family or friends get together and you share your lives.
It's time to basaang gilagid, my new Internet friends.
Bert's Take: What "basaang gilagid" means to me
Basaang Gilagid, which is sometimes pronounced Basa'ng Gilagid literally means the "process of wetting your gums." How? By drinking, of course. Around a case of beer, a bottle of wine, a pot of steaming hot, strong coffee, a blender of Margaritas--the list is endless. I first heard that phrase from my friend Ming, a phrase that became popular within our small group in college.
Or it's even a code, if you may, from our gang of the '60s in Manila. It was the social connotation of a party. A small get-together--sometimes, not even planned. Just a spur of the moment gathering for social entertainment. But just the same, the outcome was mostly jovial, fulfilling, satisfactory.
After graduation, as expected, everybody went his own way. Some barkada members went away further than others. Lines of communications were lost. Stories stopped. Pictures were tucked in albums. Phone calls diminished. Then--all of a sudden, 40 years have gone by. Careers were made and lost. Families were formed and multiplied. But surprise! the world had gone smaller.
Thanks to the power of the computer and the Internet, lines of communications are again restored. Pictures travel around the world in seconds. Voices are heard from the other side of the planet as if they are from next door. Instant messages are sent and received by the millions. Letters, articles, even animated emails arrive any time of day or night.
It is time again to wet your gums, not around the table seated across from each other over a case of beer, or a bottle of wine, or a blender of Margaritas--but across each other from the computer screen, or from the lens of a webcam.
It's time to tell funny anecdotes or serious stories. Time to gather around and share your innermost feelings. Time to remind each other of occasions coming up. Time to convey congratulations or offer condolences. Or simply time to just visit.
Basaang Gilagid is the net that collects the attentive minds. It is the rope that binds the souls of true friends. It is the blanket that gives the warm feelings of knowing that each other still cares. It is the umbrella that provides safety with numbers. It is the platform from which anyone could sing and dance as if no one is watching.
As we have reached the September of our lives, we now look forward to a new beginning--new to us, that is. We are poised to embark on a life that were once not even visible in our horizon. Thanks to our predecessors, we are able to get a hint of that life. We shall be able to manage the transitions well. And hopefully, as we move to this new plateau, we leave a legacy that will define our lives.
All shall be well.
Or it's even a code, if you may, from our gang of the '60s in Manila. It was the social connotation of a party. A small get-together--sometimes, not even planned. Just a spur of the moment gathering for social entertainment. But just the same, the outcome was mostly jovial, fulfilling, satisfactory.
After graduation, as expected, everybody went his own way. Some barkada members went away further than others. Lines of communications were lost. Stories stopped. Pictures were tucked in albums. Phone calls diminished. Then--all of a sudden, 40 years have gone by. Careers were made and lost. Families were formed and multiplied. But surprise! the world had gone smaller.
Thanks to the power of the computer and the Internet, lines of communications are again restored. Pictures travel around the world in seconds. Voices are heard from the other side of the planet as if they are from next door. Instant messages are sent and received by the millions. Letters, articles, even animated emails arrive any time of day or night.
It is time again to wet your gums, not around the table seated across from each other over a case of beer, or a bottle of wine, or a blender of Margaritas--but across each other from the computer screen, or from the lens of a webcam.
It's time to tell funny anecdotes or serious stories. Time to gather around and share your innermost feelings. Time to remind each other of occasions coming up. Time to convey congratulations or offer condolences. Or simply time to just visit.
Basaang Gilagid is the net that collects the attentive minds. It is the rope that binds the souls of true friends. It is the blanket that gives the warm feelings of knowing that each other still cares. It is the umbrella that provides safety with numbers. It is the platform from which anyone could sing and dance as if no one is watching.
As we have reached the September of our lives, we now look forward to a new beginning--new to us, that is. We are poised to embark on a life that were once not even visible in our horizon. Thanks to our predecessors, we are able to get a hint of that life. We shall be able to manage the transitions well. And hopefully, as we move to this new plateau, we leave a legacy that will define our lives.
All shall be well.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Bert's Trip to the Philippines, Part 3
March 20, Bocaue, Bulacan
The Myna Bird
The night after the party, I decided to accept the invitation of a friend's family to spend the night at their big house in Bocaue. My two other sisters and I were driven to their house which was not too far from the convent. Actually it was just within walking distance, but we were tired and sleepy and looking forward to a good night's sleep in an air-conditioned room.
The biological daily alarm clock embedded in my brain makes me wake up at six o'clock in the morning no matter what time I go to bed the night before. The next day, while everybody was still asleep, I tiptoed down the veranda on the way to the kitchen which was on the other side of the big house. Then I heard this whistling sound, the sound of a guy admiring a sexy woman walking by. You know how it sounds, right? Intrigued, I searched around the corner until I found this myna bird in a cage at the hallway. To my surprise, this bird started to talk. To me, I guess, because we were the only ones in there.
"Pangit," the bird said.
Startled, I shot back, "Pangit ka rin!"
"Gago," the bird retorted.
"Gago ka rin," I said.
The bird kept quiet for a minute. When I turned around, she asked, "Kumain ka na?"
I didn't answer, but started to walk to the kitchen. The bird asked again: "Kumain ka na? Kumain ka na?"
Unbeknownst to me, we were being watched by the katulong at the kitchen. He was laughing like crazy when I saw him. Over a cup of coffee, he told me that the bird could also swear and say some other bad words, but denied training her those exact words.
After another cup, I decided to walk back to the convent, which was near the main thoroughfare. This morning, the streets were already buzzing with pedicabs, jeepneys and motorcycles. I walked around the plaza in search of the best pan de sal in town. I found what I was looking for, a big pan de sal roll with a crusty outside, but soft bread inside, two for five pesos. This was the closest bread I could find that was similar to the ones I used to eat from Hagonoy, Bulacan where my father grew up. For some reason, a few years back, I had a craving for it. And it went on for years and years. And I promised my self I would search and taste this pan de sal again during this trip. (Another search was for the best siopao, but that is a different story.)
I didn't have any cash with me--pesos anyway--and the tindera would not accept cents or dollars. I told her who I was, and if it was possible, to charge it to the convent, but she just looked at me as if I was from another planet. So I had to go to the convent and look for relatives I could borrow money from. After I got my cash, I went back and bought a couple pan de sal. I didn't have to eat much, just to taste it again and confirm this was the same pan de sal I was dreaming of.
Heaven is different for different people. When I got back to the convent, I thought I was in heaven. Prepared and waiting for me on the breakfast table were packages of white carabao milk/cheese (kesong puti) and freshly brewed coffee from Batangas (kapeng barako). I quickly polished off both, with the help of the pan de sal, and headed back to the big house where I suspected our hosts were also preparing breakfast for us. And of course, I told the people at the convent NOT to tell the others that I already had breakfast there. Why? When you find heaven, wouldn't it be better if you find two of them? Sira ba ang ulo nila!
This was Tuesday morning. And on Wednesday, we would board a Cebu Pacific Airlines flight headed for Boracay.
More to come.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Bert's Trip to the Philippines, Part 2
Manila, here I come.
After 14 hours up in the sky, after three movies (one of them in Tagalog, with English subtitles), after two hot meals and several snacks, after numerous drinks including white and red wine, after a few hours of nap time, the plane finally landed at Ninoy Aquino International Airport. It was the smoothest plane ride I had ever had. I don't think the captain put on the "fasten your seatbelt" sign more than half a dozen times during the entire flight. Congratulations, Captain Medina and crew. And say "Hi!" to Josephine.
The time was 10:21 a.m. Hot and humid, of course. (By the way, one big change I noticed was all the employees at the airport were courteous, helpful, dedicated, and honest and always with a smile on their faces. And they were not even asking or hinting for a tip. A huge change from what I remembered five years ago during my last travels.) Thank you, thank you very much. (My decision whether to fly or not to fly PAL again will be revealed in a subsequent part of this series.)
Another hour of waiting for the two balikbayan boxes of assorted personal items and padalas, and I was finally in an air-conditioned van plying and squeezing between jeepneys, cars, taxis and trucks, buses and pedicabs joining this controlled mayhem of misdirected direction called Manila traffic . My only regret was, I was not able to record any of this to show to my American friends. Amazing, isn't it?
Since it was almost lunch time, my sister-in-law suggested to try the eateries at Serendra. Who was I to argue? They don't take dollars, so my money was safe. We went to Conti's. (A few days later, my other group of barkada treated me to a dinner at Duo. But that's another story.)
The purpose of my travel was to attend my parents' 65th wedding anniversary celebration which was done at Bocaue, Bulacan where my oldest brother is the parish priest. He made all the preparations and executions. It was the celebration of the century for us. How many families are lucky enough to celebrate what we did? Not many. Time to count our blessings.
Instead of narrating the events by chronological order, I will just offer observations and comments, in no particular order.
The night before, I did something I have not done in my almost 60 years. I had a manicure! Wowee! The manicurista was there to do house calls and when she was done with my sisters, she asked me if I want one too. Why not? I was on my third bottle of San Miguel Pale Pilsen by then. And it was for less than a dollar! How can you beat that? Don't they charge $40 for this service in L.A.? (But you get to keep the entire bottle of nail polish, I was told. Big deal.)
Three of my college buddies, picked me up at Quezon City, and we all drove to Bocaue. Another one called in to give his regrets. These three guys are still full of fun, and I just kinda listened to their exchanges of recent crazy happenings. If other people would just listen to their conversations and not see them, they would not suspect that these are semi-senior citizens (one of them, at least is not 60 years old yet) who are serious with their jobs, careers, and lives. Puro kalokohan pa rin, sabi nga, after all these years.
Speaking of seniors, we were at my brother's convent office/parlor drinking San Mig Light (that will always be the "basaang gilagid" venue) when people were coming and going who saw us there. More than one person thought we were bishops from other dioceses invited by my brother. Can you imagine if any one of them offered to kiss our college rings? It might be the first of "many."
More than 250 guests attended. We had the proverbial fatted calf, five lechons, a dozen adobong pato and other stuff. The finale was the fireworks display; after all, isn't this Bocaue, the Philippine capital of Fireworks? As you may have guessed, 65 rockets were launched in the air. It was almost midnight when the party ended, but the "three bishops" left earlier than that. And guess what? With all the food and drinks, I was not able to eat or drink a lot. I was busy attending to relatives and friends, taking pictures, and generally visiting. And thank goodness everybody had a camera, because with all the confusion on my part, I failed to take a picture of my parents. Lagot!
My contribution to the event was a comedy skit I wrote and directed, starring all my young nieces and nephews. It was about how my parents met, the situation around the first wedding 65 years ago, and the births of all ten children. The funny part was during her "labor," you could hear my "Mom" screaming "Huli na ito" but then again, it was repeated nine more times. We didn't have time to rehearse or have a dry run so we did it with scripts in hand, but all in all, it was fun.
More to come.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Bert's Trip to the Philippines, Part 1
Blah, blah, blah, I mean, Blog, blog, blog...
(I intermittently used some Tagalog words, for emphasis, character and color. Also, I just made up all the names to protect the guilty. Mind you, this narrative is for entertainment only, and my facts and figures are not verified. And to satisfy all those people who are always looking for mistakes, I intentionally left some. [Editor's Note: Not if I can help it!] What a gimmick!)
March 15/16, 2007 LAX
My low lights were at the beginning of the trip. As soon as I fell in line at the PAL counter at LAX, one of the passengers in line informed me at once that the flight would be delayed by three hours. Some of them even snickered about the "true" meaning of PAL, Plane Always Late. (I didn't mind it as much, since it was a lot better than the flight the day before where my sister and her family were on board--it didn't take off until the following day.) Anyway, the airline was gracious enough to give us a voucher for $8 to cover dinner that night since the flight would not leave until one o'clock the following morning, a three-hour delay. $8 elsewhere is enough money for dinner on the go, but not at the airport. It will buy you a decent enough dinner, but you have to fork over money for the drinks, which was close to three bucks for a bottle of Diet Coke. What the heck, I was on vacation. What's a few dollars, right?
It must have been a conspiracy--I am not so sure--for all 400+ of us waiting at the terminal for the plane to get ready. The conspiracy I'm talking about is the closeness of the duty free shops next to the waiting lounge. I forked over another $27 dollars for a carton of Marlboro, pasalubong sa mga smokers sa pamilya ko doon. (I found out later, they don't care anymore for Blue Seal cigarettes, local brands will do. Oh well!) In a span of three hours, more and more passengers were buying goodies. I asked the saleslady what time the shop closed and she answered she would stay open as long as there are passengers. Not a bad marketing strategy.
Anyway, when it was time to board, they had four big buses that transported passengers from the terminal to the airplane which was ten minutes away. The bus ride was so long, it seemed, I thought we were at Burbank by then. Even though they were boarding passengers by seat numbers, that system did not work out the way it was intended to be. Because some of the buses were bigger than the others, it took longer to fill up. The smaller ones that were assigned later got filled first, and took off first. And when the buses arrived, they were almost at the same time, and when the passengers queued up to the hallway leading to the plane, the order was no longer valid. It was at this time I started to make notes, mental and written, of what my experiences would be. Seriously, one of them was--not to fly PAL anymore.
Tips to future PAL passengers or any 747 riders (to make a short story long):
Have your travel agent secure a plane seat for you when he or she books your flight right away. This will get you the best seat in the house--which in this case, is the second section (after the first class) maybe seats from rows 20 to 37.
And as far as seats go, aisle C and H are NOT good when you plan to watch movies, because passengers and flight attendants are always in the aisles, blocking your view of the big screen. Good aisle seats are D and G. Remind you, this only matters when you are in the second section. The plane's seat configurations are different on other sections. Also, the second section is one of the first ones to deplane, after the first class and business class. (I figured out why they charge so much for the seats at first class section: THEY ARRIVE FIRST, after the pilots. Get it?)
In fairness to the employees of Philippine Air Lines, I found all of them to be courteous, kind, professionals, and good-natured. All of the hard feelings I had before boarding were replaced with awe and delight of unimaginable stages as I witnessed how patient they were doing their work over and above what was required, from my point of view. And mind you, it has nothing to do with the attendant assigned to our section who was not only attentive and always with a smile, but also pretty and sexy. I tell you, if I were only single, younger and richer, I would have asked Josephine to marry me.
More next time.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Why we're writing this blog
When I was in the eighth grade, I decided that I wanted to be a writer. I went through high school and college with this career path in mind, not entirely sure of how to start doing it, or what tools I would need. I got my B.A. in English because my parents were paying for it and because I figured that with a general English degree, I could learn about different types of fiction and how to write it.
Around the same time, the Internet started to gain mainstream popularity, to the point of where I was able to convince my parents to get us a computer so I could surf the 'net to keep up with my various geek-related hobbies. We had several fights over my hogging of the phone lines at night, and my dad took to email with a rapidity that astonished me.
I've always known that my dad was a creative guy. He used to paint when I was younger, and I remember one day where I got into his oil paints and accidentally ate half a tube of black. Man, was he pissed. He tried his hand at sculpture, and got two of his pieces into the Brea Art Gallery. The last time I was home for Christmas, he was still working in collages, sculpture, and of course, in words.
See, what I didn't realize until a few years ago is that my dad is an amazing writer. He's always been funny with his college buddies telling jokes; he's just as funny (and possibly a bit corny) in his writing. He started writing long missives to his friends and the rest of our large extended family, and gained a small following.
If there's one thing that my dad and I always clash on, it's the fact that he wants me to become a successful writer. "Why don't you just write a book?" he always asks, and I always tell him that I'm not ready to, I'm not skilled enough, I don't have time... a myriad of excuses that we both know are bullshit. In truth, I'm scared and I don't know how to convey that to him.
At the same time, I know that he's wanted to become a published writer, too. He wrote two songs that he tried to get on the radio, he tried writing a children's book for my niece, he's tried to get into magazines. Living in New York City, I know what an uphill battle he's got ahead of him if he wants to gain credibility.
So last Christmas, I decided to give my dad the gift of publishing. After doing some research into the free blogger systems out there, I decided to get him an account here so that I could upload his stories (edit his grammar a little bit) and the world could see just what a great writer my dad is.
The reason why I'm uploading his stories rather than him doing it himself is that a) we live 3,000 miles apart and I don't trust in my ability to teach him how to use this blog over the phone and b) he wants me to polish up his grammar to acceptable levels of English. I've pretty much left his text alone, except for changing some verb tenses and adding particles of speech where they usually should go. All the phrases in Tagalog I've left intact because I don't know what they mean (and that's a blog entry for a different day).
Every other day or so, I'll either put up a new story or dig one up from his vast archives. I might pop in and contribute an article or two, but only if I think it really relates to what he's talking about.
I hope you enjoy my dad's work.
Around the same time, the Internet started to gain mainstream popularity, to the point of where I was able to convince my parents to get us a computer so I could surf the 'net to keep up with my various geek-related hobbies. We had several fights over my hogging of the phone lines at night, and my dad took to email with a rapidity that astonished me.
I've always known that my dad was a creative guy. He used to paint when I was younger, and I remember one day where I got into his oil paints and accidentally ate half a tube of black. Man, was he pissed. He tried his hand at sculpture, and got two of his pieces into the Brea Art Gallery. The last time I was home for Christmas, he was still working in collages, sculpture, and of course, in words.
See, what I didn't realize until a few years ago is that my dad is an amazing writer. He's always been funny with his college buddies telling jokes; he's just as funny (and possibly a bit corny) in his writing. He started writing long missives to his friends and the rest of our large extended family, and gained a small following.
If there's one thing that my dad and I always clash on, it's the fact that he wants me to become a successful writer. "Why don't you just write a book?" he always asks, and I always tell him that I'm not ready to, I'm not skilled enough, I don't have time... a myriad of excuses that we both know are bullshit. In truth, I'm scared and I don't know how to convey that to him.
At the same time, I know that he's wanted to become a published writer, too. He wrote two songs that he tried to get on the radio, he tried writing a children's book for my niece, he's tried to get into magazines. Living in New York City, I know what an uphill battle he's got ahead of him if he wants to gain credibility.
So last Christmas, I decided to give my dad the gift of publishing. After doing some research into the free blogger systems out there, I decided to get him an account here so that I could upload his stories (edit his grammar a little bit) and the world could see just what a great writer my dad is.
The reason why I'm uploading his stories rather than him doing it himself is that a) we live 3,000 miles apart and I don't trust in my ability to teach him how to use this blog over the phone and b) he wants me to polish up his grammar to acceptable levels of English. I've pretty much left his text alone, except for changing some verb tenses and adding particles of speech where they usually should go. All the phrases in Tagalog I've left intact because I don't know what they mean (and that's a blog entry for a different day).
Every other day or so, I'll either put up a new story or dig one up from his vast archives. I might pop in and contribute an article or two, but only if I think it really relates to what he's talking about.
I hope you enjoy my dad's work.
A set of three important words
I never thought I was capable of saying them. Several years ago, it would have been unheard of. From me, anyway.
"Tama na po!"
I bet you are thinking of what context these three words were used. I bet too that some of you might even been thinking of something naughty. Well, to set the records straight from the beginning, here is the story.
I was in West Covina, one late morning last week to purchase a balikbayan box. West Covina is now one of the hubs of Filipino activities in Southern California, with lots of big supermarkets, restaurants, bakeries, small stores, banks, and other remittances offices. I got hungry after I acquired the box, and Toto's Lechon was just around the corner. Time for an early lunch.
The array of trays of foods are mouth-watering, more so if you are hungry. The grill is right there behind the counter, so you can smell the delicious aroma of burning meat, like barbecued chicken and pork chops. The smoke goes up the vent, but some is left inside the store, to permeate to the unconscious mind the idea of a home-cooked meal.
The two-course combination lunch costs around five dollars. Before I made my selection, the lady scooped two heaping full ladles of rice on my plate, then added some more. Normally, I would have welcomed that generosity. I like rice. No, I love rice!
And that's when I said: "Tama na po." "Isang sandok lang."
Still reverberating in my mind were all the comments and greetings bestowed upon me by friends and relatives I had not seen for quite sometime during my last vacation in March to the Philippines.
"Ang taba mo!" Oh, there's another three words.
When I was growing up, it was a nice thing to say--a compliment really, because it meant you were not starving, or you were eating healthy. Being payat then was synonymous to a lack of healthy food, or just plain food. The rich people were mataba, the poor, payat.
But maybe not so anymore nowadays. Maybe I was just mataba. Period.
Well, probably so. I gained five more pounds while I was on vacation. So, one of the things I promised to do was lose a few pounds when I got back. I remembered when my first daughter got married, I went into a diet mode. Hundreds of pictures were going to be taken, not to mention the video of the ceremonies and reception. By simply eating less, with the same daily activities without joining any exercise facilities, I was able to get down to my desirable weight.
This time is a different story though. It's much harder to lose weight because of my age. My metabolism is down. I don't burn as many calories as before. And maybe, I am not as active as before too.
Anyway, the lady with the ladle gave herself a quiet smile. Or maybe it was a grin. I didn't ask why. I just assumed she had the idea that rice causes my weight problem. Or she was happy that there would be more rice for others. Or maybe she asked herself why I did not offer to cut down on the pork chop and lumpia. What? Sira ba ang ulo niya?
Anyway, in a span of six weeks, I lost ten pounds. I weigh myself everyday, sometimes morning, afternoon and evening. I eat more fruits and vegetables. More fish and chicken. Less rice and bread. I cut down also on soda. Eat the same amount of nuts. Consume the same amount of wine. But basically, I just eat less. No more second servings. No more evening snacks while watching TV. Sometimes, I can not believe my self. I found self-control!
Would it have something to do with my chest pains lately? Or the stories I heard about friends and relatives having strokes or heart attacks? Or the constant reminders from my better half? Or maybe both.
Today, while waiting for the doctor in the private waiting room for my three-month follow up- checkup, I noticed a poster on the wall. It gave the ideal weight for a person's height. Something that has to do with body fat ratio. Mine, at five feet seven inches, I should be 153 pounds at the heaviest. Wow, is that right? I have another thirteen pounds to go?
I had the urge to rip that poster off the wall right then and there. And when I calmed down and mellowed out, I thought of another way to combat this angry feeling. I took out my pen and wrote on one corner of the poster the initials ATM. And this I hope will be my rallying cry to succeed.
Wish me luck with my new ATM motto: "Ang Taba Mo."
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