honoring my mother

TIME WAS when we only met in the classroom. All the moments we shared then, not merely as friends but classmates and acquaintances to most, simply revolved around that person of authority standing in front of our little world at the moment.

Uncomplicated enough, at the end of day and without much of a last glimpse, we all headed for home during the late afternoon.

Our last school bus ride for the day just proved our parting is just all temporary.

By next morning, we are all at it again, fearless and facing a new school day with fresh uniforms and the briefest tales of what transpired at home or what was on TV the night before.

These memories of high school, some of them so vivid and in living color while others merely coated in dull grey, flash by between the present-day distractions that play before our eyes, as we now sit quietly and sip our espresso in the dimly-lit coffee shop you own.

Not much energy and less talk this time, as though we are just content on just looking out at passersby while they hurry past our coffee window.

I remember that back in our youth, we had so many stories we told each other, the bus rides to and from school were never a dull affair.

It didn’t even matter much if I, at one time or another, discovered some fantastic stories from you were make-believe. But I listened anyway. Now I admit, I had on several occasions, made up some of my own. In a sense, we knew about each other’s little lies and BS and that was alright.

The important thing, I guess, was we only chose to share them with those closest to us, if at all.

What we didn’t realize, these little episodes might have been portent of things to come because, much later during and immediately after the college years, when our tall tales shifted to more serious pursuits, like girls, girls, graduation or a final paper on Nietzsche, seeing less and less of each other as our other friends seemed to scatter in all directions, came so naturally with everyone.

And then, poof, our golden years were gone.

Thinking back, I’ve realized what we’ve shared through those years were the lighter moments which all but veiled whatever darker secret we had, not that we cared so much to know about that.

It’s only now that we’re either brave or more mature enough that we’re more open about real life struggles, not appropriately fit for the foolish posture of our youth. We’re more open now, in our old age. Too bad, hang-ups were the in-thing during our past.

Perhaps, they still are. But that’s not our problem anymore. Let’s just watch life’s parade through our windows.

DURING one rare weekend afternoon,  my partner and I had a mall-hopping tour all to ourselves, as our son and constant companion had been out of town. After exhausting nearly half a day’s hours of ticking off all that we’ve written in our list of to-dos and to-buys, we finally decided to sample what an open-air food oasis beside the Abreeza mall offered. 

At once, we were in agreement that we would have coffee and something to go with it. From across our seats, we spotted a popular delicacy stall which had already started to gain much attention, judging from the growing queue alongside it and many others milling around waiting for their orders to be served.

With that as a cue, I promptly stood in line behind five people and waited for my turn.

As it turned out, the process of lining up and placing one’s order was efficient and fast. What took a longer time, though, was the part of getting served. And unbelievable as it might seem, I had to stand around for almost an hour to be so in my case.

However, even though that may have appeared to be a very long time, after I’d paid and broken out from the line to join the number of people hanging about, I must have witnessed quite a number of what one might call glimpses in the “study of human nature.” in sensurround, living color and live action.

First, I noticed a tall and athletic male, of either Chinese or Japanese descent, in clean white tees and street shorts, going back and forth several times before the dispensing stall staff to check if his orders had already been called out.

Then finally, on his last return, he began to loudly chastise the whole food crew, citing how long he had had to wait, then accusing them of poor service and even imploring those beside him to also take up his case.

No amount of plea for understanding and reasoning from the hapless people in the booth could please him, even as, already clearly shaken and harassed, they still could not hurry the time of how long it took to fry what they had offered as their stall’s specialty.

I watched another, a senior man this time, garbed to the neck in gold and glitter, who on the side subtly offered to bribe the person at the stove to forego the early orders and serve him first.

When the lady refused, he likewise opened up with the same earlier soliloquy and even went further, threatening to seek out the owner and report on their supposed performance.

The two cases (and sadly a few more) I have witnessed, along with all of those who silently waited for their orders to be called. All these in one Sunday afternoon, all under an hour, all under a tiny patch of land in the biggest city in the world.

(Ahem, got carried away and that’s quite a stretch.)

But with utmost seriousness, all these bring to mind, and I would like to seek permission in quoting verbatim, a portion of a piece by a popular art connoisseur and blogger, Joanna Preysler, wrote years ago:

“Entitlement is a quiet kind of cruelty. A form of bullying. It convinces us we’re better than someone simply because they serve us. But no job – – warrants disrespect. And no amount of stature or money gives anyone the right to belittle. Decency isn’t weakness. It is dignity in action. It’s remembering that every person we encounter has a story. A family. A name.”

IF ONE were to count how many times I must have heard any comment that started with, “Oh, the young people today…” I would have to start from two generations above me, from that of my grandparents and our parents. That’s where I first heard such unforgettable opening lines.

While growing up, we (the lower and younger generation back then) were the consistent recipient of either their praise or criticism, with the latter firmly resigned to the top tier.

Ironically, we also learned in school that the country’s national hero, JPR, had once referred to us and generally the youth as the “hope of the fatherland.” So, from the ground, confusing as that was, we knew different.

As such, any deviation from what was the acceptable norm of the time almost always got us zoned into hearing from the grownups, any critique with the opening line, “the young people of today.”

This is then followed by whatever trivial transgression we may have done during any particular time.

Fast forward a few more years and without realizing it at first, we, the young generation that once was, whom our elders once regularly called out, find ourselves now as not only mimicking them but also mouthing their same belief, with the opening line, “The young people of today.” In short, in what has appeared to be a short while, we find ourselves singing their song.
I have often laughed at this with friends, jokingly referring to the phenomena as either hereditary, societal or contagious.
But looking back, I’m reminded of a particular child phase my partner once told me about (I’ve likewise seen this in other children.)

There had been a time when her supervisor’s apo would always walk around in her lola’s high heels, and pretend to get ready to go to the office, like her.

I’m then wondering, is mimicry imbedded in our DNA or is it from what we see in society? I don’t know.
But why is it that whenever I find myself exasperatingly uttering any comment which starts with “the young people of today…” in my head, it’s as though I’m also imitating the tone at how my grandma says the same thing to me?

If all this is not enough, this practice, phenomena, syndrome, or whatever one calls it, is such a human thing, I suspect other species lack it clearly.

However, for the moment, I’ll go with this: the undertones of such merely point at our natural tendency to pat ourselves in the back as if to say, after all, we were better.

Agree or disagree, from which age or generation multiverse are you calling from?

THERE is a heartwarming tale about a tribe in Africa where, supposedly, a special song is composed by the community for each member, starting from their birth, performed during various stages of their life, until finally, it’s sung as a requiem at their deathbed. 

Although widely shared online by many credible well-being inspirational speakers and writers in workshops since it appeared in 2015, it may come as both shock and huge spoiler for everyone: it’s not true. 

The  tale is nothing but a product of Internet misinformation going around. 

For one, the original material is said to be vague and ridden with generalizations, failing to include reliable sources, much less providing the name of the tribe. 

It was only in later versions where the Himba tribe was added, to lend credence to the story, although the damage had already been done. (This fantastic piece of information is available at iorbitnews.com, under the title “the sacred song of each child in the Himba tribe.”) 

However, if one had read the piece online, the veracity of the narrative may not be at all be too important since its intent has clearly been just intended to inspire. 

Nowadays on YouTube, and shared as a link on other social media platforms, sentimental tales of noted personalities abound, all works of fiction but written masterfully and clearly meant to tug at one’s heartstrings. 

Here’s the thing, however, the proliferation of false stories and anecdotes about indigenous cultures has always been a consistent template because of their exotic appeal to non-indigenous people and city-folk readers alike. 

Sadly, in many ways, most fall as either derogatory or patronizing. 

In the country, we have as many as 110 ethno-linguistic groups. And these do not include our Muslim brothers and sisters, who have distinctions of their own. 

Among these Indigenous peoples, 61 percent are found in Mindanao. Through many years, the  culture of the IPs has been promoted and celebrated worldwide, with countless documentaries depicting the ways of the people. 

For example, there’s nothing wrong if researchers document and narrate the intricate processes of the T’boli or other Indigenous Peoples’ weaving, for example, no matter how romantic and mystical they made it appear to be. 

This treatment for purposes of exotica does not at all betray the fact how richly these many cultures have thrived in diversity. 

However, in what appears to be an intended counterbalance, the portrayal of the same people as either largely uneducated hinterland dwellers, mendicants and, worse, prone to lawlessness and banditry, painted under the same template of exotic tint to the frame still exists unchecked and that is our reality.

I am reminded of two Mindanaoans, an Agusan priest and a North Cotabato policeman. 

The clergy very sarcastically noted that it’s very easy to request funding agencies abroad for four-wheel vehicles in his far-flung diocese. Just send them a picture of an IP child, poor and dirty, along with your proposal and that’s enough to keep the funds coming. 

Meanwhile, the policeman had said, just submit a report of an increase in rebels amassing in one’s area and that’s enough. Procurement for new M-16s and other weapons are sure to come. 

A missionary, when talking about all these, may have unintentionally capsulized what’s underneath the present mindset. 

Everything is exquisitely depicted, as though on canvas. The part of many among us, as people outside looking in, is rendered magnificently, with our own brand of exotic ignorance. 

By comparison, that little story of an African birth song pales so badly. 

SOMEHOW, I always feel an air of sadness whenever I am inside any bus terminal, pier, train station, or airport. The endless parade of people headed somewhere adds deeper meaning to this strange sensation. 

It doesn’t even really matter whether I know these travelers are either coming or leaving home. The obvious purpose of these portals is as plain as it is somber. While people go about their own journeys and adventures, you know, there are always those who will be left alone at the platform. Once, during my younger years, I saw myself as that person.

I haven’t been a stranger to travel. Itchy feet, my mother once called me. This is why whenever a family member or close friend embarked on a journey, I could totally relate to their excitement or growing anticipation of a coming trip ahead, which to me was really an adventure of sorts.

In my younger days, I had once adhered to the call of “a rolling stone gathers no moss,” living for a while as a rambling musician. 

Through those years, while I roved and gaped, breathed and lived in the wide world outside my hometown, the airports and provincial stations, terminals and ports have all become jumbled up into a blur of black and white frames. 

And because my focus then was on the social relationships I had with people and companions, those terminals eventually turned into nothing but stark structures that I’ve often ignored. The journey, not the destination, then, had become the main thing, and in the lingo of the time, the trip.

A favorite daydream I remember was, whenever I took a bus trip or train ride, I’d look out the window as houses along the highway zipped past, and imagine choosing a house at random, then fantasizing myself as living there in total anonymity, lost from the world.

That had been a long time ago. Now, whenever I am inside such buildings, I somehow re-live the old feel and imagine that these may be new people coming in every day, but hail to the ancient structure, it hasn’t changed a bit. 

I’m also imagining many among the travelers that may have passed through its doors have gone from younglings to professionals while being patrons of the place. As always, because things remain the same, people will be standing in line patiently waiting for their buses, while nearby, there will be those who’ll be left standing at the platform to send them off.

In the end, the quick zips from point A to B have already lost a bit it’s spell on me. Even though I still recall my once-favorite seat in the non-stop buses of long ago, it’s fine by me that they’re now enjoyed by others. 

As it is, our younger son drives us on our trips, from visits to relatives or to many other forays I still think of as adventures. Because of this, terminals have become a thing of the past for me. However, I still dream of them, as I would other old haunts. But only as a fond reminder that the road and the journey never really end. 

one of the more memorable closing lines ever in a movie came from the classic film, “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”

Just before the end credits, the lead actor had said about time (or life) : “It moves by so fast, in the blink of an eye, it’s gone”.

Being a film buff back in the 80s was actually living the life for me.

During that time, practically all the classics our parents have been bragging about could  be had, and quite easily too, courtesy of a local Betamax video shop in the city, who prided itself at having it all.

Shout out to the owners of the BetaHaus. Incidentally, that was where, during many late-night movie marathons,  I must have counted close to ten films which  mentioned life as being fleeting. (Dare me, and I’ll bait you with “Patton” and “Dead Poets Society”.)

And how is this important? It’s just interesting to note, filmmakers have been unrelenting in their playing of the “life-is-fleeting” theme, they’ve been doing so to death, with scarcely a few of us noticing.

Then true to the topic of fleeting, all those Betamax days are gone now. However, while old (as well as new) films nowadays could be had on the net more easily at a moment’s tick of the finger, these are all digitized copies, unlike those in video cassettes, which one could touch and hold in your hand.

Let’s spread it more thinly, since life involves spectrum. What else in life is fleeting?

For one, I would like to add, friends. Or family, for another.

Just recently, I have met with both and I would have to say, whatever else isn’t evolving just as fast?

Last weekend, we attended the swim party of one of our great-greats by our late and eldest brother. 

Happy as we all were to be bolted-in once again ala Voltez-5, I could not help but be amazed at how fast time and life really fly.

I’ve also talked to a very close and dearest friend on her birthday and felt the same heavy air of nostalgia right away.

On both occasions, I have to say, while the now have all been graced with better times, the old days have never been more missed.

In more ways than one, their very  memories have provided us with nothing but a good shade during trying times. That’s why we never fail to remember them.

SENIOR tennis players at the courts back in the 80s used to tell us, you can learn a lot about any person by just looking at their overall demeanor right after a tournament match. There’s a grain of truth in that, I know. 

Oftentimes, looks on the faces alone, clearly paint a picture of the storm raging inside a person.  The winners for example, while they offer their short talks directed at the bowed heads of the conquered, one catches a disguised gloating (not imagined, mind you) that’s only for brief moment, and visible only under a certain light. 

“It was a good match, too bad one had to lose. Etcetera.” The gloat is, of course, later validated, once one is in private convo and the guy then clearly sneers to say, ‘I destroyed that guy, didn’t I? Only in private ears. 

Meanwhile, on the losing side, the deadpan, blank look into space sometimes appears as the initial and obvious giveaway, but wait awhile and it’s either a shrug or at worse, tantrums, that might follow and we get a front row seat. 

In the long run, if one  looks closely enough, there is really no such thing as a cool loser and you can take that to the bank. Many might not agree and may have a different say but I leave it there just the same, with a “convince me otherwise” sign on the table. 

Meanwhile, back to the old guys at the court, their words still ring clearly in my head often, and  especially now. Theirs as often the kind of speak that, when they opened their mouths, you listened, as  wisdom came aplenty. 

At the time, mine had toads coming out of it. Even when at certain moments in the conversations they merely nodded, you knew right away there was purpose there, almost like a poignant pause. So we just shut our trap.

Nowadays, applying and transposing what the elders have said long ago, theirs is just so much to discover and learn from the way people in the tennis courts of government carry themselves. 

In many many ways, there’s also more to see from the way we spectators manage ourselves. It’s just too bad, even as we all know governments can rise and fall, as they all do, we at the gallery align ourselves with either side, fight with one another and then stand ready to fall along with them. There’s still much to know, because even as empires fall, the people remain.

IN THE past, the day might start out simple enough. Throughout households everywhere, a quiet breakfast may be followed by reading the morning papers or listening/watching the news on the radio or on television. 

It’s different nowadays. During these modern times, as part of the majority, we’re either reading or watching the news from a tiny piece of technology that fits firmly in our hands.

If this present disposition still were to be compared to the old ways of ‘reading the papers’, then it might be that it’s only in the particular after-brekkie scenario where the latter is comparable to our present fascination with a cell phone, or its slightly bigger sister, ironically called the tablet.

Truth is, if the comparison between a newspaper and a mobile phone persisted as sources of information, and extended to other day-to-day activities, it just wouldn’t apply. It would be ridiculous, in fact, because who reads the papers 20 hours a day? 

Be that as it may, and jokingly, whether you like it or not, there exists an absolute truth: the old gives way to the new. Always.

And leaving that triviality aside, how can that even be relevant? After all else, it would not really matter if one read the news out of a newspaper, a cell phone LED screen, or even a toilet door. The question that should be asked instead is, would you believe everything you read or saw in them?

Just this morning, I was watching a video where an eight-year-old had wowed competition judges with a masterful rendition of a difficult Beethoven piece. Excitedly, I immediately showed it to my mate, who, in a split second, with neither hi nor ho, shot it down with a flat ‘it’s A.I.’ Swat, might have been the better word. 

I recall another instance, I showed a musical trivia video this time, to my younger son, and without fanfare, I also received the same put-down. Through all these, however, I’m not about to easily run up the stage just yet and receive my ‘most gullible award’, no sir. 

As you may know, fake news abounds, and a rash of them have been plying the airwaves lately, while lies upon lies are rained upon the population just so you-know-who can sway opinion.

As I once advised a friend, in spite of all that’s happening in the world today, press pause and be like a rock. Sit easy amid the storms and sift through whatever wreckage. The good always whispers gently. Or you could also say, I eat A.I. and fake news for breakfast. 

I’LL NEVER forget one early morning breakfast in a farmer’s hut where I had spent the night sometime in the mid-90s. Back then, I was still working for a non-government organization and just about to start a day-long trek in the mountains to interview a few tribal leaders for our research.

But going back to the topic of breakfast, we weren’t having your usual city fare of bread or toast, eggs, and what-have-yous. Instead,  it was just boiled “saba” (plantain), ginamos, a little leftover rice, and a heaping mug of native coffee.

The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but mixes of orange to flamingo already threatened to invade the dark where a few stubborn stars still lingered.

We sat there, facing each other and breaking fast with only the tiny light of a small kerosene can in the middle of our otherwise dark and bare table.

In my mind, I imagined we looked like track athletes before a race, with everyone deep in thought and in our own personal worlds. All quiet we were, reserved and content to just cup the warm mugs with both hands to stave off the cold.

In all, the ambience of our tiny kitchen felt more like that of a chapel’s, where even a hush meant breaking an unwritten law.

Yet I reckon it really doesn’t matter whether one is up in the boondocks or right smack in the middle of suburbia. The peace and quiet while having that first cup must rightfully belong as one of the things you would miss at breakfast.

I am likewise reminded of a young boy of about three sitting at breakfast wearing a face like Dr. Freeze and just staring into nothing. Her aunt (my gf then) had asked softly, “Adrian, what are you doing?” and he hoarsely mumbled, “I am thinking.”

All grown up now, I am wondering if he still sticks to his thinking ritual whenever he sits at the breakfast table before his coffee.

I know not everyone drinks the brew come mornings or drinks it at all, but I have to ask, whatever similar morning rite do you indulge in once you’re at the table? Surely, there must be some sacred ritual that involves a certain lull and silence. A quiet before the storm, so to speak. I imagine it would be different with others.

During our much earlier times, we weren’t afforded quiet moments. I remember my mother reciting to us high-schoolers the chores before we left for school or reminding us of assignments we dare not forget once we got home.

Even as others like us find a certain solace in a few quiet minutes while we have our first coffee, I am just starting to accept that other people prefer to fill theirs with whatever declarations of inspiration, insight, and discoveries they might have had during the night before. 

In the case of many, it’s time for discussing news and many other trivialities that may have transpired in the past and the present. For politicians, perhaps the future. In the end, it’s to each his own, and that’s that.

I’m just about to have my second cup. And at that, the promise of a second quiet.

AS MY high school batch mates will attest, one of the more unforgettable characters we had during  that era was a then-substitute teacher and lawyer-to-be whom we fondly nicknamed Success.

The reason for this, on his very first-day, he launched into an impassioned rhetoric on how to achieve success in life.

Throughout the rest of our final year, no matter what the subject, he would inject it seamlessly into the discussion.

He must have said the word success more than a thousand times. At first, we didn’t take notice, but later on, all of us awaited the very moment when he would insert the word and we’d all start laughing.

In case generations today could not relate, he’s what one could call the forerunner of inspirational speakers we often see today on IG or FB.

Better still, because of his fiery deliveries, he might as well be one of those bible-swearing street preachers we see daily who screech more than preach.

Anyway, the one other thing he taught us, which was perhaps the most important, was about the Latin term Dura Lex Sed Lex, which means, “The law is hard but it is still the law.”

As a side-joke, we thought this was why it was later adopted by a branded glassware as that was also supposedly unbreakable.

Come to think of it, with the way things are, how does Dura lex, sed lex fare against the people nowadays?

During socials with some friends, we agreed the law may be hard but people have mutated so well we’ve actually made so much progress in breaking it.

In fact, people in the government, lawmakers themselves seem to have made it an art in itself.

Read through news reports starting from a decade ago, and count the number of unconstitutional violations in that time.

At street level, on a day to day, how many jeepney drivers do you think have invoked the eleventh commandment: Don’t get caught.

Same number as the above. And both parties have done so, with unashamed impunity.

We might as well blanket-bomb everyone too; the rich, poor, farmer, doctor, politician, pedo laymen and every other Tarpulano.

Surely, they can relate. At this, who cannot help but be reminded of that guy who hit the proverbial bull’s-eye when he said, “He who is without sin, cast the first stone.” Or of a pop show host who once ended his show with the quip: don’t lie because liars go to hell. All turn a deaf ear and that’s it.

But  what of the others who indeed got caught, served sentences? As truthful to the maxim “only in the Philippines,” almost all were still able to cast their votes, many returned to politics and got elected into office, all the way up to senators.

Surely, all must think some among our people are indeed above Dura lex, sed lex. In sharp contrast, all remain silent as the common man bears the full weight of the law.

There is the argument that what is truly needed here is strict enforcement, as being the perfect follow-up if the law were to be hard.

However, a troll in our discussion group threw the perfect counterpunch. She sneered, the law may be hard, enforcement may be there, but what can you do if the head is harder. Touché.