If it were only possible to scoop up all of the fondest memories of my Sundays with the family, I would file them into one boundless album and, like a cued video playlist, play each of them in my mind to make my rainy afternoons by the window less dreary.
As it has always been, the Sundays since our childhood have mostly been made up of festive family affairs where, back then, all the elders were still around and bustling lively about. Right from the earliest, starting at the old ancestral house along Ponciano Reyes street, to our present residence in Bajada (which eventually grew into a family compound), my parents and Aunt Nena had by then assumed the granny roles, as our beloved grandparents had already passed, and it was our children’s turn to rule the lawns. Still, our Sundays maintained their old magical air, with big lunches and gatherings made extra special by birthdays and other family celebrations.
Compound all these with the coming of great and great-great grandchildren, which overlapped our nephews’ and nieces’ domination in our parents’ hearts, and it was as if we had a fiesta every weekend. When it was their turn to go, the grandparent role naturally defaulted to us, but with a twist.
Our titles of “Kuya, Ate, Tito, and Tita” remained, as though all had yet to slide smoothly into the new setup. Nevertheless, it looked as though every generation appeared to take its turn at our own version of the parlor game, Trip to Jerusalem. Sometimes, during candid moments, I sadly look and realize only a few of us old guards remain, and the once-happy fort has slowly begun to look like Allende’s house of spirits.
Yet lo and behold, the coming of newborns is almost always so much like Sundays. While the latter are not considered the start of the week for nothing, our dear babies, as in all cultures, also signify continuity that we will endure. Beyond the realm of family, their significance extends far towards the global village, which shall eventually become their teacher.
Come to think of it, here’s what I wrote long ago of these adorable tiny feet:
… there is something poignant in a baby’s first steps. As they walk towards you, unsure and awkward (also cute) in their gait, with both determination and purpose shining through those little eyes, at the same time, tell-tale hints that, later in life, when they’ve grown, they’ll be walking away from you to lead a life all their own.
But back by the window, and I notice it’s still raining. Memories of Sundays gone by continue to filter in, along with outtakes of babies’ antics and the promise of pitter-patter of tiny feet in the years ahead. A thought comes to mind… when the time comes and we have all become but mere segments of their continuing memories, I wish they, too, would find time to see how rewarding it is to treasure their trove of Sundays.
MANY years ago, I came across a passage which read, “The dogs bark but the caravan moves on.” At that time, I thought it served as the fitting analogy for that particular period. Whichever way one looked at it, the reality was, people from all walks of life, had then looked at the coming presidential elections as a great opportunity to finally veer away from the usual crop of traditional politicians in the slate and in their place, vote for a fresh replacement or any hard–nosed contender, as long as this aspirant (or aspirants) wasn’t “trapo.”
As history had penned it, the people’s more popular clamor had won through, despite everything the opposition had hurled to prevent it. Giving credence to the saying, one might say the majority clamor for change was clearly that of the caravan, while the barking dogs in the adage represented those who barked loudly against it, preferring the status quo where an unpopular ruling system clung to power.
Flash forward six or more years. As what can only be described as wheels turning, a complete reversal of roles has taken place. A return to power by the once-vanquished, be it through political twists and turns and deft maneuverings, has all but diminished what once was. At this, if we were to return to that old saying and apply it again to the present condition, the roles of the caravan and the doggies, too, may be upturned.
However, I wish it were as simple as that. There’s no such one-plus-one-equals-two in the dynamics of human interaction. No matter how one may try to generalize it, there will never be an accurate representation, because every case is different. It may only seem like history is repeating itself in the general sense, but in the nitty-gritty, clearly, there are and will be differences.
To veer away from it all, the real take may as well be this: it matters not who plays the acting role of dogs or the caravan, because that’s not the important thing. Truth no.1 is, as always, there will always be two sides (or more) fighting each other, and no. 2, both sides will contend they are fighting on the side of the good. Ergo, no one admits to being on the opposite side, which is evil. As this is always the case, how, therefore, does one discriminate between the other?
As Simon Sinek, an American author and inspirational speaker, said in a podcast, if we start with the basic knowledge that everyone believes they’re on the side of the good and no one admits to being evil, we should shift our perspectives and stop labeling people we don’t agree with as evil. Instead, ask where they are sourcing their versions of good from.
The dog and caravan tale might still be applicable as being descriptive of any two opposite sides, but looking more into their intent is much better than just being the agitated neighbor roused up by all the ruckus.
AT LEAST in the country, the end of August signals the entry, not only of what is obviously September, but the beginning of our three and a half months’ love affair with what bemused foreigners dub as the Philippine Christmas season.
In our usual stoic response, Pinoys, unperturbed, still go ahead as if to defiantly declare to all the world: don’t burst our bubble…or what could be more accurate in the dialect: “Walang basaganng trip!” For all its worth, what do they care anyway? As if they, too, haven’t known already, we like to drink our beer in a mug with lots of ice and more importantly, we’ve absolutely no qualms about putting pineapple on our pizza (sorry Italians).
It’s a yearly thing, this love affair. For businesses, it’s an extra time to make money. While the months of September and October are pegged for unloading to eager consumers the year-old stocks (cleverly sold at discount), the rest of November and December will purely run on holiday spirit alone to make that yearend profit. In a nutshell, that’s a lot of hay making, four months of “sun.”
On the other hand, for everyone else, there’s generally the creeping festive air that injects an undeniably calming, if not Tiger-balming effect, on the psyche, and it plainly spells pit stop.
Work all year but starting this month of September, respite at the end is in sight. So, while workers will expect their extra holiday wages i.e., their 13th-month pay or bonuses, their dependents look forward to these and whatever the extended holiday season will bring.
While that may be the general scenario that aptly describes our yearly affection with September and what it ushers in, just like what any leading coffee-making franchise has done, too many add-ons spoil the flavor. Several factors, some tangible and some not so, make for a doubtful fete we’ve been used to expecting.
For one, the political climate, with its constant manipulations and maneuvering for power by all well-meaning actors, has continued to polarize people. Thus, it remains hanging like a lingering dark cloud threatening hard rain. On a more tangible side, God’s gift of rain has all but exposed the true depth of what corruption is like. A case in point is the purported involvement of people in some government agencies, along with their private contractors, on flood control projects meant specifically to ease the public in times of severe flooding. These have become severely compromised because funds for them have reportedly been siphoned off to fill the palms of unseen hands. What’s the promise of September for the victims of flooding, while the thieves ride comfortably in their luxury vehicles, safe from rising waters, I wonder?
Every year at this time, I have become used to seeing the iconic singer, Jose Mari Chan back once again to sing his hit Christmas song. A recent image of him on social media shows a crying face, all because another was mutilating his song. I thought, that should have been the least of his worries.
As Mrs. Dango, our speech teacher in college, used to say, unless people stop speaking it, language ‘lives on’. I guess she also meant to include that, just like other living entities, language will naturally, through time, shed off old unusable skin in order to grow a new one. A case in point of this might perhaps be how we converse in the realm of social media.
If one were to take the time to pore through its countless threads included in comments and conversations, it would seem that even with English as the medium, people sound as if they’re speaking in tongues most of the time.
Given that it’s true each generation contributes to any language’s ever-growing tome, the birthing of slang for one, always proves to be faster than the speed and service of one’s internet provider. For example, one dire scenario, like getting caught in the middle of a convo with younger generations, is akin to hearing a private joke when you’re just an outsider. The feeling is also like being left out in the cold or trying to gain entrance without a visitor’s ID.
Granted, developing situations such as these may have been common even before the advent of the Internet, but the possibilities of being awkwardly plunged into the midst of such instances have now more than tripled, just by being online. Connectivity may have indeed brought all tribes together, and we’ve each been given a microphone so we could say our piece.
One downside, perhaps, the introduction of generation-based terminology subtly, through time, affects already existing conversation modes. The popular use of acronyms (like lol or btw), puns, and throwback slangs used by earlier generations, etc., may all be regarded naively as structural tweaks, but there are those who believe they’re not only divisive and alienating, they’re there to stamp one tribe’s identity over the existing norm, so to speak.
This isn’t just personal opinion, mind you, but several works have already discussed the continued “dumbing” of language. The clear thing is, we might have become lazy, taking shortcuts, whereby mutilating words, as though we’re in a hurry to get things done ASAP.
Also not to be missed out is the declarative usage of emotive icons or emoticons, which, in a click or two, conveniently conveys a single sentiment represented through so-called emojis.
While again, all may merely be structural quirks of worldwide chat, which drive home the message that communications and language are both dynamic, it does not necessarily follow that we are equally-dynamic as well. Sure, there are some who accept it as the new normal, but others do it, not only because it is popular but because of a belongingness feel. The question remains, do traditional dialogue conventions still apply in this evolving and reformatted talk-universe?
Thank God many still converse and chat in complete sentences. It is usually those from the younger generations where cutting words (not abbreviate, mind you) or using acronyms are common. Time will surely come when like old skin, us and our choice of language get peeled away. No worries however, that’s how it is with this flat earth of ours that skips like a stone through water around the sun.
There is a long queue at our favorite and newest getaway place and my tummy is in a hurry. Just last month, the resident doctor who read my lab tests had been adamant when she advised, no-no to all oily foods, with a special mention to pork. After a long think and read on what are the best to eat (aside from the usual ho-hum veggies), I’ve finally decided to try and make do with what is my partner’s one and only comfort food for the season, Goto. Since my visit to the doc, I’ve awaited this moment when we could finally have the time to get here and sample what she had always been raving about. Bummer of all bummers, it’s taking too long.
It’s called phubbing, or “the practice of ignoring one’s companion or companions in order to pay attention to one’s phone or other mobile device.”
I noticed the stall nearby had fewer people lining up at its cashier window and for a brief moment, I was tempted to sample what specialty they were offering. Talk about desperate and hungry. But when I checked, the small sign read “barbeque”. I likened the sinking feeling I got to the time when I finally stopped smoking during the height of the pandemic. During that time, when it was finally safe to venture outside, our first visits to relatives were torture, especially when my nephews would jokingly offer me a stick to test my resolve. I’m reliving that feel now.
I’m right away thinking, maybe we should have come on a weekday. The matey had countered, office time. Perhaps in the evening then? Traffic. So, there’s no use. Grin and bear it. I whip out the old handy dopamine machine and proceed to play my mahjong game. Once in a while, I look up and I see people at their tables doing the same thing, their Led screens painting ghostly images on their faces.
As an aside, I’ve just recently learned, there’s a relatively – new term which aptly describes any scene where people at a table ignore each other while they fidget with their mobiles. It’s called phubbing, or “the practice of ignoring one’s companion or companions in order to pay attention to one’s phone or other mobile device.” I’m imagining, that particular wordsmith must have also been privy to waiting in lines for take-outs such as these when he coined the new word. Kudos, yes but when’s our Goto?
Suddenly, there’s a minor ruckus at our line. Slowly, it began to become non-existent, with only us manning the ex-queue. As we raced up front, my heart skipped a beat when the guy said, “so sorry sir, we’ve run out of Goto.”
“How could you!“ I shouted, feeling the gentle pat of my partner on my shoulder. “Hush… You’re dreaming again.”
I situate myself for a second and slowly realize, indeed I was. I sink back on the pillow sighing, and think back, oh my, that barbecue looked amazing.
I had a quiet classmate back in elementary who, during one particular week, always wore a Cub Scout cap to cover his head. I remember a few students making small jokes about him being “pahak” under the blue thing but I thought little of it. Way back then, just as I am now, I never really cared much about what one’s fancy was. I just let it go. Though less timid now, I was careful then not to initiate attention lest I be embarrassed. Being the center of attention, as in being made the laughing stock, was for me, a nightmare. And it still is.
Those years in the 60s were as old school as you’d imagine old school to be. It wasn’t at all surprising that, every student (except for a few rich kids who were spared) felt a feudal bond with some teachers who were quick with the hand and overly strict as a lord. Naturally, under such conditions, some became the object of either ridicule or unwanted attention.
As it is, a blue cap prominently stood out in the middle of rows upon rows of white-uniformed elementary students during one morning’s flag ceremony, especially from the vantage point of one who stood in front, elevated by the platform where the flag pole was. In one swift motion, the grade six teacher swooped down from that perch like a hawk and without fanfare, snatched the cap from my classmate’s head. At once, amid shock and laughter from those nearby, my classmate, in tears angrily and defiantly shot back at the teacher and snatched his cap back. In one swift motion, he put his cap back on, but not before the teacher and a few of us saw a large patch of hair missing and in its place, a bandaged wound. Embarrassed, the teacher walked back to the front while a few among us, now ashamed at their reaction, shifted their gaze elsewhere. Only then did we hear, his family had been one of the victims of a city fire but he has remained quiet about it.
There is this popular saying about everyone having a story of their own and that we never know what each of us are going through. This is why, we should always strive to be kind. I remember my late mom, on several occasions, reminding me simply, to ‘be kind’.
It’s only now that I guess, that must have just been the abbreviated message of what she really wanted to put across.
Nowadays, bad-mouthing and ridiculing other people have become common fare, especially in social media and in the safety of their own homes. This attitude of becoming emboldened, almost faceless and anonymously protected behind the wall of the internet, has become almost like a culture. One only has to read through any post or article to see what I mean. Loose lipped and quick on the draw, personal insults are flung, even at total strangers while more calculated criticisms and pieces written by so-called trolls dot the web, as though they were the new badge of entitlement.
When I can, I like to watch animal documentary videos on the usual available cable channels at home. Interesting as they are, one may have noticed, whenever on-ground observers and professionals are on the scene, they absolutely keep still and stay quiet while observing gorillas for example or whatever other animals they’re studying in their natural environment.
One reason for doing so is, the show commentator insists, is so as not to spook the animals. More often than not, that protocol is emphasize early in program by the host of the video. However, while that may be the idea they’re trying to sell (to maintain a wholesome perspective) , I think they’re omitting the fact that if the wild animals were in fact disturbed, ‘spooked’ might just not be the generic result. Imagine if those observers dared to be aggressive at all and disturbed the animals, there’s a high probability that they might be torn to pieces and that would have made for a really shocking animal documentary.
That’s the animal kingdom for you. Yet, in a sense, there also exists a close twin of that animal realm that’s located, not in the real wild jungles of the world, but in the wide digital expanse of the internet, with social media as its capital. There’s just simply no disturbing the animals there, folks. Just dare to twitch a little or slightly brush through its thick underbrush and one will surely attract a host of wild inhabitants. Tread ever carefully.
Many years ago, the Philippine Basketball Association (PBA) had given the Sportsmanship award to a popular but controversial baller. Naïve as I was back then to the ways of netizens, I posted a slight comment on one thread and showed my displeasure at such choice, just as many others have done. To my surprise, by the next morning, my comment had received a few hundred angry replies, the majority of which were direct personal insults on my person. Shocked as I was, I had to delete my comment, flushing all those derogatory remarks along with it.
Take the case of my old friend Joey. For all it’s worth, it’s just the way it is. Though no fault of his own, being at the right spot at the right time, is sadly not favorable to some of the wild tribes of social media anymore. In his defense, many have posted and blamed the younger generations for the utter disrespect. Even though one with them, I dare to go further. It could perhaps be, they’re the direct relatives or sons and daughters of those earlier netizens who also belong to the same tribe who had been trigger-happy in insulting whoever wronged their basketball stars long ago.
I must have heard it spoken by grownups during the whole length of my childhood. Sometimes uttered in regret, sometimes in jest (as though they were witnessing a completely unique attribute by us) and lastly said in exasperation and surrender. In the varying degrees of separation, family members and closer relatives might articulate it in a more direct manner and passionately too, while strangers and acquaintances tend to be more civil and empathetic. Whether out loud or in whispers, spanning generations of countless elders which include our parents, these collective grownups ask the same thing. What’s wrong with the kids of today?
In an earlier recollection, a college teacher and friend of mine once confided, what was she to do with her niece who was apparently undergoing the confusing emotions tied with adolescence, all the while forgetting I too was only several years ahead of her ward.
“The jury is still not out on what’s behind the whys of what’s wrong with those younger than we. One thing is sure though, as Mike & The Mechanics succinctly put it: every generation blames the one before….”
Though I must admit, being privy to such grownup chat may have been a bit flattering at the time, I was already aware that wasn’t the first time I heard it. Even during our college days, our mother sometimes conferred with us regarding our younger siblings. Much later, t’was as if there was a seamless transition, the employee years saw the same thing happening. Same question, different sets of people, involving different generations.
At the present time, nothing much has changed. It’s still being asked today, except the reality is, I have become one of those who are doing the asking. At this, I’m already wondering, does it even need to be answered? Is it just part of our nature to ask it, the way our parents and those before them have repeated the process, as though repeating this age-old query was a part of some odd tradition? Is there some secret context involved that I still have to discover?
I recall when my younger son was in high-school. The father of his class mate had asked me, how come my son and his peers so sensitive, unlike us and others from our generation? They’re so quick to sulk but fast at being critical of old ways, I remember him saying. Last night, a friend again posed a similar observation. And I thought, just another circle game, as Joni might have put it.
While already some may have placed an official tag on it as being a generational issue, I, like a few still maintain, the jury is still not out on what’s behind the whys of what’s wrong with those younger than we. One thing is sure though, as Mike & The Mechanics succinctly put it: every generation blames the one before….
Back in 1992, I heard it from the proverbial Marites grapevine of the time that the city had in its plans a construction of a coastal road along the Davao shores facing Samal. However, this was reportedly shelved and the funds allocated to it was instead sent as aid to the victims of the Mt. Pinatubo eruption which happened in June of the previous year. As grapevine stories go, especially in years before internet, no one could confirm whether this was true or not.
No matter, all that is water under the bridge now, because trivia or barber talk, here we all are, enjoying this new stretch of highway which may as well be one, if not the best Kadayawan gift for the city in a long time.
I think a few years back when our fam of three would wake up at four every Sunday morning and drive up to its Toril entrance so we could run on its still-unopened kilometer of fresh pavement, with a breathtaking view of majestic Mt. Apo in the background. While many may have done the same, jogging and biking up to behold its clean surroundings, who could forget the overly expectant thousands of Dabawenyos who filled it up one night, only to fail to witness a botched drone show that would’ve been part of its opening?
Still, all water under Bankerohan bridge now. But like the modern highway snake that it is, it’s still moving and stretching ever forward, until it reaches where, Panabo, or infinity and beyond? The final destination, unknown to me.
Taking the flashback train further, I remember my late friend Vernon while he took me for a ride upon my permanent return to Davao after a few years in Manila. Starting from somewhere beyond Sasa, we traversed a long and winding highway, all new to my eyes, daring me to guess where we were every few kilometers, until promptly turned past Bolton bridge and parked at their driveway at the edge of The ole PC barracks. It was only later that he told me we’ve gone via the Diversion road.
I’m willing to bet, all Dabawenyos have gone and done the same, but this time, driving along the coastal road with their visitors, as if to show off a new toy. As for us three, we still occasionally run there on Sundays, as it’s closed to vehicles from 4 to six in the morning and open only for joggers and bikers. Sometimes, coming back to the city from Gensan, we would opt for its scenic route and proceed to SM or downtown for errands or a late dinner before finally heading home. As one ad said it all back in the 80s, we’ve come a long way, baby!
If one were to read about what’s going on anywhere nowadays, almost often, you would notice that some articles are cleverly slanted in such a way that the actual goings-on sometimes play second only to the opinion shared by the ones writing them.
I remember one time, a contemporary of my mom who was a purist in the framework of what-when-where-how-who of news reporting, reiterated that opinion has no place at all in the news. I totally agree. But, God bless his soul, things are not what they seem anymore. It’s good enough, he isn’t around anymore to witness it.
Some instances of news reporting nowadays are more often than not, used for its format’s sake and not as it has been intended to be originally. For whatever they’re worth, what, when, where, why, who and how, have now become mere backdrops or disguises for propaganda.
Especially here in the country, whenever I come across the heading BREAKING NEWS nowadays, a part of me takes the defensive back stance, right away wary and thinking, what’s the catch? Sometimes if one’s lucky, one spots the Mickey easily and you relax a bit and sigh, ‘gotcha’. However, as the trolls of today have become smarter (a contradiction in terms, really), you get lost in the weave of whatever you’re reading or viewing in the media and, without you knowing it, the gotcha is now plopped in your court.
Once when dwelling on the subjects of how not to be duped and critical thinking, our late college teacher in Logic, Fr. Paris MM once said, take everything you hear with a grain of salt, meaning not to take them in seriously right away. But with the way things are these days, with artificial intelligence arming both the dodgy, the goon and the techie, I’m prone to say, we’re going to need more than a sack of salt and that may not even be enough. Besides, who else is into critical thinking nowadays, when practically everything is readily Google – able?
Seriously, Fr. Paris can’t be more right than in today’s reality. It’s come to be that whatever it is that anyone sees or hears has now become suspect. At this juncture, a drinking buddy is one I will readily honor with coining the term ‘budol-budol all around’. Lastly, pardon me as I borrow a quote from a popular sitcom, “the night is dark and full of terrors”. That’s only half of it, we’ve the day to contend with as well. So many hours of that.
