icoy san pedro

THERE IS an idiomatic expression in the English language, ‘to carry a big stick’, which may pretty much capture what lies behind our seeming lack of empathy and civic sense. Generally, that expression means having power over others and being able to get what we want because of it.

Most often, it doesn’t even have to mean literally having physical power over certain people; on the contrary, just having a feeling of superiority over them already becomes the excuse for getting what we want. Deep down, this is where entitlement leans heavily.

Some academics tie this down as the result of the different rungs in social status. In India, for example, where the caste system still runs beneath the surface despite modern thought, civic sense is almost a rarity. That reality is not so different from us. We’ve no caste system, but as the childhood play rhyme goes, “rich, poor, farmer, doctor” reflects what is a close cousin to it underneath the surface, and most often, if not unbridled insults and derogatory statements flung over social media, we have silent and unspoken discrimination.

To place everything here in proper perspective, civic sense pertains to possessing a conscious and applied consideration for whatever norms or mores a particular society may have at the present time. It is not merely limited to one’s respect for the law. In what is largely missed as an essential part of it, civil sense also looks to the ease and feelings of others, whereby maintaining and adhering to accepted etiquette during our daily interaction with people in the community.

As prime examples, there are those who indiscriminately leave their litter anywhere, be they in parks, malls, open spaces, etc. Some of these people believe in the premise, we have cleaners for that. That attitude smacks of being entitled to these workers. And then, in queues, why is it that it’s always those who are more physically fit or more socially superior who are liable to cut through lines? Transpose this to other situations that concern lines and priorities. Fact: be it in traffic, lines to the cashier, bank, or fast-food outlets, there will always be someone who will be bold enough to flash their entitlement card and practice one-upsmanship.

Years ago, the city employed two significant ordinances which, on the whole, reinforced what is civic sense for everyone. These were: no loud music after 10 o’clock in the evening and smoking only in designated places. The premise of the first: people who had to work and children who had to go to school the next day need their rest. As for the second ordinance, health should be promoted; thus, more taxes on cigarettes were later imposed to discourage smoking. While these add-ons to civic duties may appear to be rules, to quote an Indian video presentation on civic sense, it merely defines it simply as empathy in action.

Have we samplings of both? I remember a ride I had in one of those closed air-conditioned vans plying the downtown to Calinan route. It had been nearing dusk, and half of us were office workers on our way home. At one stop, a group of five or six college students boarded the van. All, clearly in high spirits, talked loudly and cheered as they shoved each other for seats.

It’s not enough; they had accidentally hit a few commuters, and their noise clearly disturbed the whole car. A few minutes later, they quieted one by one, only after noticing all eyes on them.

After a long while, one of them whispered, but enough for all to hear, “but-anay ba diay”, translated as “why should they care?“

I have so many fond memories of August back in the days when our mother was still with us. For one, August isg the time of Kadayawan, only one of the city’s two major festivals (with Araw ng Dabaw as the other). Being a former regional director of a
government office, she had always been a regular participant in the city’s activities during the said festival. Even when she eventually retired and returned to writing daily columns (and also acted as the publisher of a local paper), she never let up, always religious in covering the festival goings-on and attending its many events.

Only known to us and a few, during that time, one of the reasons she was always excited to attend was the dress-up part of it all. It just so happens, a long-time friend and famous local couturier was always glad to gift her with meticulously-decorated
garbs and coats which never failed to transform her into being like a little girl, overly joyous over dresses. These, she would proudly parade before us, her captive audience, before she headed out for the evening.

Happy as all that was, the month of August suddenly took on a darker shade when on the 13 th of that month in the year 2007, amid Kadayawan celebrations, she passed away peacefully in our home

Since that time, the festivities of the month meant very little to us. Now, my momentary glimpses of how happy were those times are when I occasionally see my partner and some of her great-grandchildren wearing some of her clothes, bequeathed to them by her when she was still healthy, while the rest had been distributed years later after her passing.

Through the years, I must have written about many aspects of mom, I am constantly reminded I should collate them all, if only as an attempt to capture her total being and how she is missed by everyone in the family. In this new perspective of her which I reveal, her being almost childlike in her penchant for pretty dresses, is a good enough counter weight to the deep and serious person she also was, particularly in her love for us and her work. It’s been 18 years mom, and we still have to retrieve and recapture all that you were to us, including all the moments with you. Sometimes, I could vividly see you and hear your voice in my dream state. In my waking hours, I’ve so many snippets

of memories and conversations I always replay in my mind, as though they were little soundtracks that have become part of my day. Of course and more important, whenever I see the sequined-Alfonsos my partner wears for Mondays, I see you and that smile I’ll never forget.

A FRIEND of mine could be right, I may have been reading and listening to too many articles and clips about what has been happening around the world, I’m so in the dark (so that I have to ask) about what is happening in the country and our city every time.

I have two reasons for this, which I must admit are cop-out excuses actually. The sensationalist and biased slant in our news reporting is clearly one. The mere fact that my friend is always around to ask about these is the other. It becomes irritating at times. “Do you know where Risa is at the moment?“  I don’t care.

With regard to so-called breaking news, at least there is no need for me to sift through those tiresome, local, and dominantly personality-based news accounts that sadly fail at trying hard to be objective. That’s not an absolute thing, however, because once in a while, whether I like it or not, I tune in to the brouhaha when the neighbor’s television is loud enough and I have no other choice but to listen.

If this sounds like snobby bias or a jaded senior rant, just try paying attention to the news lately, with the conventional media constantly harping about impeachment and their own version of Hague and Lisa updates. They almost always come with straight reporting at first (which for me should be the way it should be packed) and then, second, end with lengthy opinions filled with fallacies, most of which come with the usual parade of “reliable” experts and those who later turn out to be paid hacks disguised as “sources.”

Of course, as this might have already awakened your urge to comment, first be aware that the news from other countries is likewise not entirely perfect. Australian news reports, for one, are often so devoid of detail that any particular bit of news is just plainly reported as something that has happened; a breaking news of sorts that falls flat and leaves you hanging.

In comparison, when listening to (or reading) the UK’s BBC and several US networks’ reportage of the news, the formula for concise reporting mostly appears to be solid, with nary a taste of the nonsense. In a sense, the what, when, where, why, and how are, if not all, presented in logical sequence. However, let it be known that other news outlets, especially in this Trump era, are openly, if not blatantly, there for propaganda purposes.

If one were to probe further with the usual questions like, who is the news’ intended audience, and from whose perspective do they spring out from, then surely, one can surmise that their proverbial slip is showing. After all, aside from being a channel of culture, media will always be a political tool.

So in the end, this leads us back to where we started. I should have perhaps begun by saying that, be it international, national, or local, I will only choose to listen to the news with the least add-ons. No trimmings, just plain information, because after all, nobody is perfect and everyone has got their own bias, teeny weeny or not. When I spot a slant, I simply scroll left and move on.

Once in a while, even when one comes across some rare non-opinionated tidbits, it’s not free from suspicion. Conspiracy – theory mode comes into play, and not for long, we’ve something new to argue about around the house at breakfast. However pristine, like Lego or Ikea kits,  tiny flaws can invite hatched-up opinions from out of the blue.

Combative and “contesera,” as we are in our tiny household, it’s always a case of “who cares what you think?” with our son as arbiter (even as he always sides with the nanay). Ever so often, the two heads banging together arrive at an icy compromise, leaving closure as the starting flint for tomorrow’s part 2 or 3.

What do you know, I am in a hurry again to do chores borne of my lazy bone procrastination. It takes a while for the old motor to warm up but once they’re all done, the term ‘rest easy’ comes to mind; my best two-word combination in the English language. Then, while plopped comfortably in the double pillow seat reserved for the old man of the house and discovering old pics, that warrants a few idle hours, all because of combing through boxes which need throwing out. That goes until it’s time to water the plants again; an added chore and silent cry by these “feed me” guys outside who easily wilt in the sun.

Save for limited laundry (the schedule of which is always at the mercy of the weather), writing for the Times and little cooking and cleaning, these pretty much sum up what it’s like being home alone while the rest are at work somewhere else.

With regard to the latter, which is cleaning, it’s the only chore that can be excused with a pause (when knees and lower back get tired), followed by a reminiscing over old things which always seem to suddenly appear out of the shadows, hoping to be caressed once again like an old toy. As this happens, the little foreman in my head blows his whistle and wakes me from my reverie, yelling it’s time to go back to work!

I once had a teacher in high school who, aside from preaching about success, constantly pressed on us that an idle mind was the devil’s workshop. Didn’t really get it, thinking how’s any mind idle? If mine’s not on the lesson, it’s surely somewhere else and definitely cannot be idle.

As I return to the task at hand, I again look back at the daydream of several minutes ago and say to myself, it has served its purpose. Knees ok, back too, check! Break’s over.

Never one to justify, but a pause actually differs with each person. Yours could be minutes and other people’s could take more, depending on whatever. It’s only  the opinion that puts a color to it. I always return to HD Thoreau when he said, “if a man does not keep in step with his companions, it’s maybe because he hears a different drummer. Let him listen to the music he hears, however distant or far away. “

Dropping quotes, here’s one African proverb to back that up: everyone has a song that is no song at all. It is a way of singing that, when you sing it, you are where you are. Back to daydreaming.

His name was Daniel, Neil to his friends and customers, or was it Niel. (We pinoys always have this penchant for shortening names. Often, we’d repeat it even for  emphasis (as in Niel-niel, Lotlot, Em-em etc), as though that really mattered.

About that, I once had a friend named Rafael (whose name we close buddies shortened to just Raf) . The inevitable repeat syndrome came and the endearment was later turned it into Raf-Raf. That later morphed into Arf-Arf, credited to his girl classmates and friends in school who thought it was “cute”. When the neighborhood guys got wind of it, he finally became Itoy for short (puppy in Visayan). Thus, there wasn’t a trace of Rafael in the end.

Enough already. Before we forget, this isn’t about old man Rafael at all. Let’s just go back to Daniel.

By the way, he died yesterday.  As sudden as that was, it had only been a few days ago, when we last chatted shortly at the gate, as we always did. I called him up and in a few minutes, he arrived in his converted tricycle and replaced our four empty mineral water containers with fresh ones. This, he has done every two weeks for more than 4 years. Just like with other people doing house deliveries in the subdivision, we had become friends. It had become standard between us that there was a 15-peso tip whenever he came by (for merienda daw) and at Christmas, we always had a gift bag of groceries, candies and toys for his baby girl. Always respectful and soft spoken, that was Niel, our friendly neighborhood mineral water man of so many years and I still can’t believe he’s gone, only 35 years young.

I remember the first time he came to replenish our supply, he was the first to break the ice by admiring the row of Chinese ornaments pinned to our screen door, saying we had powerful amulets guarding our door. Since that time, casual small talk evolved into longer chats. There were even many instances when his young wife and little girl would accompany him on his water route and we’d include them in our short conversations.

That’s all gone now. On my way to the store, this morning, spotted his vehicle up our street and at first glance, I thought it was him driving. A new guy, whom we have still to meet, perhaps on our next order, nodded to acknowledge my wave. Just like that, I thought as their departing figures rounded the bend, the cycle, both literally and not, moves on and we’re stranded in a way, even for a while.