School Built on Ignorance

They built this school in Coconut tree. 

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. 

Delayed Eulogy Part 2

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. 

Delayed Eulogy

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.