Help them stay in school

Jilan

"Ate, ibibigay niyo na ba iyong uniform namin sa school," he asks me in an eager but conspiratorial, whispery tone.

I turn and see a cute kid with a smile that can light up your day, with eyes that smile.

A knot immediately formed in my chest.

Chloe, my social worker friend, asked me to take pictures of children in a community she serves. The donors want to see the children they are helping. What's two or three hours "para sa kabataan," for a bum, I thought. But being against what I call "poornography," I was focused on taking happy pictures of the kids.

And so there I was, taking pictures but saying almost nothing of significance because I don't exactly know how social workers process the acts of giving and helping, and I am terrified of the growing mendicant mindset of the poor these days.

And then that question.

His name is Jilan. He's almost seven and just started going to school last June.

"Bakit, wala ba kayong uniporme?" I asked him.
"Wala po, dinala ng baha ni Ondoy," he said.
"Ano ba ang uniporme niyo?"
"Puting pang-itaas po at tsaka red na shorts," he said. His friends began to join in in the conversation.
I asked them what they wear to school these days.
"Pang-lakad lang po ang suot namin, wala na pong uniform," said one.
He and the other children in the community are now wearing clothes they were able to dig out of the mud the flood left behind. These clothes are soiled, but wearable, so they make do.

The kids told me they want to wear uniforms to school.

Yes, if you're in grade one, you wear your school uniform with pride. I remember that feeling. That was so then, so it is now. It's like qualifying for grownupship. I'm a big boy/girl now. I have my uniform.

They were polite. I didn't hear cussing at all. They were just the usual kids, playing, running, but no rough words. This is unlike the people in some poor areas I've been to lately. Their elders, though poor, are organized and have created a kind, caring community.

I need your help. I want to be able to buy the 160 grade school kids of Banaba, San Mateo, two white shirts each. That's just the start. We can give them their red (maroon) shorts and skirts later. Let's help them stay in school, because apparently, they want to stay in school. The group Chloe works with has provided them with new notebooks, and is working on other basic community requirements.

Your contribution of P500 will go a long way.

Please.

Before I Forget: A repost

I wrote this entry over three years ago. Angel reminded me of it this morning. She seems to remember even the quotes and the pictures I tried to paint here.



"Relish the small, pleasant things, and the stress will dissipate" he tells me.

Whoa, I thought. A lot of firsts in a span of 15 minutes. He's in the passenger side of my beloved Jiminy da Cricket, I am driving for him, and he's giving me advice. This oughta be an interesting day.

He's a lot older than I am, and he knows what he's talking about.

Years ago, we argued a lot. It was so stressful, for both of us.

Last year, with the position changes, we worked tentatively at first, then gradually the tension disappeared and we're a lot better now. I've begun calling him "Lolo" and he started using the word to refer to himself.

He excitedly fiddled with everything in my car like a kid. He was elated when he found out my AM radio was set to DZBB.

"I am happiest when young people around me begin acquiring things. I am so happy you chose this. This car really suits you," he says.

I told him I saved for almost two years for the downpayment, and I'm hobbling along with the monthly payments.

"Drive this out of town, relish the sights, just you and the road, and your music. That's what I do. It's bound to make you feel and work better," he says. Well, he should know. His job is more stressful than mine.

"Your Tita and I spend Sunday mornings just reading and having coffee. It doesn't cost us anything, save for the paper and the coffee. Cherish the simple things and remember how blessed you are," he adds.

"Sir, the difference between us is that you go home to your partner, your sounding board, your best friend. I don't have that. I go home to an empty pad and my laptop, and my silly plant is dying on me," I say.

"Well, that's a problem," he admits.

Then he suddenly looks stressed.

Then he taps Jiminy's dashboard and recaptures his cheerful mood. "This one. This one is your partner. Go out of town, have fun. Enjoy the open road."

He refuses to be let off the main lobby. He insists to go to the parking area with me. He smiles again when he sees the huge SUVs parked there.

"This one, this one should be your next car," he says. We go around it and inspect it and agree I'd be stinking rich soon and will buy one.

He thanks me for the ride. I thank him for the honor of riding Jiminy da Cricket.

I think that short ride from the stressful libel hearing made a lot of things better, more pleasant.

I am blogging this now before things get hazy. The earliest version of a story is the closest to the truth. I just want to remember this as one of those small, pleasant things that happened lately.

(I can now say that my passenger then was our anchor, Mike. This is the tender part of the man who people think yells a lot. He does not. He is a kind man, a bit cantankerous at times, but very endearing, generous and kind-hearted most of the time. Our arguments then, mostly about work, made me grow up and mature faster.)

Jologs version ni Lola Oriang

Mga apo!

Kayong dalawa iyon. Psst. Ikaw babaeng nakapulang bandanna, at ikaw lalaking nakapulang t-shirt. Bakit ba pulang-pula kayo? RA ba kayo o RJ?

Mabuti naman napadpad kayo sa balay ko. Bihira ang nagpupunta sa bahay namin ni Julio. Tsk. Hindi na kami "in." Sabagay, sino ba sa mga bayani ang "in " pa sa inyo ngayon?

Ang dami niyo kasing bayani.

Nandiyan ang mga OFW, mahigit sampung milyon sila. Mga taxi driver na nagsoli lang ng porta moneda (wallet iyon!) na naiwan sa sasakyan nila, bayani niyo na. Di ba dapat lang isauli ang napupulot?

Eniway, ako ang Lola Oriang niyo. Gregoria de Jesus, Lakambini ng KKK, pangalawang asawa ni Andres Bonifacio. Siguro di niyo alam iyon, na may naunang misis si Andres? Monica ang pangalan ng unang misis ni Supremo. Pero namatay siya sa leprosy.

Menor de edad pa lang ako nang ligawan ni Andres. Anim na buwan din siyang nagpa-cute bago ko sinagot. Kung sa panahon ngayon matagal ang anim na buwan na ligawan, noong panahon namin, mabilis na iyon. Disi-otso ako nang ikasal kami.

Nagtambling ang mga magulang ko noong una, dahil hindi nila gusto si Andres para sa akin. Sosyal kasi ang pamilya ko, at bodegero lang si Andres.

Dagdag pa ni Mader at Pader, mason daw kasi si Andres. (Hindi in ang mga Mason noon). Takot din sila dahil nga sa leprosy namatay ang una niyang misis. Baka raw mahawa pa ako.

Taranta sina mader at pader. Inalis ako sa bahay namin sa Kalookan at ikinulong sa isang bodega sa Binondo. Panama ng mga soap opera sa drama ng love life namin ni Andres?

Alam niyo bang nag-SOS pa ako sa meyor ng Binondo para makalaya at maikasal kay Andres? Sus! Nakapagpapuslit ako ng sulat at naiabot ito kay meyor. Mga dalawang buwan lang naman, bago siya nakaaksion. Kita niyo na? Mabagal na rin ang serbisyo noon pa man.

Dalawang beses pa akong sumulat sa mga meyor ng Binondo at Kalookan, para lang makaalpas at mapakasalan si Andres.

Dalawang beses pa nga kaming ikinasal ni Andres. Una sa simbahan sa Tondo, at pagkalipas lang ng isang linggo, sa Katipunan naman. Hindi sa Katipunan malapit sa mga Heswita. Katipunan, as in sa ritwal ng mga Katipuneros.

May isa kaming anak ni Andres, na pinangalanan naming Andres din. Wala pa kasing bakuna nang panahon na iyon, kaya namatay si Andres Junior sa small pox habang baby pa lang.

Lider ng Katipunan si mister. Ako naman ang tagatago ng mga dokumento at gamit ng Katipunan. Pag may raid, may I orbit Manila in my calesa with the documents and anik-aniks of the revolutionaries ang beauty ko.

Nagsimula kaming magka-problema noong laging nag-aaway sa taktika sa labanan sina Andres at Emilio Aguinaldo. Lalo pang lumala ang gap ng dalawa noong botohan para sa bagong Republika noong 1897.

Kasi naman, napansin ko at ng ilang Katipuneros na maraming mga balota ang may nakasulat nang pangalan nang ipamigay sa mga botante. Okinnawa Japan, di ba?

Noon pa man, may dagdag-bawas na, Hello, Garci!

Dito na bumagsak ang samahan nina Andres at ng nanalong presidenteng si Emilio Aguinaldo.

Kasi naman, Interior Secretary na nga lang ang napunta sa mister ko, may humirit pa na hindi bagay kay Andres ang puwesto dahil hindi siya abugado. Lalong nagmarakulyo si Andres dahil nadaya na nga, ininsulto pa. Grade four lang kasi ang tinapos ni Andres, pero edukado naman siya dahil sa sipag niyang magbasa.

At dahil insecure si Aguinaldo at natakot sa aking mister, ipinag-utos niyang patayin si Andres. Nagkaroon ng paglilitis kuno at sinentensiyahan siya sa salang pagtataksil. Dinala siya at ang kapatid niyang si Procopio sa Mt. Buntis sa Cavite at doon sila pinatay.

Trenta'y tres anyos pa lang si Andres ko nang siya ay pinatay.

Alam mo ba ang pangalan ng nanguna sa grupong pumatay kina Andres at Procopio? Lazaro Macapagal. Hmmm. Iniisip mo ba ang iniisip ko?

Nga pala, maraming kuwento na ginahasa raw ako ng ilang Katipunero nang arestuhin si Andres, para lalong mapahiya ang aking mister.

Bilang dalagang Pilipina, no comment na lang ako riyan. Ang payo ko na lang, mag-research kayo. Do your homework. Ambot kay Ambeth. Siya ang tanungin niyo.

Eniway, 21 anyos pa lang ako, biyuda na. Kumusta naman diyan, di ba?

Tuloy pa rin akong nagsilbi sa bayan. Naging close ako kay Julio Nakpil, na pinuno ng Katipuneros sa norte.

Noong 1898, hindi na lang kami close, tight na kami. Ikinasal kami ni Julian. Haba ng hair ko, ano?

Nakitira kami sa bahay nina Dr. Ariston Bautista at ng kanyang misis na si Petrona Nakpil.

Ito ang bahay na iyon. Dito na rin lumaki ang walo naming anak ni Julio. Sinuportahan din ni Dr. Bautista ang pagpapaaral sa aming mga anak. Tsokaran nina Rizal at Juan Luna si Dr. Bautista. Sila nga iyong tatlong boys na nakatitig doon sa babae sa painting na Parisian Life na painting ni Luna.

Alam niyo bang iyong painting na iyon, iniregalo ni Luna kay Dr. Bautista at dito sa bahay na ito naka-display iyon? May apo lang kami na nag-nenok noon, at bigla na lang na-auction iyon, at binili naman ng GSIS.

Nakikita mo ba iyong administration building sa UP Diliman? Oo, iyong QVEZON hall, pronounced Ki-ve-zon hall. Gawa ng anak kong si Juan iyan.

Tingnan mo naman, ang anak ko National Artist for Architecture. Walang nagsingit ng pangalan niya, ha? Pati iyong dating Rizal Theater na tinibag na, design ng anak ko iyon.

Nga pala, bakit ba ang hilig niyong magtibag? Pati iyong monumento ni Andres sa Kalookan, titibagin niyo na rin. Di niyo na iginalang ang kontribusyon namin. Oo, hurt ako!

Alam niyo ba kung bakit paikot-ikot lang ang problema ng bansa natin at di tayo umuusad? Kasi hindi natin pinag-aaralan ang kasaysayan. Nasa kuwento ng buhay naming nauna sa inyo ang mga problemang hinaharap niyo ngayon.

Wala kayong originality sa problema, ni-recycle niyo lang ang problema namin.

Kaya salamat naman at nadalaw kayo sa bahay namin. Sana iyong mga barkada niyo rin, umalis muna sa harap ng Facebook at maglakad-lakad sa Quiapo.

Isang kanto lang ang layo ng bahay namin sa bentahan ng dibidi-dibidi na iyan. Silipin niyo naman ang bahay ko kahit sandali lang. Presyo lang ng isang pekeng dibidi na series ang bayad. Kalahating Starbucks lang. Libre pa nga kung talagang wala kayong pera.

Forty pesoses. Mura lang di ba? Pero ang history lesson, priceless!

Panalo ang Pinoy!

Gagawin kong Tagalog ito dahil nag-uumapaw sa yabang este, pagmamalaki ang dibdib ko ngayon. (Bakit parang bastos iyong linyang iyon? Ah, basta!)

Dahil nalasing sa kasaysayan ang isip ko sa nakalipas na ilang araw (at dahil na rin sa utos ni FW), nagpunta ako at isang kaibigan sa Maynila para silipin ang National Museum at ang Museum of the Filipino People.

Nag-cover ako ng Senado (na pinalayas ng National Museum mula sa 4th floor noong 2003) kaya alam ko kung nasaan ang NM.

Ang Finance Building pala ay siya nang tahanan ng Museum of the Filipino People. Kahapon ko lang nalaman iyon.

Sa parehong museum, ipinapaiwan ang bag at camera. Cellphone at wallet lang ang puwede mong dalhin. Kaya pasensiya, dalawa lang ang kuha ko gamit ang telepono ko.

Sentro pa rin ng NM ang Spoliarium. Pangalawang beses ko itong nakita kahapon. Noong una, noong uhugin pa akong reporter ng Senado, hindi ko kinaya ang emosyon na hatid nito. Marahas, madilim, at nakakahindik ang gawa ni Juan Luna.

Kahapon, iba naman ang epekto sa akin ng obra ni Luna.

Naisip ko na "Room of Spoils" siguro ang pinagmulan ng Spoliarium. At batay na rin sa ipinakikita ni Luna, talagang kuwarto ng mga nasirang buhay ang kanyang ginawa. Naging mas sentro rin ng atensyon ko ang babae sa kanan, at kung ano ang dalamhati na nararamdaman niya sa walang silbing pagkamatay ng mga mandirigma ng Roma.

Ayon sa iba't-ibang babasahin, ang Spoliarium ay isang silid sa ilalim ng Roman arena kung saan dinadala ang mga napapatay sa labanan ng mga gladiator. Kakaiba mag-aliw ang mga Romano kapag nababagot, ikamamatay mo.

Nasa NM rin ang mga gawa nina Felix R. Hidalgo at Luna, karamihan ay ipinahiram ng Far East Bank and Trust Company.



Pogi pero kakaiba ang ayos ng buhok ng Ilocanong si Luna, batay sa sarili niyang gawa at sa pagguhit sa kanya ni Hidalgo. Parang naririnig ko ang mga sosyal na tao na tumitili ng "Ewww, makeover, now!"

Bukas din ang NM sa mga batang manlilikha. May exhibit ng modern art sa isang kuwarto.

Sa MFP, naroon ang koleksion ng mga libingan, banga, plato, at iba pang gamit na natagpuan ng mga archaeologists mula sa iba't-ibang lugar sa Pilipinas, mula sa iba't ibang panahon ng mundo.

Makikita batay sa ukit at sa panahon na pinagmulan na ang mga Pilipino pala, mula pa noong unang panahon, ay may sining na at may kakayahang lumilok ng mga bagay na kailangan niya sa araw-araw.

May talino ang Pilipino, gumagawa at nag-iisip, kahit pa bago dumating ang mga higanteng butiki na may paa. Mayroon na rin siyang konsepto ng paniniwala sa isang Lumikha.

May mga patunay rin na bago pa man dumating ang mga Espanyol, may pakikipagniig (Teka, bastos yata iyon) at pakikipag-negosyo na sa ibang lahi ang Pinoy.

Malaking bahagi ng MFP ang naiahong gamit mula sa lumubog na San Diego, isang barkong pandigma, noong 1600.

Kung magkakaroon ka ng panahon, bisitahin mo ang dalawang museum at tulad ko marahil, lalapad ang dibdib mo na isa kang Pinoy.


Note: Sa NM, P70 ang bayad bawat tao. Pero isang pangalan lang ang ipinasusulat nila sa logbook.

Sa MFP, P100 ang bayad, pero isang pangalan din ang ipinasusulat nila sa logbook. Ang ginawa ko ay isinulat ko pareho ang pangalan namin ni Yowee sa MFP, at hiningi ko ang resibo. Hindi ito napupuna ng ibang nagpupunta. Tingin ko, dapat ay ayusin ng dalawang museum ang sistema ng paniningil, at huwag itong iwan lang sa guwardiya. Dagdag na pondo rin ito para sa ating museum.

Unable

I am still unable to write.

But let me tell you this:

I am still unable to wrap my mind around losing Alecks.

When I think of him, I am still unable to comprehend how he can be gone. Why so soon. Why good men die young. Why someone who took care of his health could die so young. Why someone who adored his wife and kids, and even an arrogant stray cat he called "Ser" and two rowdy dogs, is gone.

I am not gearing up for some Jobian debate here.

It's just that my faith is being shaken, and I am in pain.

And my eyes sting and tears flow just writing this.

Alecks, 1967-2009

Who in his right mind would agree to name his dogs Oingo and Boingo?

I roared in laughter, imagining you yelling out those two stupid names while scouring your little neighborhood in Tandang Sora when the two mutts exploited your open gate. You laughed when I told you how my imagined scene looked like.

You were needled by women all your life. And you probably were needled again by your wife and two daughters into giving those mutts those silly names.

And when we coerced you into writing about your life being the lone male at home and in the office, you hit back and wrote about "pushy females."

"When all seems too unbearable in the land of women, there are enduring standards for male behavior that men can always resort to: strength and silence. I, however, take more to the latter. Not because I am a stereotypical man of few words. It’s just that women find it annoying."

In the office, being the only constant male save for the part-time driver, you were often the center of jokes, thought not always helplessly.

Your deadpan humor and dry wit spiced our trainings and every day office life. I envied your ability to poke fun harmlessly at crummy people and the crummy things they do.

I often pushed you to meet deadlines.

Oh, those deadlines. Those many deadlines you never met.

"After the deadline, there's no more deadline," you once said. And I berated you for telling that to a young writer.

So I resorted to slapping post-its on your computer to remind you of your deadlines, which again, you never met.

You never forgave me for my crushes. And I never forgave you for yours.

"Crush mo iyon? Iyong negrong iyon?" you said, referring to a dark-skinned politician I had the hots for.

"Crush mo iyon? Iyong weird girl na iyon?" I said, referring to an actress you interviewed once, while you glowingly described how smart she was.

Sure, we had our fights. Some too petty to matter, some strongly clashing, like what we should put in the institutional blog.

For one, I thought pictures should be left alone to speak for themselves. You wanted an investigative angle to everything and wanted nothing light.

I teased you about your articles when they sounded so intellectual.

"It's so Fermat!" I complained, referring to an article you wrote about the mathematical theorem.

But there was always humor. Your brand of humor, kind and friendly and never offending.

I remember how you became tearful telling journalists we were training about how the piece on corruption in schools was worked on. "Books. When I was in school, each of us had one," you said, and you stopped, your eyes getting red.

In this country Alecks, the brand of journalism you've been a part of the past 16 years doesn't pay much. But you survived, you lived on the pay, you raised your family. Decently, without sacrificing your principles.

On that measly pay, you trained hundreds of young reporters, and many idolize you. Some even consider you their dad.

Siguro nga, sa langit lang. Sa langit na lang ang big payday.

At kung nasa paligid lang kita, as usual, bubuwisitin mo ako at sasabihan na tama na ang drama.

Hanggang dito na lang, Lecks. Kasi kung hahabaan ko pa, baka hindi maging kalmado ang piyesang ito. At iyon ang alam kong ayaw na ayaw mo.

I don't know what more to say. If I say more, I'd speak my mind and hurt those who hurt you.

Kasi nga, ayaw mo ng komprontasyon. At tuwing may aawayin ka, ako ang pinahaharap mo, di ba? Halos madurog nga ang puso mo tuwing may hindi tayo bibigyan ng certificate dahil hindi nila nakompleto ang sessions. Simpleng bagay, pero di mo kayang manakit.

Atty. Pen, as usual, had the wisest thing to say when I told him we lost you.

"Dapat i-celebrate ang buhay ni Alecks kasi marami siyang mabuting nagawa. Idol ko siya," he said.

Thanks Alecks. Two bottles for you.

Quiapo's colors

Kiyapo is a water lily. The kind you see floating in huge vats, for sale. I don't know if the plant can survive Quiapo's river water these days.

Quiapo is confusing. I can almost see Jesus wanting to wreck the stalls while yelling "heathens!"

This is where religious icons share space with Chinese lucky charms, vegetables, abortion-inducing herbs. This is where you can also have your future told by self-declared seers, while cult leaders with colorful robes wander in the square.

But its colors are lovely.







Thanks to Wella and Viebs for dropping me off.