On June 15, 2020 Judge Rinalda Estacio-Montesa convicted Maria Ressa of Cyber Libel. July 30, 2020, The PBS Distribution released the Documentary “A Thousand Cuts” Written and Directed by Ramona S. Diaz.
The Documentary didn’t catch waves by then in the Philippines. The traditional media outlets paid little attention to it. Meanwhile, the Philippines’ social media, deluged by troll armies, vilified Maria Ressa and Rappler, instigated by Duterte.
It took a week for the Malacanang to acknowledge Maria Ressa’s win of the Nobel Prize on October 8, 2021. Joe Biden of the U.S. even ahead of his congratulation.
It appeared as a dilemma. The one they despised and damaged, now won the prestigious award coming from the Nobel Prize, one of the most world’s respected body.
Two weeks ago, we embarked on our first Road-Trip to Toronto to visit our kids and grandkids.
Mur googled our route. We will spend our first night at Thunder Bay. Our second night should be at Hampton Inn at Sadbury, skipping Sault Ste. Marie. That’s two hours less. And by midday the next day, we reach Toronto.
As a passenger, I keep my wife/driver alert and amused. It’s a bonus I enjoyed the roadside’s scenic beauty; it’s lakes and rock mountains formation.
I am puzzled. It’s funny how they named their towns and localities. A town called Serendipity amused me. I forgot what the word means.
I asked Mur.
She said. “It’s a movie”.
I laughed!
“There are two movies of that title. I mean what the word Serendipity mean?”.
“Who cares,”. She said!
I searched it up on my cell. No signal. I realized – not all of Ontario had internet.
Meanwhile, I got piqued again by this place called Yellow-Brick Road. That’s Elton John’s songs!
I almost wanted to jump out of our car with this one: Wawa!
Now we reach a point where trucks and cars are getting scarcer and scarcer. And no cell tower in sight, meaning no GPS (Global Positioning System) guide.
Four hours of that eerie quiet place, on its bend, an arrow sign appeared: Hwy 144. 80 kms. Its entrance – an unasphalted desolated dirty track, forested on both sides. Thirty minutes passed, we didn’t see any vehicle neither coming onto us or behind us.
Mur remembered a story she read on the internet about a couple disappeared after losing their signal and then found dead afterwards.
Once in a while, we saw a car coming onto us.
“I think we should come back,”. Mur said.
“Come back…? That’s another 8 hours before we get to Hampton Inn for our nightcap,”. I said.
“Let’s make a distressed wave if ever we met a car coming onto us. If they stop, we can ask if we’re threading the right way,”.
So, we waited. 30 minutes passed. Cloud of dust approached us. We both waved at the passing car.
It zoomed at us. Bathed us with dust.
We stopped, just wait for another.
“How can we make a distressed wave?”.
“Maybe like a car wiper blade cruising on storm.”.
We stopped our car and waited.
A Camper Truck coming!
We waved our hand like a busy car wiper blade.
The Truck passed us! But Mur looked at her side mirror. The car stopped and drove backward.
I come down, approached the White old couple.
“Are we on the right track?”.
“Yeah. You save two hours drive,”.
“How come street is like this?”.
“It’s not government’s. A Loggers’ road. Only Logs Truck passed here,”.
“On our way back home, we’ll not skip Sault Ste. Marie. Nevermind if it’s two hours more. I pity our car,”. Mur said.
For the MPHS’s IV-D Class Batch 68, Captain Francisco Valderama is a doting father. On furlough, he gathers together his flocks to a class reunion: Habit he cultivated.
During the IV-D 2015 reunion, he found my FB account. On Skype, got hold of me – the lost member of the IV-D Class.
In 2017, Capt Valderama’s ship dislodged soybeans feeds in Iran, and told me he can come home for his January 29, 2018 birthday.
I missed Valde’s birthday, and the IV-D rituals. I apologized.
To make up, I suggested we do it again. Valde asked Nonnie, his Lieutenant (Isagani Indon’s wife- the couple are both member of IV-D to organize). We met at the SM’s Food Court.
To my surprised the Committee of the 2019 reunion of the MPHS’s Batch 1968, (about twenty of them) came, too. I expected that only the four of us; the Indon’s couple, myself, and Mario del Poso.
Chow time at Savory. Who’s paying…? Valde volunteered to pay for 10.
An idea floats as our lunch progressed. MPHS’s alumni who lives overseas should fork 400 dollars for their contribution.
Valde sat beside me, spotting him counting pesos mixed with US Dollar bill. Without qualms or hesitation, he handed to Nonnie the 400 US dollars – instructed Nonnie to give his contribution for the next year’s Batch ‘68 reunion.
When we get together at Valde’s residence, February 8, 2018, Nonnie showed us receipt of Valde’s 400 dollars contribution.
Only 14 of us gathered together at Taal, Pulilan – Valde’s residence; 6 women and 8 men.
It’s all fun reminiscing about the good old day. Each of us contributed hilarious insights into our naivety.
Isagani’s story had me dropped me to the floor.
He said, because of me he forced his father to buy him an underwear!
Everyone’s eye focused on him with great anticipation.
One time, Gani noticed that girls, their fingers half covered their eyes, giggles while snatching a furtive look at me. And it’s going on non-stop. Gani got curious. What are they snooping at?
Glanced at what piqued the girl’s interest, he saw my balls and bird dangles as I had a loosen short without an underwear. Gani headed home. He asked his dad to buy him an underwear.
Valde talks about the country’s ongoing political situation in the Philippines with Orbito, Eduardo Salinas, Manuel Inconcillo and Rey Santos, while the girls discussed those passed away classmates.
Middle of August this year, I saw on FB the demise of Valderama. Right away, I contacted Arceli, Nonnie, and texted the Mapoy couple. Then I learned, Capt. Valderama, considered as the doting father of IV-D class, went home for good. Stayed in Leyte. Got into an accident and died at the hospital.
I talked also to Nonnie, Gani’s wife. And later on, Gani joined our conversation with his brand of misdirected and incongruous humor.
A week later, I saw a picture of Gani in FB announcing his departure. Two weeks in succession, two members of the IV-D Class lost their lives. One, the doting father of IV-D class, the other a humorist of his own brand.
Three requirements to be a scammer’s victim. One must be dummy, greedy, and needy.
Dummies are heavy favorites of the scam artist. The scammers would rather dental floss than pick their brain for them. Easy money. That’s their inspiration.
Of the greedy, they sweat a bit. It required a bait to lure them.
The needy are dumbbells for the scammer. They are weights to thicken up their skin. Hardens up their hearts. Toughen up their soul.
They cared less about the despair inflicted on their victims’s psyche.
Naive of how the actual world operates, and desperate to finish college, I wanted a job. I answered a small want ad in the Manila Bulletin.
I couldn’t forget that Tiaoqui Bldg, in Plaza Sta Cruz Manila at Avenida, my first incursions to the city’s jungle to look for a job, and being wolf down by a pack of wolves in 1970.
15 people queued up when I reach Room 504. When it opened, 20 people rushed out, each of them holding paper.
A respectable man, wearing a Barong Tagalog, introduced himself as Mr. Astrologo. As he accosted us, it reminded me of our Office Practise room when I am taking up Secretarial Course.
“This is our processing center,” boomed the authoritative voice of Mr. Astrologo.
30 pairs of eyes engaged on the pomposity of his gesture ala Jimmy Swaggart, preaching.
“Our plant in Sucat Paranaque needs clerks, factory workers, and supervisors. To process your application, we’ll give you two tests: Theoretical, that’s 30% – an exam. And Practical, you’ll sell our products outside.
The earnestness of his approach projected he means business.
Another staff with thick glasses distributed application papers and examination sheets.
Mr. Astrologos’ booming voice overwhelmed the room again.
“Get your picture taken at the adjacent room, pay five pesos to attach your picture on your application.”
The questionnaire reads…
Fred wants to paint his house. If Fred’s house with 5 rooms requires 20 gallons of paints, who killed Magellan?
Is this a trick or what!?
I went to the photo session 15 minutes earlier than we supposed to hand in the exam. I paid the five pesos. A hooded camera perched on the tripod…No clicking sound of shutter heard. Had they shot me…?
When I came back to my sit along with others, Mr. Astrologo explained the practical examination. Meanwhile, the man with glasses distributed a bunch of mimeographed paper.
“That’s the Family Savings Plan Coupons. Sell those. Your buyer entitled for 40-50% discount from GoodEarth Emporium, Uniwide Sales, Shoe World, etc.. Youl’ll be getting 10% commission. As you may not come back, you must leave your Residence Certificate to locate you. Those who don’t have handy, an office on the ground floor sold birth certificate for five pesos.
It had me thinking, Who’s going to buy this piece of crap? Though I feared they can trace me if I didn’t come back, I returned those coupons.
“I quit. Just give me the picture taken of me. I paid for it.”
The man with glasses escorted me to a different passage door. I met Mr. Astrologo again.
“Why quit? You had 30%? He showed me the result of my exam.
“It’s hard to sell a crap of paper.”
“Don’t son. You have potential.”.
That boosted my hope.
“Visible products are what you need.”.
He left the room. Decent looking man came back with him and handed me the netted plastic bag with bottled Choco-Vim.
“There. That’s not a piece of crap.” Astrologo said.
I peddled those Choco-Vim. And I sold two more boxes of it.
“Happy?”. He said.
I am hired as supervisor.
So excited! I can finish college now.
Goons loitered around by Monday, at the Tiaoqui Bldg, Room 504.
No company holding office by that name. And who the hell is Mr. Astrologo?
The coldness of the hand grenade on my clenched fist breathes fire.
On March 16, 2021, a suspect, Robert Aaron, shoots six women of Asian descent at the Atlanta Spa Shootings. The killing feared to be an Anti-Asians bias.
The New York Times reported: Expert says: ‘male supremacy’ motivates the rise in hate crimes.
Keisha Lance Bottoms, Atlanta Mayor, said: It’s not yet categorized as a hate crime. The rise in violence against Asian Americans is unacceptable. It has to stop. Crime against any community is a crime against us all.
This reminded me of the article I wrote: “The Little Fire”. in 1993 at the Filipino Journal.
“All Filipinos are thieves”. A four-word racial slur uttered by a SuperValu cashier to a grandmother raised the BTU’s of an already bubbling cauldron. Likened to an arsonist’s little fire, a wisp of wind sparked conflagration.
Heavy turn out of protester milled around the SuperValu Supermarket on May 8, 1993 at McPhilipps St. One placards brandished: “Superstore, SuperRacist”.
A friend of mine, Ruben Bal-Oro, sensed me his Little Fire story.
To celebrate their 20th Wedding Anniversary, he and his wife dined at Bonanza Steak House. Ben got beef. His wife, the eat-all-you-can Shrimp Platter. Her order tasted salty. So Ben swapped his meal. The server came. “You Filipinos order one, and a couple would eat”.
Ben said nothing. He splayed the shrimps on the floor.
“You did it on purpose,” charged the server.
“Oh! I am sorry. I am clumsy.
Ruben asked his wife to order another meal. While the server cleans up, he strolled over to the Salad Bar. Holding his plate covered with enormous amount of Salad Dressings and kicked the leg of the Salad table. His plate fell off. And the Salad dressing spilled over, covering the entire Salad Bar.
It made a scene. The Manager came over.
“What can I do? Got tripped off. Sorry. I bungled.”
The Manager whisked him away, asked him to leave. Otherwise, he’d call a police.
“We’re not done yet with our meal and walk back to their table.
His wife asked him what he’s up to.
“We will teach them a lesson. He stood up and went to the washroom, and pulled the fire alarm. Commotion ensued.
The Manager confronts Ruben.
“Okay. Let’s make a deal. I’ll reimburse your money. I’ll not call the police. Just got out.”
.My father wanted his steamed rice soft. I liked mine bottom-burnt. My mother, to pamper her only son, succumbed to my desire: A chance my dad waited to display his histrionic locution.
He would scoop a handful of the rice, raise it four inches, then loosen his grip. As the grain clanged on, he recited his useless mantra: Why don’t you just cook sand?!
I witnessed my father how he had been least prioritized. One time his volcano grumbling on his chest erupted. He asked my mother point blank… “Who do you love more… Your children or me?”.
Inay gasped. “That’s the most stupid question I’ve ever heard!”, her voice cracked.
“It’s your children!. Your flesh… we’re talking here!”.
Stunned, my father wanted to back out. But trapped already. He spewed more explosives.
“If there’s anyone – he stabbed his finger on his chest – invest your love in me. Children would go away, and you’d only have me to care for you.
That sudden outburst of immature indignation shocked my mother. She allowed her tears gushed across her cheeks.
“You just don’t understand…”.
That expression stuck with me. An enigma…? It waited for connection.
I am least-prioritized, too. Yes. But with sophistication.
My wife seemed myopic in some obvious things I might need. For our children she sees beneath the surface. She’s so intuitive.
On occasions, I thought, I am inheritor of hand-me-downs. When she buys socks, mitts, or Winter boots, mine would wait for a sale. If I have my boots in Spring, my wife would say – since I survived the Winter, I might as well save it for next year. My children get theirs on time. She doesn’t worry if those are expensive ones.
I complained. And she answered: You’re an adult. You can manage. Your children can’t.
I like to put justice into this. But I avoid my father’s style of hasty approach, lest I would appear immature.
I remembered reading “Love Signs” by Linda Goodman. I learned from her book.
My wife has three “M’s,” as her priorities. Marriage, Money, and Motherhood. She already dispensed the ‘Marriage part’. That’s me. Money came next. She had a career. Now, she culminates on “Motherhood”. Then it clicked! And I recalled my mother’s appeal to my father, “You just don’t Understand”.
That’s it. That’s the mystery. The Motherhood thing!
In a lovey-dovey mood one evening, I teased her of her overzealous nurturing of our kids. I placate her, she could be the next Mother Teresa.
In a serious, troubled tone, I asked her. “Am I side by side with my children in her heart?”. She looked at me, rolled her eyes on the ceiling. And she laughed! I am ashamed.
She became quiet and explained. That sublime feeling of Motherhood, where I grasp in my palm the destinies of my son and daughters – explains why I exist. The joy I am needed: where I fulfill the grand scheme of things at their dependency stage.
Now, I know what’s behind my mother’s “You don’t understand”. I am sorry for my father that my mother was not as articulate as my wife.
A place had its own ruins. Town, its own idiot. Baliwag, my town had Porong. Rilis, my barrio, had Inong Isabela.
I thought then of Inong Isabela as a cheap source of entertainment. His tales of adventure as part of the gang who buy and sell merchandise in Isabela – one of the Northern Province of the Philippines amused me. It’s funny how he always starts his story that became his mantra.
“Aba, eh… nung nagbibiyahe pa ko sa Isabela…”. (You know… when I am still doing business in Isabela) That’s where he got his ‘Isabela’ appendage to his name. He rehashed his stories. But for me, his varied rendition of the same story made it hilarious.
People get pissed off with it. For them, it’s a stickup to extort money.
“Knock it off, please!” Here’s five cents, and shooed him away. People of Rilis had enough of his outrageous escapades in Isabela.
His mantra didn’t work for me, as I couldn’t spare a dime. But he’s elated. I always had ears for his stories.
People said, Inong is a Bible wielding idiot. When he carried his worn out book in his sorties, I knew I am his only audience.
One day, Inong Isabela invited me to his hut, seduced me for more of his stories. At his isolated hut above the bank of an irrigation canal, too far from the cluster of houses, he stood up from his limping chair, Bible in his hand. I remained seated in the Ipil-Ipil tree beam with cogon grass walling behind me.
The leper story which Inong took from the New Testament stuck with me. He’s stricken with so much emotion tinged with conviction that you’d question: “Was he an idiot?
His voice croaked in a nasal drawl, making me quiver as he read the passage to me.
A man afflicted with leprosy approached Jesus and fell with his face on the ground and begged him, ‘Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean. Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. “Be clean!” And the man’s leprosy left him. Jesus commanded him, go to the priest, make it known you’re cured, so you can get permission to mingle with society again.
For a long while, Inong Isabela glared at the sky. He spun around and looked at me. Kernel of tears glistened against his bearded face. I wish to go back, he said.
I tinkered… Where?
In a guttural tone, Inong said: During Jesus’ time, they despised the lepers, shunned away with shame and horror, because they are sinners.
It took me 15 years to figure out why Inong Isabela gave me that story and why he wished to go back. The leper and he walked the same path. Inong Isabela just gone.
My encounter with Inong Isabela reeled back because I am reminded of three Televangelist famous figures. David Koresh of Waco, Texas, who hostages his own parishioner. Jimmy Swaggart with lusty flesh. And Jim Baker, who finagled people’s money through his PTL sham. Personality wise, Inong Isabela is an amoeba compared to these people. But he got the purest heart of them all. A ruin to revere for, but a barrio idiot.
As we endowed with much poverty then, an idea struck me. God should spread our predicament to as many people as possible? So they can enjoy it too.
Its my birthday on Christmas. I had to humor myself, at least.
Yuletide season meant movies to me.
I used to kiss my relative’s hand in our neighborhood, hoping they would bless me with 50 cents for a movie – enduring the stench of hog’s swill on their fingers. Of course, I wouldn’t get any from them.
I knew of one distant uncle who lives in Concepcion, whom I heard is rich. So, I trudged about 10 kilometers to hunt him. They prepared for church when I got to their Bungalow type house. I waited for Sixty minutes. They never offered me anything to eat, meanwhile debating whose son I am.
To get rid of me, they gave me 50 cents. I’ll go straight to Cine Irmen, watch a double program movie with a cartoon.
At another birthday of mine, I am so endeared with Bitso–bitso, a braided donut, the size and shape of an eggplant dipped in white sugar. So obsessed with it that whenever my mother brought me along on the midnight mass; I fantasised over it during a boring sermon. And as I fall asleep, I sneezed ‘biitsso’ instead of ‘haatsing’. So embarrassed of the restrained laughter from people around us, she pinched me.
Exchange gift at school has always been my dilemma. My mom didn’t want me to take part. No money for it. Neither do I like to stay home on these occasions. So, I devised a trick. All I need is 50 cents. I asked Tata Menggoy, my father’s fraternal uncle, to give me a Peso, and I will fetch him water to fill up their big jar. Then I bought ‘KendingButiki’, a candy the size of a lizard’s egg. I wrapped it. Gifts collected, numbered, and displayed at the teacher’s desk. Then we would pick a rolled paper in a basket. Matched the figure listed on presents laid on the table. Whoever got mine, they poured their candies on their palm. They swore. Grieved. Disgusted of how their four pesos gift had become. Chucked one to their mouth and spit it out.
Whenever my mother had a dizzying spell, she would ask me to accompany her to take a morning troll at the Baliwag Public Market going to the Angat River. She found relief doing that.
Observation of sights and sounds provoked my juvenile sensitivity.
The street-cleaner pushed his drunk decayed cart, the wheel of which squeaked in pitiful anguish. His long pole ‘walis-tingting’ swished hard from the ground, spit curse, and grief.
Further on, lined up of trucks unloading fruits, vegetables and fish. It surprises me when they unload their goods. They do it with tunes. ‘Angisaaydalawa, pagkataposaytatlo’. That I don’t understand. Then I heard vendors talking of gouging prices, dirty tricks, cheating buyers.
As we approached the belittled ‘Little Baho’ area, Little Baguio before when it hadn’t been Baliwag’s garbage dump. Putrid smell wafted through the air. My mom hurried up whenever we reached this point.
Down at the river bank. As the sun peeped, a shaft of orange beam took shots of the pristine water that shimmered and sparkled. While at the distance a fisher in his boat plunged in his net, sheared the virginal river. The water protested with a solid splash. That disturbed a couple in the shrubs; with blankets on their heads rushed on the Bustos side of the town, seemed ashamed being seen.
The fisherman pulled up his net. A bunch of shining ‘Ayungin’ or ‘Biya’ struggling to wriggle while clinging to the trap. Oh! I relished the sight.
When we reached our favorite spot, the big Burgundy rock with a smooth surface, we sat there and dangled our feet. The water kissed the rock forming bubbles, disappeared and reappeared, receded and rippled back. The air is crisp, mild and mountain fresh, soothed us with delight.
“No way…,”. Pepit became paranoid. Couldn’t blame him. He had been a constant recipient of Tabog’s Capital ‘D’. Disaster borne out of his ingenuity.
This time, however, his invitation might not hatch unusual incident.
In 1974, with our Bio-date stuck in our armpit, we thronged in one of the four rows of a long winding line up to register to Overseas Employment Development Board. We took a chance we might get called to work in Saudi Arabia.
The spot where we gained access is a hawkers haven. Vendors of all sorts enjoyed plying their trade.
To the front of us, muscled men, deduced from their posture and stature, would register perhaps as stevedores. While at our rear, male with dark skin tone wish to apply maybe as masons or peons.
Tabog thought of the Soap Opera game to while away time waiting.
“Play of words. Spell disaster…?
I said to Pepit to calm this nerve.
Still hesitant, but he okayed.
“Here’s how we play. We pitch sentence, starting with A, B, C., etc… The phrase must jibe the sentence that preceded to create a story,” Tabog explained.
“Okay. I’ll start with A, Pepit follows it with B and Jessie with C,”. Get it.
“All people line up here are stupid.”. Tabog said. The stevedores in front of us threw a sharp stare at us.
“Uh… Oh! I don’t like this anymore,”. Pepit said.
“Come on,”. I said. “You’ll miss the fun. Yours is B,”.
“B…B…B… Boy, it’s hard,”. Pepit said.
“My turn. C. Cut it off,”. I said.
Tabog saw a dog.
“D. Dog. I’ll name her Sex,”.
The stevedores, the vendors, the masons, and the peons swung their heads on us.
“E,”. Pepit said. “Excellent, but embarrassing,”.
“F…F...F…”. Jessie. Pepit now get into the groove.
“Funny, too. One time I took Sex for a walk. She ran away. Took me till 4:00 am searching. A police asked me. I said, looking for Sex. He took me to jail.
“G,”. Tabog your turn.
“German Shepherd is Sex’s breed. So when she smelled I am a Jew, she bit,”. Surprised, Tabog knew history.
“H,”. Honeymoon, Pepit paused.
“Honeymoon. I took Sex in a motel. I told the clerk I wanted a special room for Sex. Every room here is for sex. The clerk said, you don’t understand. Sex keeps me awake at night. The clerk said, me, too.”,
“I,”. Your turn, Jessie.
“I placed an ad I lost Sex. A few days later, a lady knocked at my door. She read my ad I wanted sex. You don’t understand, Miss, I am looking for a dog. I do doggy, too,”.
“J,”. Tabog, that’s for you, I said.
“In front of a Judge, we fought for the dog custody. Your Honor, I had Sex even before our marriage. The Judge said, Me, too. Only after marriage, Sex left me. Me, too,”.
The stevedores, the vendors, the masons, and the peons laughed at us.
We are on “M.” now. It’s Tabog’s turn when he saw a Ford Fiera’s Police Patrol cruised at the street we’re lining up.
“Mobile,”. He shouted. Vendors scampered in all directions, panicking, gathering all their goods and wares, scurried pushing their carts.
After the commotion, the OEDB office already closed. Our Bio-data remained in our armpit.
When I hooked on reading, I wanted to be a writer. I had no money for a snack during my years at Mariano Ponce High School, so I hang out at the library, devouring books.
“Mga Ibong Mandaragit” a social novel by Amado V. Hernandez, heavier, compared to Noli and Fili of Rizal and of Lope K Santos, “Banaag at Sikat”.. The printed text gave me an exquisite pleasure. I read everything my eyes laid on. Because of this, I earned the ire of my mother whenever she spotted me on our hammock barnacled on the book.
My father didn’t want me to be a writer. “No money on it,”. He said. Be a Secretary, instead.
I followed him. But deep in my mind, writing lingered.
It’s ironic when I finished Secretarial, I landed a job as “Inserter” one, who inserts lining inside the gloves, which a High School graduate can do. Cherry Coronado, my co-worker, introduced me to Karl Marx, Voltaire, and Mao Tse Tung. My background with Amado V. Hernandez helped me appreciates the philosophies of these revolutionaries. He invited me to attend “Teach ins,” they called it. Soon, he convinced me to organize a union. David Konfeld, the factory owner, sacked us.
That event inspired me to write my first story. It’s about a worker who engineered smuggling out rolls and rolls of leather, use for producing gloves. My protagonist wanted to retaliate for the company’s unfair labor practices. I gave it a tragic ending.
Cherry convinced me to go ‘underground’ to the mountain’ – to what he said, the path that leads to ‘noble and highest struggle,’.
“No way,”. Had enough of Karl Marx.
I found employment again at Gelmart Industries, as utility boy. There, I courted Reming, a chubby girl. She reminded me of an image printed on Darigold Milk’s label. Gave her a poem. She’s impressed; although it’s a crap. Guessed, I am not chivalrous enough – I never paid her jeepney fare in going to work. She dumped me.
I wrote also my friendship with Rollie Tibayan. The company fired us both. They thought we wore a polo-shirt, sewn up out of fabrics sneaked out from the company’s premises. Outraged, we had undergone a police-like interrogation. Terrified, I poured all the shock and torment of that proceedings in papers.
I finished two novelettes during my stint in Saudi Arabia. The place is heaven for my reading and writing. But I am not with my family. When we got to Winnipeg, Filipino Journal published my writings. Somehow I am home, but not quite. Then blogs and vlogs comes along and I retired.
It is through my father’s initiative that this Grade 1 School at Sambat, a Sityu in Panaon Ibaba, Quezon came into fruition.
All of us are Grade 1 here. Our age didn’t matter. I was 5 years then. The four boys on the top row, older.
Through the Bayanihan effort,headed by my father, they built the school. But no teacher.
My dad delivered his concern to the Unisan Mayor.
“But, Sir, the building is already there. Crude desks and chairs. Is that too much to ask”. My father pleaded. It fell on deaf ears. He repeated his concern to the Governor. This time, Mrs. Gonda agreed to come.
I am prepped by my father before the school opened. He acted as my teacher: lettered the alphabets on Manila Paper and made me recognize them. He finger-pointed each letter, pronounced them with a loud voice. It terrified me. But their shapes and form had them in my brain. Then, he paired the letter with other letter forming words. I am the youngest, yet the smartest.
My mom, whenever she took me to the school, she powdered me. “I don’t want you to smell fish, like your classmates,”.
One day, Mrs. Gonda startled by the continued fidgeting of the entire class. A faint chug… chug sound echoed. Curious what creature could emit that sound; Our teacher tucked us where the sound comes from.
Our hearts filled with excitement of unequal wonder.
At the valley, a giant tangerine monster spewed smokes. Moved back and forth. Shoved stones and earth. Boulders and trees. We stayed outdoor the whole afternoon watching.
Mrs. Gonda said, “That’s a Caterpillar Bulldozer.”.
I’m excited to tell that momentous event to my parents. My enthusiasm bathed with coldness. My parents stared at each other.
Before 1957 ended, we moved to Baliwag.
I found this class picture from our family album. I wondered… why did we live in Sambat…? Baliwag is where my father grew up…? And why did we come back?
My mother answered: I complained to your Lolo Valentin, your father spent so much time on his friends rather than us. So your Lolo whipped him naked in front of me. Humiliated, he stowed away. That brought him to his cousin in Sambat. We returned, because we’re afraid you’ll remain ignorant in that far-flung place.
Boarding late at the Whittaker’s Shuttle Bus going to work, I took the last seat at the back beside Conrad. He lives at the 3rd Floor of the Sulaymaniyah Housing provided for us by the company. We nodded each time we crossed our path. But I didn’t recall we ever talked.
Conrad works at the Accounting Dept. Myself at the Materials Management.
So pissed off that morning, in a whisper, I dumped to him my disdain to Ben, my roommate. (not his actual name)
“Every night,” I said, “He brings his friends of different nationalities in our apartment. One time, I caught his Lebanese boyfriend, pants down; while Ben is beside him, getting amorous.”
Conrad squinted his eyes, puzzled. I ignored his reaction.
“And he’s so disgusting… A Pig! He never cleaned up. Made our stove as storage of gunk. Couldn’t bear it, I clean our kitchen area all the time. We divided the stove burner. Mine would be the two right burners. His would be the left. That didn’t solve my piss,”.
Conrad chuckled.
“You can share with me at our kitchen, upstairs. My roommates are partner already. And I am on my own.” Conrad, without hesitation, offered.
Since then, I cooked and ate my meals at Conrad’s place. That started the blossoming of our friendship.
When Whittaker lost the contract of managing the Military Hospital of Tabuk and Khamis, they promised to provide us a transfer of Iqama if ever we wished to find another job elsewhere.
AMG, Allied Medical Group of Britain, the bidder winner hired me as Secretary to the Manager of Materials Management Dept. Later, Accountants, Conrad included, Data Input Clerks, and Armand Adlawan, as the Medical Director’s Secretary, followed.
Not much work happening at the Materials Dept., Jim McDonell, the Financial Controller, borrowed me. So, five from Whittaker in one Department.
Soon AMG rented a Villa for our Housing and a Nissan Patrol Van for our service vehicle. Conrad drove for us. He possesses a Saudi Driver License.
I am his constant companion: We seek bargain sales at Batha, Malaz, Al Khariyah. I learned Tennis because of him. We shared stories of our families. We traded deep personal things of our respective lives.
Later, he confessed that AMG paid him extra for driving us. His service is ten times better if we have the company driver.
To me, Conrad is the older brother I don’t have.
A year passed, Armand Adlawan, together with his boss, moved to Jubail.
Conrad suggested we should visit Armand. With British office mate with us, he drove five hours and a half to Jubail. Then we swam at Half-Moon Bay Beach at Al-Khobar.
They enjoyed swimming, and I badgered him for us to go home back to Riyadh.
“You know, Jess, You’re so insensitive. You only think of yourself,”. That’s a familiar refrain I often heard from people close to me.
Conrad’s showered me of his positive vibes. I got transferred to Tabuk, to help the Financial Controller to prepare their monthly billings. Paul Nicholson, the rush-rush boss, the ticking time bomb you feared exploding at your unguarded moment, and a racist, threw me in constant anger. I sensed this to Conrad. To my surprise, he made a work related ruse to Jim McDonell to visit me, stayed at my flat for two days and caught up with what we missed. He entranced me of his positivity.
And then the shocked that I learned from his son, Thirdy, that he drove the car that met his demise. Bye my friend.
On July 13, 1991, I wrote a letter to Conrad Siega, one of my best friends in Saudi. I told him of my first two jobs in 1989 – the year when we landed in Winnipeg.
EDP hired me as Data Entry Operator (keying) details printed on Air Lines Tickets. Accustomed on male office environment in Saudi, surrounded by female workers made me conscious. And I had a supervisor: stunning as Sharon Stone. She has shapely legs and milky thighs. It disturbed me. She sprinkles magnetic field on my terminal; it choked my fingers typing. Result: my three weeks probationary period ended. I ran short uniting speed and accuracy in typing.
Orderly is my second job at Tuxedo Villa Nursing Home. I got an orientation on day 1: about the company, building, facilities, etc. On day 2, assigned at Station L, vegetable section, they called it. People destined here for ‘total care’. Confused. Cranky. Dependent. Violent. They should be up in the morning, do their personal grooming, hygiene, dress them and transfer on their wheelchair. Or walk them to the big dining room at every meal.
‘Pogi’ an Orderly whom I didn’t see any semblance that merited that name, assigned to me as my buddy. I followed him, watched his mechanical execution.
On my third day, I am on my own. I panicked, but I calmed myself, arranged my thoughts. So … I got eight people. Up by 8:30 am. Neat. Dressed up. Sat in their wheelchair, wheeled them at the large dining room for breakfast.
I calculated each resident requires nine minutes. None of the mechanical execution I watched from ‘Pogi’stuck in my mind. I am more confused than the people I cared for. Distraught, I had done nothing crucial for 15 minutes.
Mrs. Clover slapped my face when I tried to comb her hair. “You bitch…” she mistook me for a woman. “You conspired with my siblings stealing my money. Well, you’ll never get it tart…!” Scared, I like to run and quit.
My eight residents arrived last in the large dining room. One by one as I brought them, meaningful glances among the Orderlies; Nurses, Health Care Aides, Dietary Technicians, flew around. They whispered and talked.
Mr. Harm had no underwear. His limping sausage dangling, lapping on his wheelchair. Mr. Moles, his flaky morning secretion glued to his upper and lower eyelids. A witch starved for blood reflected on Mrs. Mutter’s face. Unbuttoned clothes of Mrs. Donaldson peeped her entire soul. Mrs. Clover’s brassier superimposed on her blouse.
The Charge Nurse told me to get sheet cover for Mr. Harm. A sweater for Mrs. Donaldson to hide her upper body. Took off Mrs. Clover’s brassier atop her blouse. The other needed to fix later after breakfast.
Toward the end of my shift, the Charge Nurse called me at her office. I am done!
“Can I interest you to study Health Care Aid Course?” She asked. Relieved, “I’ll be pleased,”.
I enrolled, but never lasted on that job.
“How is Gwen?” Conrad’s wife. I say, to end my letter.
Conrad didn’t reply.
July, this year, a certain Thirdy Siega appeared on my Facebook Account. His profile resembled that of Conrad, so I messaged him.
“Are you in any way related to Conrad Siega,”?
Thirdy Siega answered.
“May I know who you are?”
I said, I am one of his closest friends in Saudi.
“Ah, I guess you don’t know. My Dad died on collision accident at Saudi five years ago with his other friends on board,”.
Shocked, my eyes moistened as my remembrance of him unfolded when we were together in Whittaker and AMG company in Riyadh.
I played Bible Roulette once. That double entendre of the phrase “Be careful of what you wished for” dawned on me.
Heavy laden with homesickness and burdened by culture shock, Rey, my co-worker at Arabian Bechtel Co. in Jubail, sympathized.
“Go to the CR,”. He said, as I received my first letter from home. I poured out all my tears at the toilet bowl.
I blamed myself for making a superb resume applying for a Secretarial job. Also, for coming out smart when Gene Chalmer, a Bechtel recruiter who interviewed me at (OEDB) Overseas Employment Development Board. Because of that, I filled the position as Secretary of Michael Bishop, Head of the Operation and Maintenance Dept. Later on, I rather wished ending up as Group Manager’s Secretary.
That’s where my calvary started. Bishop terrorized me of his demanding demeanor. And his massive responsibilities.
For one equipped of a week office practise at the Baliwag Municipal Court, which I learned nothing, I dreaded and panicked of the monumental task ahead of me. “Be careful of what you wish for” had it’s full measure.
Rey, the Secretary of the Health Group Division, gave me solace and comfort. He sensed I need a coping mechanism.
He said, he opens his Bible and pokes his index finger on the open page. To which verse his finger landed, he reflected on it. And he found peace and tranquility of its revelation.
Despair, I tried Rey’s method. I flipped my Bible and poke my index finger on the page. My finger pointed on Matthew 27:5 which says: “Then [Judas] went away and hanged himself”. HUH!
Not satisfied, I did it again. Bible Roulette comes to mind.
My finger dropped on Luke 10:27. It says “Go and do likewise”.
My third try landed on John 13:37. “What you are about to do, do quickly”.
Three times the Bible wove dangerous theme.
Another “Be careful…” ran through my brain.
That experience, however, taught me to read the Bible in context. It encourages me to dig deeper: By reading Bible Commentaries and its corresponding historical background.
I got excited of the new discovery and insights. So engrossed, my problems dissipated. My emotions nourished no more of negative vibes.
Subtle-shrouded Racism; an article I wrote in August 1992, paved the way for me to become one of the Filipino Journal’s Columnists under the banner of “Undertow Ripple”.
The Filipino Journal is a local newspaper here in Winnipeg.
When “Black Lives Matter” pushed shock waves, backdropped by the covid 19 pandemic, it brought back the memory of my debut article.
A stand up comedy show on Art & Entertainment TV injected me with this idea.
A Black performer on stage toward his finale begs a White man from the audience sitting at the front to stand up.
He asked: “What are you when you were born…? You’re pink? Right… When you grew up, you’re white. Right? Get sick, you’re green. Sunbathed, you’re red. Out in the cold, you’re blue. And when you die, you turned purple.
He finger-pointed the White man.
“Listen, young man. I am born black. Grew up black. Black, when I am sick. Even in the sun, I am black. When I die, I am sure I’ll be black. Still, you have the nerved calling me COLORED,”.
The Black comedian bowed amidst the warm applause.
His joke resourced from his own experience. It’s subtle. If he didn’t perform it in public, it’s shrouded.
I observe people making racist comments. They’ll look around, assumed it’s safe, and let it fly.
Subtle-shrouded racism is an attitude. It throbs on culture-clashing setup. It is difficult to attack. Comments. Drawings. Knee jerks outburst cannot be single out as an incident worthy of grievance.
Our world witnessed extreme cases of racism. Adolf Hitler to perpetuate the purity of the master race gassed millions of Jew. Black and Whites segregated fifty years ago in the United States. In South Africa, Apartheid (apartness) spurred violence ashed in volcanic hatred.
This racism mellowed now. There had been an acceptable improvement.
What about Subtle-shrouded racism..?
Only if we recognize that people’s differences are for our togetherness. We differ to acknowledge the need of what we don’t have. That we depend on one another.
At the baptismal of Ella, my granddaughter, I filmed Ferdinand, my son, and Rico, my grandson, when they cuddled each other at the reception party.
That lovable scene had been their ritual whenever they visited us.
One time, Francesca, my daughter-in-law insinuated to Ferdinand: “Oh. You’re giving Rico what you haven’t gotten from your dad,”.
Ferdinand kicked a pillow at Francesca.
My son’s deep-seated lament surfaced by accident. Courtesy of his wife.
I never had a buddy-buddy bantering kind of dealing with my son. What we have is the stiff father-son relationship. It’s awkward!
It rooted perhaps when I worked at Saudi for eight years. I am away during my children’s formative years. And that desired bonding with my kids had not developed on a month per year vacation. And when we got here in Winnipeg, the children busied at school while Mur and I focused on making a living. We had family outings. Seemed not enough for the supposed camaraderie I hope to get with my kids.
On two occasions we missed the chances to bond.
Me, Ferdinand, and Mur went to a movie at Grant Cinema: The ‘Man of Steel’, a franchise of a Superman series. It’s a three dimensional (3D) movie. Special eye-glasses provided at the theater’s entrance. The screen appeared as one giant one-meter apart in your eyes. It’s sounds blasted your ears. Your butt swooshed hard wiping your seat as the hero – Clark Kent’s life hang on near death dilemma.
So amazed, I commented on it. Ferdinand laughed at me. That could have broken our uneasiness. It didn’t happen.
The second time, when we watched the satellite feed of “Manny Pacquiao and Timothy Bradley’s first fight at the McPhilips Casino. He bought me a beer. I appreciated his gesture. But I didn’t show it.
My being dry and reticent killed me. Many times over.
I rooted for Manny. He favored Timothy. To the shock of my life, Manny lost. That’s a golden opportunity for us to destroy the barrier between us. Plenty that we can discuss. But no. Nothing came out of it.
I am captured and tied up with this “man-things” afraid to expose one’s emotion to your equal.
I learned from Rico. He’s an eye-opener. Just picking up a ball he throws and giving it back to him. The sounds when Rico says: “Thank you, Lolo. I love you, Lolo”. It’s magical! It lifted my spirit so high.
Rico learned right early from his dad. Ferdinand expresses his emotions to his son.
One day, I joined my father watching the movie ‘Assassination of Julius Caesar,’ at the Baliwag Cine Gloria.
So impressed of the speech delivered by Brutus, played by Jason Robards after he slew Julius Caesar. And of Mark Antony performed by Charlton Heston defending the deeds of Brutus. That awakened my father’s interest in public speaking.
I caught him one time mimicking Brutus alternating with that of Mark Antony. He stood in front of our mirror. He twitched his face to express pain. But chew it with pride. He swished his hand. Bobbed his head. Then barked.
“Be patient till the last. Romans. Countrymen and Lovers,”.
Itay acted cool to cover his embarrassment.
“You remember Shakes a spear?”
“Shakespeare, Itay,”.
“Yeah that one. Oh! Love his movie.”
My father joined the Senaculo, an organization that performed ‘Passion of Christ’ during Lent. As a dialog-thrower, the equivalent now of tele-prompter on TV, he stood behind the curtain reading his self-made script and feed that to the performer’s mouth.
A rice field owner, client of my dad, while collecting his irrigation fees, plead to him to launch his campaign as Vice-Mayor in Plaridel, Bulacan. Also, be his speech maker and dialog-thrower.
My old man didn’t realize someone saw his talent.
Campaigning kicked off. He asked me to go with him. Curtain put in place.
He readied his client as if giving instructions to Senaculo actors.
Now, a chance to apply what he learned from Brutus.
His client introduced, went to the podium. My dad readied his script.
“Friends. Countrymen. And Lovers”, he said in a restrained low voice.
“Can’t hear you”. The ambitious politician hissed, covering his mouth.
“Friends. Countrymen. And Lovers,”, my father repeats.
“Friends. Countrymen. And Muggers,”.
“Lovers. Not Muggers! You idiot. My father scolded himself, throwing his script. But picked it up.
“I came here before you today, to announce my candidacy as your Vice-Mayor,”. My dad dictated.
“I came here before you today to denounce my complicity as Vice-Mayor,”. My father bopped his forehead.
“Since my infant days, I’ve seen our town in a sorry state.”
“Since my infantry, I’ve seen our town in a sorry trait.”
“Idiot.”. My father scolded himself.
“No infrastructure going on for a decade,”.
“No furniture going on for parade,”.
“Our farmers buried in debts,”.
“Our summer levied deaths.
“Town officials do not reciprocate services. They don’t give radios to warn us of an incoming typhoon,”.
The idiot client stepped back toward the curtain and whispered.
“Slow down, man. That’s too much!”.
Itay repeats the line.
The client got it. “Town officials do not precipitate, providing radiator to warn of the incoming typhoid,”.
“Our teachers do not have a decent pay,”.
“Our poacher do not have a peasant tray,”.
“We need changes,”.
“We need Oranges,”.
“First thing, I’ll do with our farmers. I’ll encourage bank officials to offer them loans without collaterals,”.
“First things I’ll do with our farmers, I’ll discourage bank officials to offer phones without cholesterol.
“For our substitute teacher, I’ll see to it they become permanent,”.
“For our prostitute teacher, I’ll see to it they become apartment,”.
I drafted most of my vlog while walking – encircling the Bairdmore School. Starting from our house in Millstream Way, then shifted right, arriving at the school’s soccer field. I pause here when a throng of Geese gather. The tempo of their slim necks bobbing is soft and delightful to see. They’re quacking, not as strong and irritating. Unlike the Turkey which horrified me as a teen boy
My dread of Turkey started when my mom said to take a bowl of Mongo soup to her twin sister living four houses away. I passed Tabog’s home, our neighbor. That enormous bird with a dreadful beak lingered in there. The animal went berserk. It stabbed me with its snout. I fell. And the burning soup swarmed my rib cage, scraped my skin.
Whenever we have Turkey at Christmas, I recall that incident.
While I am engaged with the Geese, I don’t know why Turkey enters the picture.
Now the Geese blocked the roadway. Cars stopped. Waited. Until the flocks reached the man-made lake bordered by homes.
Nice interruption.
When I left home, my thoughts fixed on Maria Ressa of Rappler. The Press that receives the fury of Duterte. I viewed the video after Judge Rainelda Estacios-Montesa convicted Ressa of Cyber-Libel.
At Press Conference, Ressa’s remark: “A Thousand Cuts” took me.
“Hm… That excites me,”.
So, I pitched the ideas loud – my supposed opening, middle, and resolution.
An aged woman strolling with her dog heard me shouting an expletive as we faced.
She stopped. “What did you say?”
“Oh sorry Mam. I am just talking out loud ideas to write about.”
“Why are you glaring at me when you curse? Next time, list your thoughts at your desk. Not on the street,”.
“Okay Mam,”.
Stupid Duterte…! I shouldn’t have cussed him in front of this woman with the dog.
I looked at Farrah, my daughter, when our family had our 2019 post Christmas celebration at Altos Restaurant. By coincidence, or on an impulse, I saw my late mother’s image in her. So I took shots.
Could be Farrah’s hairstyle that night. A striking similarity with my mom’s picture sent by my relative in the Philippines long time ago.
I reviewed stocks of my mom’s photo – memories fleeted: Streams of photos and articles of my Dad I’d posted in my WordPress’ blog. Scenes and stories of my visits in Nursing Home two years before moms demised in Chilliwack. And her interment Summer of 2019.
It’s my mother’s death anniversary this July. Tears welled up in my eyes.
Flash-backed, too, of my father, surfaced. A bit of humor ensued. I chuckled. It lessened the impact of my sorrow.
It’s Christmas Eve, we had nothing for our Noche-Buena, and we slept it over. Towards midnight, a bunch of Carolers serenaded. We pretended we didn’t hear their first Christmas song. We keep silent. They belted out another. I thought… if no one dared shout we’re out of cash, they would keep on singing. Worried of getting into enormous debt, I blurted out.
“Sorry. Sir. But we can’t give any,”.
“Ah! Somebody howls,”
“Salabat will do Boy,”
Salabat is a brewed mixture of Sweet Potato and Ginger.
“Tell them we don’t have Sweet Potato, Ginger, and firewood to cook Salabat,”. My dad whispered.
The yak is long. So I said, “Sorry Sir, we didn’t even have Ginger,”
Unlike Bahamas, Ocho Rios, Jamaica has a port. Cruise passengers disembarked.
We had been brief of what to expect, discover or enjoy at Ocho Rios. I prefer to roam around. The women broached River Tubing. No appeal for me. I grew up living near the National Irrigation Canal, and during the old days, the current runs as pristine as the Angat River with many fruits-bearing trees on its bank.
I and my boyhood friends pierced Banana trunks and made it into a raft. We rode streamed the stretch of Sabang up to Tarcan, picking up Guava, Aratilis, a cranberry-like fruit or Black Plum (Duhat) So, River Tubing had no appeal for me.
The women signed up. Mur said, It’s done. I had no say. We boarded a Van, the 37 passengers of the ship. It took 45 minutes threading the mountain side, on a one-way feeder road to Chuka River.
We got oriented on safety (wearing a life jacket, helmet, etc.)
In the locker room, staff drilled “Do not bring cellphone”. Why?
Excellent thing, Ellen, my sister, tucked her phone somewhere…
She gave it to Dante. While drifted by the rushing river, we saw the breathtaking view of a virgin forest of the Chuka River; bamboo trees; green, slender and mighty. Spectacular sight!
At one point, the tour guide arranged our tube in single file. Told us to raise our hands. He pushed and swirled us toward the drop. Every Tube passed the drop, a photographer perching on a fallen tree branch, took shots. An enjoyable, fun swirl.
Now I know why we could not bring our phone. Backed at their office after returning their equipment, staffs busied themselves working on their computer. They rushed to upload pictures.
None among us seen the pictures. Fresh batch of customer came in. Ellen’s idea of sneaking her cellphone works. Our memories of spectacular lush environment stays.
Conspiracy theories that sprouted around the 5G networks technology bordered on idiocy.
Conspiracists theorized that the spread of the virus from Wuhan had links to the 5G towers. Truth is, the 5G infrastructure in Wuhan are still incomplete. They claimed, too, that waves leaked by 5Gs antenna weakened the human immune system.
WHO (the World Health Organization) hammered that viruses do not hover around radio waves or mobile networks. The pandemic rolled out in many countries which don’t have yet the 5G technology.
The Philippines, for example, with still under used 4Gs because of inadequate tower transmission, huge onslaughts of the coronavirus kicked in. Official tally shows.
What made these theories click then?
There should be a villain. Someone or something to endure the blame. When distress becomes a trend, people appealed on the anti-hero sentiments.
The 5G provoked irrational fear. That’s the fruit of a technological breakthrough. People are uncertain. They perceived it as invasive.
As people suspect the 5G’s, this is further fueled by the influencers and celebrities who relay and reinforce this message of fear.
Conspiracists concocted that 5G can be the “Internet of Everything.” Nothing can escape from monitoring, capturing; and recording. Be it a conversation, scenes or images. This is superb for surveillance and spying.
A buried story I kept triggered.
The “Internet of Everything” resolves the dilemma I had for my main character.
I saw this movie “Death Wish” at Baliwag Cine Gloria in 1974, played by Charles Bronson.
Impressed, I ambition to write a novel based on this movie.
It is a vigilante film. Paul Kersy, the hero revenged for the murder of his wife. He took the law in his hand.
My leading man, as I envisioned him, is a die hard nationalist and a multi-millionaire. He loves the Philippines so much. He wanted to spare his country from the clutches of the crooks, corrupt and white-collar criminals. Eliminating them by himself in solo flights. And for every nasty guy he disposed, he left the evidence on the scene justifying their fate.
Proof gathering for my hero is where I got stuck. Even he is a multi-millionaire, there’s no way to produce the evidence to justify the killing.
Now, “The Internet of Everything” courtesy of 5G technology postulated by conspiracist is useful to me.
Ignoring China’s built up of its military facilities in the South China Sea, the US in 2019 messaged Duterte to put a tough stand against China.
Duterte said, paraphrasing him. “Your Seventh Fleet is there. You know what’s happening. You’re aware they cannot do that (referring to UNCLOS decisions) Why don’t you. Declare war. Fire the first shot. And we will follow,”.
President Duterte dodged preserving the Philippines’ national patrimony to Washington, in deference to Beijing. An unpatriotic statements coming from a leader.
As the world’s current happenings heated, segued by the coronavirus pandemic, the racial tension had engulfed by George Floyd killing, Trump chances of getting elected this November 2020 get nil. Political pundits predicted.
Despite the US mobilization of its forces across the South China since last year, now, even more aggressive movements and exercises happened. An armada of American navy ships ready of any untoward incident.
If talks between Donald Trump and Xi Jinping faltered, and if it derail Trump’s prospect for a second term, he can unleash an opening salvo against China. His chance to bolster his image for the Americans.
Disturbed, China can retaliate. This means conflagrations.
Which country could burn? The Philippines is a candidate. Helmed by Duterte with tested blunder for dealing with the coronavirus pandemic, this can be the worst disaster ever for the Filipinos.
Changes are until 2022 election. Yet on June 1, 2020, to sustain his power, the Congress approved the Anti-Terrorism Bill in its final reading.
Meanwhile, the Senate sits on its second reading.
If the Senate version of the bill approve before the SONA (State of the Nation’s Address) it can enforce decimation of the opposition party, repeating the mid-term election of 2018. Until when the people of the Philippines can endure Duterte’s rule?
Social distancing of the Covid-19 pained us: (myself and Mur). It deprived us of once a week visits of Rico and Ella. For two months, it starved us of our grandchildren’s intoxicating charm.
Yes! The social-media helped. It moistened our quench. We have had a splendid time, too, with Naiah and Dvora – our granddaughters in Toronto.
But, “WhatsApp” cannot replace the warmth and joy of physical interaction. That on-guard intimate smile which melts us. The mischievous glints of their eyes that sparkled our spirit. Their inventive tricks that mesmerized. Their unstoppable energy, which induced me to work out better than my treadmill.
We are a vulnerable bunch. Seniors can get harmed by the virus. Hosting it will endanger the adorable creature of our next generation. “WhatsApp” then is a temporary relief for social distancing.
Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s along with his provincial counterparts in their daily briefings since the Covid-19 struck showered goodies for those affected by the pandemic. But forceful for the strict compliance to prevent the spread of the virus. It imposes heavy fines and longer jail time. Not much disagreements on these.
Canada, I believed, exemplified how the government and it’s people dealt the impact of the coronavirus pandemic.
If the government is receptive, expect people to be appreciative.
Leaders of most countries faced the impact of Convid-19. It strained their brains balancing the economic downturn and the pandemic.
US President Donald Trump, dilly dallied at first. His businesses suffered a slump. A little later, he yielded to the enormity of the plaque. He laid out the infrastructure to decrease its effect on the Americans.
German Chancellor Angela Merkel tackled Convid-19 in a calm repose. She didn’t impose curfews. Closures are minimal. When she addressed her constituents, she spoked – minus the blame and the accusations. Her tone: Direct. Honest. Concerned. Emphatic. Her voice drilled the seriousness of Convid-19. She assured people of the government’s help.
South Korea, meanwhile, set aside the nation’s economic fall out. They highlighted their strong public health approach. Disturbed by the lesson learned from the outbreak of (MERS) Middle East Respiratory Syndrome in 2015, they deployed a successful strategy for Convid-19.
The South Korea Centers for Disease Control and Prevention followed the post-MERS reform. They allowed unlicensed tests for Convid-19. By February 26, they tested 46,127 cases. Compared to Japan of only 1846. The US is much lower at 426.
A concerted effort from government public health functionaries documented infected people to the minute and published them to the existing media outlets.
In deference to China, Philippine’s President Duterte dawdled on his decision to impose preventive measures to plug the source of the virus from Wuhan, China.
He mocked the virus severity, instead.
Only when death rose in other countries, Dutere rushed to decide on collective quarantine without a well-thought out plan amidst the sliding economy.
Result: Chaos and confusion. No measure how the public health directives are being followed. Inadequate transparent communication. Disinfection campaign trickled. Supply logistics lacking. These inured the Filipinos to the max.
In 1979, I attended the Australian Agricultural Trade Show at the Manila Peninsula Hotel.
“Buslog!”
I couldn’t place him right off, but he knew my nickname.
“Rego,”. He shook my hand.
“Regoberto Tenorio, where’s Tabog and Pepit?”
“Are you now a millionaire?”
“Well. I am there,”.
“What brought you here?”
“I am a distributor of Agricultural Machineries from Australia. Our machines in display at the Trade Shows,”.
“Look at you. What are your secrets?”
“I am a distributor of Agricultural Machineries from Australia. Our machines in display at the Trade Shows,”.
“Look at you. What are your secrets?”
“Well, I owe my success to the three of you. You, Tabog and Pepit. Learned lessons from you guys. Used them now in business,”.
Rego is smart in math and science. That’s the reason for his success. Not because of us.
“So, you owe your success to us, huh?”.
Rego smiled.
“You remember the Irrigation Canal. We made a raft of banana trunks to cruise around Baliwag?”
I exploded with a laugh.
Ah! That banana raft we couldn’t maneuver as the water had swelled. The stitched trunks might snap – when pass through the Tarcan’s Headgate: swirled and turned us as corpse.
When our raft got near Tarcan, Tabog pushed Rego. He held tight onto the raft. Tabog dipped Rego’s head. His feet now propelled our raft. Tabog steered Rego’s head. Our raft reached the shore.
“That’s maneuvering and manipulating people. That’s the skill to conduct business,”.
“Remember the Ilang-Ilang tree?”
I wondered why climbing up tall trees could have taught Rego a lesson in business. Most trees in our barrio had the horseshoe branches because of our “climbing and jumping off”. One tree remained a virgin. That of Ilang-Ilang tree of Aling Itang.
Tabog showed off. He climbed up. When he reached the top, the tree bent 40 feet away from the ground. He swung in the air. Too dangerous to jump off. Tabog offered his bravest spider to Pepit. He joined.
The tree bent, but not enough. So, the two negotiated with me. Pepit will give me tops. And Tabog bribed me with marbles. I climbed up. Our combined weight left a good 15 feet distance from the ground. Still, not enough. The three of us lured Rego. I offered myself as his errand boy for three days, just for him to go up. Rego climbed up.
With four of us on top, the Ilang-Ilang tree bent enough for us to jump off, Tabog proposed we jumped on three. Tabog counted: “One,”. We distrust him. At Tabog’s count of “two,” the three of us jumped off – leaving Rego counting “Threeee”, while the tree spewed him up in the air.
“So, Rego, what lesson you learned in the Ilang-Ilang tree?”
“Timing. Don’t mess with timing,”.
“So where are the two rascals now; Tabog and Pepit?”
“Oh! Tabog is a Marine Biologist…”
“The fool… and he finished school?”
“Yeah. Got his diploma from the ‘Recto University. A bus conductor now,”.
“Hmm. Good for him,”.
“Pepit is an announcer,”.
“On radio?”
“No. At a rat carnival stands during fiesta,”
“Good,”
“And me. Took ten years to finish my studies, always runs out of money. Here I am, struggling.”
I sensed him saying, “Hm. good for you, too.”. But restrained himself.
At the Trade Show, before we parted, I invited him to join us again – fishing at the Pritil. Our juvenile hangs out.
“No. Thank you,”
Well, Rego’s reunion with us could have been worth another Million!
The three of us; Tabog, Pepit and myself while watching the shoot of Maruja at Bustos, Bulacan in the late 60s, pledge: We need to see the movie once released in theater.
A hitch loomed over. The Henson Theater, which would show the Maruja movie, hired Teryo Taramindo, a menacing brute whose biceps resembled that of a tamarind fruit. For sneakers like us, Teryo is a total terror. He could smash us to smithereens once he caught us sneak.
The lure of Maruja defied our fear. We followed the novel in “komiks”. We wanted to see how truthful its movie version. The movie starred Romeo Vasquez and Susan Roces. We are their fans.
Friday, the movie got showed at Henson. Saturday night, we sneaked in using Tabog’s scheme. The modus afforded us a free movie.
Pepit deposited Five Pesos to the ticket lady on the pretext of looking for someone inside. Tickets cost 80 cents a piece.
Once inside, Pepit would lift the latch to the exit door at Ponce Street, where Tabog and I waited. Pepit would get his deposit, walk to the side street. It’s our turn now to lift the latch for him.
The scheme worked for the previous guard. Not with Teryo. It’s his habit to make rounds inside the theatre.
When we did our modus, a streak of lights poured in from the outside.
“We’re toast!”
Teryo brought us to the rooftop room of the theater. He made us lined up. Teryo towered us of his menacing figure.
“So, you’re the ‘lusut gang’ huh! Since when, you’re doing these?” Teryo thundered. I peed on my pants.
“Months now, Sir,”. I said.
Pepit pressed his feet hard against mine, muttered – stupid, why you should be honest. That doesn’t save us.
“Sorry, Sir. Only now, Sir,”. Tabog said.
“That’s true. Sir,”. Pepit said.
“Get your pants and underwear down,”. Teryo barked.
… What! Would he like proof of my pee…?
I stood naked now. Pepit’s foot on top of my toe again.
“Tang na ka,”. Pepit mumbled. Tabog and Pepit followed.
“So, who’s the mastermind?”. Teryo asked.
“It’s him,”. I fingered Tabog. He wanted to crush me.
Teryo confronted Pepit, tapping his finger on his chest. “And you, what are you?”.
“The Lieutenant, Sir…”. I said.
“Tarantado.”. Pepit mumbled.
Teryo turned to me, “And, who you?”.
“The fingerling, Sir.”. I said.
“Stand still here, and don’t move till I come back,”. Teryo said, locking the room behind him.
Pepit and Tabog rattled me of their sharp tongues when Teryo left us.
Teryo came back after 30 minutes. Paper bag in his hand. He took out a yellow cashew fruit, slapped it in my palm.
I am about to eat when he said, “Stupid. Who told you to eat that..? You’re the fingerling. Ripe it in you ass,”.
“But. Sir. It’s ripe already,”.
“Rot it then,”. Teryo barked.
I cried while on top of the Cashew at the dirty floor, felt the germs nibbling my bare butt.
Teryo took another item. Green Papaya, a good size for Tinola. He gave it to Pepit.
“Rot this also in your ass, Lieutenant,”. Teryo said. I stopped crying. To ripe that Papaya would take longer, more if to rot it…
Pepit sat on his Papaya, his head down crying, while clasping it with his hand.
Meanwhile, Tabog had this all-knowing smile at our fate.
I heard Teryo called Julio.
I consoled Pepit. “Lucky you,”.
“Why?” Pepit asked.
“Look!”. I said.
The one that Teryo called Julio appeared carrying on his shoulder a pig size JACKFRUIT!
A novice newspaperman in Minnesota hitchhiked 1,947 miles to Key West Florida to meet Ernest Hemingway to ask a few questions about writing. Discovered he’s also obsessed with sailing, Ernest hired him as his boat night watchman before going to Cuba. Their conversation became an essay: Monologue to the Maestro published in Esquire Magazine in 1935.
The young lad asks: What is the best early training for a writer?
Hemingway responded: An unhappy childhood!
That strike a nerve. It shriveled my heart as plastic in flame. I’ve had unhappy childhood incidences. Each time they surface, emotions flare up: upset, frustrated, agitated, dismayed, crushed. Experiencing these can be a gold mine for writing. That maybe what Hemingway meant: Ingredients for good writing.
At age of 10, being the eldest, I witness how hard food came by for our subsistence. I thought of helping by selling popsicle (ice drop).
I did errands from our neighborhood and able to save up 20 cents as seed money. I put my merchandise on a salvaged Magnolia ice cream box. I covered them with an old newspaper, freezing them longer. I got permission from my mother. Reluctant at first, but agreed. Then I went to Selegna, the ice drop factory. My 20 cents bought me four twin popsies, which I can sell for 5 cents apiece, so it doubled my money.
Ice drop selling is a tossed up game. One cannot do an honest to goodness sale. Most buyers are street urchins adept in (Pitik) toss coin. Your sale dependent on twice guessing right when the coin landed.
I didn’t go for it, but realized my ice drop can get melted inside the box. For that I got sucked up by a crooked system.
Dealing with street urchins and pitching ‘ice drop’ on top of my lungs only gained me 20 cents the whole day.
That’s not the hardest part.
When my mother ignored me when I walked by at Vena’s Sari-Sari store wailing my ice drop song, my mother waits her turn to get dealt with, as she’s buying on credit. That disheartened me. She averts her eyes to something else unappreciative of my effort. I made myself closer. She swung her head. In one instant moment, seeing her eyes watery.
I solve the puzzle of my mom’s averting watery eyes 35 years later.
When I vacationed from my job in Saudi, and tending our grocery store at the Baliwag Public Market. I instructed my then 9-year-old son to pick up a tricycle and go home ahead of me. I got home. He’s not in yet. I found him still walking, covered four kilometers, drenched in sweat, and exhausted. I pitied him. Didn’t want to look at him. A repeat of the scene when my mother averted her eyes, had a glimpse of me selling ice drop.
My stacked up observations of Rico, my 3-and 8-month-old grandson, had formed an insight as I made his Vedic Astrological Chart. My collated observations plus stories his parents told us when they visit us or on our video talk on “Facetime” strengthened the overall impressions I had of Rico.
Aquarius, Rico’s Ascendant on his First House, described him as ‘unusual’genius.
Unusual…?
At 2 ½ years old, whenever Rico visited us, he wanted to go upstairs to our bed.
“Let’s play money,” he said.
I gathered the coins on top of our dresser and spread them on the bed. I told him the coin’s denomination – from 5 cents to 2 dollar coins. He examined each one. No idea what’s he’s looking for.
I scrambled them and asked him to pick one and tell me its denomination.
This has been one of our routine whenever we go upstairs to play.
One day, while busy counting his coins, I grabbed one of my book and read.
The clinking noise stopped!
“It’s not how good you are, it’s how good you want to be.”. He said.
“Rico… What!”. Dropped the book I am reading.
“What are these?” He asked and showed me the 10 and 20 Peso coins that somehow mixed with the Canadian dollar coins.
“That’s the Philippine’s Peso, Rico.”
The bomb shell Rico said is the title of the book I am reading. He’s only a 3-year-old boy.
My son, Ferdinand, Facetime with us while watching his two kids playing. Rico focused on fixing one of his toys.
His father says: “Rico, can you count by 7?”.
Rico spewed out numbers counting by 7…14…21…28 up to 91, while his attention nailed on what he’s doing.
How about by 9?
Rico blabbers 9…18…27 etc.,
Aquarians, an Airy Sign, enhances mental stimulation: Fond of Experimentation. Intellectual and logical.
His first Trine: Aquarius, as Rico’s Ascendant, ruled by Aries, tied up with Leo on his 5th House and Sagittarius on 9th, are Fire Signs. It signified Rico as action oriented. Never cease inventing new things. These combination falls into one of Rico’s Four Aims in Life: Dharma: which includes his nature, goals and duty.
Two Grand Trines on Rico’s Chart supported this. Planets arrange in triangle-like form with 120 degrees aspect from each other, carries with it beneficial impact for Rico. Of course, only if Rico thread on its path. It’s his choice.
His 2nd Trine – Capricorn which sits on Rico’s 10th House, Taurus on his 2nd, and Sun on his 6th House are Earth Signs: Rico is methodical and grounded. This portrays Rico’s Artha (Prosperity) Wealth. Profession. Tool he can use achieving his goals.
Rico’s 5th House clustered with four Planets; Moon, Venus, Mars and Mercury. Combination of these Planets sizzles. Packs the most punch.
As Rico’s Moon is in his 5th House, it rules his Mind; thought, desire, ambitions, pleasure, happiness. It pushes him, concentrating on education. Medical field zooms to be strong.
With Venus on his 5th, Rico can delve into the field of Arts. Combined with Mercury, he can use his voice; written or spoken for expression. Play of words. Witty and humorous, he’s an engaging communicator.
With Mars, the fiery planet in his 5th, reined in his intense emotion poses problem. He pours enormous resources on romance and love affairs.
My overall impression: Rico gears towards a well-blessed life.
Jess Fernando 
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