Tula (Poem): Aguila, Reuel - Marami Akong Inibig

Marami Akong Inibig   

ni Reuel Aguila

Marami akong inibig
Dahil marami akong puso.

May puso ang magaspang kong palad
Ang mga daliri kong kinakalyo
Ang aking balikat, bisig at braso
Kayat inibig ko silang nag-apuhap
Ng ikabubuhay sa paggawa.
Silang arawan kung bayaran
Ng trabahong katumbas ay buwan.
Silang namuhunan ng pawis, ng lakas
Ng dunong upang mabuhay ngayon
Bahala na ang bukas.
Silang inatang, pinasan, binuhat
Ang di kayang dalhin ng lipunan
Inibig ko silang lahat.

May puso ang aking talampakan
Hita, binti, alak-alakan;
Matigas na kalamnang
Nag-iwan ng di mabuburang tapak
Ng kahirapang nagnanaknak.
Kayat inibig ko ang mga lagalag.
Silang mga itinaboy ng pangangailangan
Mawalay man sa mga minamahal
Mabuhay man lang o makamit
Ang abang adhika at inaasam:
Sakada at OFW
Migrante, batang kalye
Byahero, iskwater
Mensahero, drayber.
Manlalakbay din ang puso ko.

May puso ang aking ilong, mata,
Bibig, balat at tenga;
Mga puso ng aking pandama
Upang matunton ang ganda
Sa bawat kabayan, kaibigan, kasama.
May puso ang aking utak,
Ang aking bituka;
Mga pusong nagtatatak
Sa nararapat, sapagkat
Dama ang kalam ng lipunan.

Ay marami akong inibig
Inibig ko silang lahat
Pagkat marami akong puso.

Sabihin pa, bawat bahagi ko
Ay may puso.
Pati puso ko ay may puso
Ngunit ‘ya’y para sa iyo lamang.

Inilathala ng Bulatlat
Vol. VII, No. 28, August 19-25, 2007

http://bulatlat.com/main/2007/08/18/marami-akong-inibig/

*Ang tulang ito ay kabilang sa antolohiyang Magdaragat ng Pag-ibig at Iba Pang Tula ng Pagnanasa, na ipinalimbag ng may-akda noong 2005. Si Aguila ay propesor sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas (UP) sa Diliman, Lungsod Quezon at isang premyadong manunulat. Dati siyang pangulo ng Galian sa Arte at Tula (GAT), isang progresibong grupo ng mga makata na namayagpag noong mga dekada 1970 at 1980. 

Essay: Uses of Frisbee Aside from Being Used as a Playing Disc

Uses of Frisbee Aside from Being Used as a Playing Disc

by Me

When I graduated in 2009, one of the things that I bought as a gift to myself (I used the graduation money ) is an Ultimate Frisbee disc aside from a book. One year after that, I still have this and now I realized how lucky I am for buying it. Take me to the grass field, beach or any open areas and play Frisbee. But aside from just merely throwing it around with other people, now I realized what are the possible ways how it could be used.


Let me count its uses:


Weapon ala shuriken?
Water dipper
Sand spade
Plastic cover
Eating plate
Water splasher
Serving tray
Collection container
Dog plate (di ba kaya nga ginawa frisbee ay ito para sa tao)
Umbrella
Fan (especially this summer)
Drum
Stone substitute for picking fruits
Exercise equipment (good for the arm)
Massage equipment

Essay: The Chinese Connection (Fernandez)

The Chinese Connection

Doreen Fernandez as published in Sarap: Essays on Philippine Food published in 1988

Socialization to Chinese or Comida China Food *

                When I was growing up in Silay, Negros Occidental, eating out meant onlyone thing: Chinese food at Leong;s in Bacolod, which seemed like the only panciteria in the world- at least in our small provincial world. Invariably we had nido soup, or soup of shark fins, which my father called by their full name: aletas de Tiburon. Then of course one had to have morisqueta tostada (fried rice), agrio dulce (sweet-sour pork), lumpia Shanghai, pinsec frito (fried wonton), torta de cangrejo, maybe a pancit, and camaron rebozado dorado con jamon.

                Eventually I went to Manila for the last years of high school as interna. When my father came to town he of course took us to eat-a big treat. We would go out in our “Sunday dress”, a most unglamorous and uncomfortable school uniform, long-sleeved, white, pleated, starchy and warm. Our eating-out repertoire expanded to sizzling steaks at the Selecta on Azcarraga Street (now C.M. Recto Avenue), which we he loved- and Panciteria Moderna, where we had more or less what we had in Bacolod.

                Staying on for college, graduate school, work and marriage expanded my experience of Chinese food. It seemed that Panciteria Moderna was not the whole Philippine-Chinese world. There were Panciteria Antigua and Wa Nam (all in the same Sta. Cruz area), the latter so amazingly cheap that we once hired it to serve food at a class party. We wandered into Chinatown and found See Kee, which seemed like Atlantis. It had so many other things besides lumpia Shanghai, sweet-sour pork, fried rice (which we had learned to call “fly lice” with a joking, knowledgeable air). Notice the change in the language of the names?

                See Kee’s fried pigeon served with salt, steamed crabs with a sawsawan of oil and ginger, kutchay tips with shrimps, and especially the noodles called “fried milk” (“fly milk”-fried bihon topped with a sauce of eggwhite, crabmeat and milk)-these were another world. So were the famous pigeons at Smart off the Escolta. This was Chinese food, not comida China. The latter was served at Leong’s, or at Moderna, and was familiar.

                Comida China was for lunch or dinner in a restaurant, and did not include siopao, siomai, or mami, which were for merienda. Of course, as a child, siomai to me was only and always Tia Tilde Valencia’s little pork-filled morsels that the old lady vendor with the basket on her head brought around town. Even when I found out that it was Chinese in origin, the taste of siomai still had the stamp of Tia Tilde, now gone, and all later siomai had to measured up to food of childhood and memory. Kekiam wasn’t Chinese either because we were taught how to cook that in a college cooking course, or we had it at home on ordinary days, my father calling it by an irreverent name referring to its shape and to Chua, a Chinese friend of his. Siopao was what one bought at Ma Mon Luk on rare jaunts out, or at the school canteen when the concessionaire brought in a few. I don’t think we stopped to consider it Chinese. And certainly lumpiang ubud and pancit were not, being staples of home cooking.

                My husband, on the other hand, grew up in Paco, and his childhood was filled with sidewalk cooking and vending-bitsu-bitsu, buchi, ampaw, gugurya “na tinitinda ng bakla”. We did not have those in Silay, and one day we drove all around Paco to satisfy my curiosity about these exotica, but alas, they were all gone. We did stop at the neighboring panciteria of his boyhood, called Panciteria Santiago, where they still wrapped up a serving of pancit in a cone of paper.

                Travelling to Hong Kong, Taipeh and China in later years, we learned more and more about Chinese food. All those regions and the vast variety of food! Bear’s paws, monkey’s brains (a story to dramatize and exaggerate a bit, at appropriate occasions), Lion’s head (a ball of pork), Beggar Chicken, fish maws, sea slugs, fish brain soup, roasted unborn pig, civet cat, hairy Shanghai crab, sheets of bean skin like silk, eel in oil and garlic, fishes vari-shaped and multi-colored, vegetarian noodle dishes with white and black fungus and vegetables in galaxies.

                Some dishes would jog memory, however. On a street in China, at breakfast time, at merienda time, hot kawa (woks) would appear, in which were cooking many things that looked familiar- bitsu-bitsu, buchi, gugurya? Could that be where they had come from? And the Cantonese breakfast lugao with chicken, or fish, or pork. Parang arroz caldo! But arroz caldo has a Spanish name! Could it have Chinese origins? And one day, at breakfast in a restaurant in a restaurant in Hong Kong to which bird fanciers took their pets, hung them up beside one another on poles, and had for themselves pots of tea and lots of dimsum: dumplings (aha, siomaiI); stuffed steamed bread (siopao pala); and noodles in broth (umm, mami).Was there a Chinese connection? Was this the Chinese connection?

The Chinese Connection Unfolding

                Once on a tour in Frankfurt the guide offered a cold drink as prize if anyone could say where spaghetti came from. “America!” said an American. “Italy!” said an Italian. “Japan!” proclaimed a French lady. I won because I said “China!” and didn’t confess that I wrote a food column, or that I had learned Chinese friend who was a gourmet, a writer and an amateur chef married to an even better cook. Norman Soong had told me that not only spaghetti had come from China, but also pizza, and took us to a restaurant to prove it. Sure enough, there was a flat piece of dough (almost as thin as lumpia wrapper), on which one put bits of mutton, vegetables and relishes. No cheese, but delicious.

Language and History of Food

                Little by little, bits of evidence of the Chinese connection revealed themselves in peregrinations through restaurants and books. Gloria Chan-Yap wrote a thesis on Hokkien food words that had been adapted into Tagalog, and I learned that “by their names ye shall know them” (and their origins). The food and cookery terms adapted into the Pinoy repertoire are a rich source of information. And they are legion.

                Sianse is Chinese, and so are tokwa, taho, and tahure and anything coming from soy beans, including toyo. So are many of the pork terms- liempo, kasim- suggesting that the Chinese brought with them the use of many pork cuts and cooking methods. Beef, on the other hand, is called by many Spanish names-lomo, punta y pecho, solomillo, cadera- indicating that those usages and recipes came from Spain. Kenchi and kamto are Chinese. So are not only siopao and siomai, but also all the noodle names-bihon, miki, miswa, pancit, mami, lomi, sotanghon. And herb and flavoring names like wansoy, kinchay and kinchamsay (dried banana blossoms).

                But if names are a key, why then the Spanish names for comida China? Morisqueta tostada, camaron rebozado, pescado en salsa agrio-dulce, torta de cangrejo, sopa de nido, pinsec con caldo, aletas de tiburon? Obviously, they came into our restaurants during the Spanish period, when menus were written for the convenience of the diners and not of the chefs. To make the names and the nature of the dishes understable to the diners (surely predominantly Spanish-speaking), the Chinese dishes were given Spanish names- which became institutionalized as the names of the Chinese food served n panciterias from Spanish times onward.

                In the American period, when English came to be the language of the menus, these names slowly- very slowly-slipped into English, and then later into Tagalog. Some of them remain half in Spanish still; some have had their spelling so corrupted by non-Spanish-speaking restaurant owners, cooks and typesetters, as to be barely discernible.

                Along and around Escolta, restaurants with blackboards on stands outside had and still have the menus written in chalk: COMIDA CHINA, they say on top. But the food names are Spanish, English, Tagalog, mestizo. Nido Soup; Wonton Soup; Sweet- Sour Pork; Sharkfin Soup. Fried Rice. Ampalaya con carne. Camaron Rebozado (usually Rebosado) still, perhaps because “Batter-Fried Shrimps” do not have the same flavor. Nido is convenient-just one word against “Soup of the Nests of Cliff-nesting Swallows.” Even Bird’s Nest Soup seems wordy.

                Eventually came menus that said: CHINESE FOOD. Chopsuey with rice, Chicken Chopsuey, Beef with Brocolli, Ampalaya con CarneI (opps, a holdover), Bihon Guisado. And Halo-Halo, meaning a dish of mixed cold meats- pork, ham, intestines, liver. Suman China. Oyster Cake. Or Torta Talaba. Pato Tim, Pata Tim, Baboy Tim! In Biñan, Laguna, at a small restaurant called Po Hong, we found a blackboard-menu in which the only Spanish word was “con”, the rest being in English and Tagalog. Atay con Gulay. Chopsuey con Hipon. In Lubao, Pampanga, we were delighted to find a menu that listed Camaron Rebosado (the “z” dropped long ago) under Philippine Dishes, and Camaron Dorado con Hamon (note the H) among Chinese Dishes.

                In these menus is hidden the history of the evolution of Chinese food into Filipino-Chinese (equivalently Filipino) food. In small panciterias in Quezon City, Quiapo, Legazpi City, Baguio, etc., the Spanish is atrociously misspelled, having passed from menu to menu- or printer to printer, or proofreader to proofreader, or cook to cook-without being understood or recognized as Spanish. But it is there, the evidence of the way Chinese food slid into our lives with the mediation of the Spanish language.

                What must have happened in this process of indigenization is this: the Chinese traders of the pre-Spanish centuries brought along with them food, cooking techniques, tastes, along with other habits of their culture. Settling here, they adapted these to local ingredients and most probably taught them to their Filipino wives. (Intermarriage and acculturation are features of the successful absorption of Chinese into Philippine society-a success notable in Southeast Asia, where Chinese and native cultures have often clashed violently.) The weather, the fruits of nature, the Filipino taste buds wrought further changes.

                Chinese food thus entered homes and habits at ground level, so to speak- as the food of everyday, the food of a fellow villager, not a conqueror. It came accompanied by cooking methods and implements, meats and vegetables, occasions and manners- in effect by a whole food culture. We did not “import” individual dishes, as a housewife might try out a new recipe from a cookbook. We slowly, unconsciously learned to “eat Chinese”.

                When time came to serve the Chinese food in restaurants, the names were translated into Spanish, dating their entry into the realm of eating-out food. Now, in the 20^th century, we can recognize Chinese food- by the Chinese names and by Spanish name, and also by the English and Tagalog names-individually or in combination. Some dishes, like pesa and that accompanying miso, we do not recognize at all. Few realize that these are Chinese in origin and not naïve, so thoroughly have they been indigenized, so much a part of our everyday food have they become, so “sariling atin” do they seem.

                No mother considers camaron rebosado and lumpia frito comida China when she prepared them at home. Native they are now. Pancit is food for fiesta, for pasalubong to wives waiting at home, for children’s and class parties, for daily fare. Goto is on man a streetcorner-sariling atin by now. Siopao might be a schoolchild’s baon;  mami his merienda in the school canteen. In a little panciteria in Biñan or Lubao, the food is Filipino, having earned citizenship by its long residence and its having learned to speak the language of the Filipino stomach.

                The Chinese connection in our food, started in the interaction of trade centuries ago, is now buried deep in our history, in our hearts, and in our tastes.

Note:

* Headings are mine.

Review: The Kite Runner (Khaled Khosseini)

Did this one. I really like this book so here it is.

 The Kite Runner

Khaled Khosseini

         “There is way to be good again.” Amir pondered on these words from a letter from his uncle (and friend) Rahim as he was relaxing on a park bench in San Francisco. America, his adopted home for almost two decades had been good to him. Out from the sky, he saw a kite flying high above the skyline. Then he remembered his watan (country in Afghan or specifically the Pashtun language) and those memorable childhood summers and winters in hometown Kabul. And then a voice from a blue-eyed, Hazara boy (Afghanistan has many ethnic tribes with Pashtun the majority while the Hazara is one of the minorities albeit one of most oppressed) resonated from his conscience. No matter how he wanted to bury his past, it will claw its way back. Until he resolves it. So it began, Amir’s redemption of himself.

A Prince in His Palace
          The protagonist in this novel is Amir, the son of a wealthy, self-made Pashtun businessman in Kabul. Fitting to his name (Amir or emir means prince in Arabic), he was a kid living in a gated, suburban mansion in Kabul during the late 1960s and early 1970s. However, unlike a normal kid who plays with his friends, he focused more on reading books from the library he inherited from his mother (she died giving birth to him) who was a university literary professor. If there was someone who came as close as becoming as his child or playmate, it’s their servant, Hassan (meaning handsome). By all means he was well provided by his rich father because every winter (Afghans have a winter gift giving event just like us Christians) he was given gifts like bicycle, bags and other things even rich Afghans couldn’t expect to get from their fathers. Despite this, he still doesn’t feel the love from his father Baba (meaning father). He might be right as he overheard a conversation between his father and Rahim (who he thought, was a true father to him), Baba commented that Hassan is a boy who doesn’t stand up for what is right.
          So we see in the early parts of the novel Amir’s attempts to impress his father. He tried to play soccer, Afghan’s national past time, where he failed (his father was a former soccer player). He then tried to be a fan but to no avail. Instead he spent most of his time playing with Hassan. The problem was he thought him more of a servant and a playmate rather than as a friend. This is even if they were raised in the same house, play the same game, read books with each other, and watched the same movies (which is mostly Western movies dubbed in Farsi).  They were also breast milked by Hassan’s mother (who just likes Amir lost her mother at birth, when she eloped with some wandering travelers).They both suffered, but Amir, instead of comforting Hassan, bullied him. Yet instead of fighting back, Hassan just stayed quiet, an innocent kid, a whipping boy. This is understandable because he was just a servant to Amir.  However unlike Amir, Baba treated Hassan as a son and his father Ali as a friend. He gave gifts also to Hassan and financed the latter’s operation to fix his hare-cleft lip. This intensified the rift between Amir, Hassan and his father. Fathers and sons are not alike after all.

A Wasted Chance at Reconciliation
          Amir could have reconciled with the two (Baba and Hassan). This was when he discovered his love for kite fighting. This game was popular then in Afghanistan (the Taliban banned it) during the winter months. In fact, there was a kite fighting competition which drew then large crowds. Together with Hassan (with some help from his father), he perfected his skills at this sports. This paid off when he won that winter. It could have been the perfect chance for the three to reconcile. Yet the tragedy happens.
          In a kite-fighting competition, it is common for people, called "kite runners", to chase the fallen kites. It’s treated as a trophy. The most coveted of all is the kite that the champion defeated last (the runner-up). Baba and Hassan were happy for Amir and the latter felt the same too. Hassan volunteered to run for the kite saying he will do it “a thousand times over”. However, the happiness would be short-lived. Assef, a bully in Amir’s school and enemy of both Hassan and Amir, cornered Hassan. He couldn’t forget how Hassan humiliated him. Amir who followed Hassan saw the event from a wall hole. He saw it, the rape of an innocent, Hassan, and he just stood there. The result was predictable. Hassan became gloomy from the event. It reached to a point where they had to let him go. Amir, instead of comforting him, alienated him. So he decided to implicate Hassan in a crime (he put his clock in Hassan’s hovel accusing him as a thief). Baba was ready to forgive them despite that but to no avail. For the first time, Amir saw his father cry. Things are not the same anymore. So is Afghanistan because by that time, the Communist arm was infiltrating the country. So they fled to America.

America: Land of Opportunity

          If there was positive thing that happened to Amir, it was coming to America. In here, he had a chance to build a new identity. He pursued his long time dream of writing. He began high school and took a degree in English. Of course some were not happy as his father, a wealthy businessman in Kabul, was forced to do menial jobs in America. He also disliked the culture in their new country which was not built on trust unlike in Afghanistan where he talked to all kinds of people, poor and rich alike. But for the father and son, it was a better experience as both came to rediscover themselves. Before Baba died, Amir became a fulltime writer and married a girl named Soraya (meaning princess). If there was one thing Baba missed, it's Hassan. Then Amir was bothered by his conscience. He needed to redeem himself.

Chance at Redemption

          It started with Soraya’s revelation of her dark secret, about her wild years. Amir was taken aback at his weakness to stand for what is right. Then came the letter from Rahim encouraging him to absolve himself from his past deeds. He also learned the hard truth. Hassan was his half-brother (Ali, Hassan’s alleged father was sterile then), born out of wedlock from Hassan’s mother. Rahim said to Hassan that all of them had been victim from circumstances. They had suffered enough so the best thing to do is help them. So  Rahim gave him a letter and a picture of an old man and a child. It’s Hassan and his child Sohrab (meaning  illustrious,shining). They were still the same smiling folks. But times had changed as Hassan (he learned to read and write) said in his letter. People in their watan had distrusted each other with the new ruler the Talibans oppressing the Afghans again.
          So Amir tried to track Hassan but sadly he learned he was killed together with his wife. Only his son survived. For the first time, he learned about his people, the poor families trying to survive an oppressive regime. Through the help of some good Afghan, he found Sohrab. In a twist of fate, he saw Assef again molesting a new generation of Afghans. The latter had become a Taliban who perverted Islam to oppress the people. Instead of backing down, this time he fought back. He will not let a victim suffer again. Through some luck he managed to escape from Assef’s mansion and bring Sohrab to America. Soraya was sterile so having Sohrab was a comfort to the couple. But the wound done to the child was done so the two couple facilitated his recovery. Someday, the Afghan nation and their children would heal the wounds. It’s time for nation building.

Sharing: 9 Ridiculous Cooking Myths You Probably Believe-Jeff Hanula

9 Ridiculous Cooking Myths You Probably Believe

Jeff Hanula 

Just want to share this great food article in article. Linking the different foods one by one. And commenting or engaging the reader like he is talking to you. Here are the links. :D

Page 1:
http://www.cracked.com/article_19628_9-ridiculous-cooking-myths-you-probably-believe.html

Contains:
#9. Bread Gets Stale Because It Loses Its Moisture
#8. Lobsters Scream When Boiled

#7. Searing Meat Seals in Moisture
#6. Alcohol Completely Evaporates When Cooked in Food
#5. Cooking in a Microwave Destroys Nutrients


Page2:
http://www.cracked.com/article_19628_9-ridiculous-cooking-myths-you-probably-believe_p2.html


#4. Pork Needs to Be Well Done
#3. Putting Oil In Pasta Water Keeps the Pasta from Sticking
#2. Cooking Vegetables Makes Them Less Nutritious
#1. Salt Is Salt

Like the ending. What a clincher.

"Next time, spend the extra few bucks and pick up kosher salt if the recipe calls for it. Or just screw the whole thing and spend that money on cookies instead. Do something and do it fast because, if you're anything like us, this article made you absolutely starving."



"You'd better hope the chef is smarter than you."

Short Story: Folk Remedies by Lay-Leng Ang (Singapore)

Got this from http://www.new-asian-writing.com/?p=404

‘Folk Remedies’

 by Lay-Leng Ang 

Short story selected for the 2011 New Asian Writing Short Story Anthology

Heaven forbade that we ever fell sick. To endure Mother’s grumbles the whole day when we were stuck at home, made us more ill. Always, it was about Father’s pitiable earnings, the paltry household allowance she got and her Herculean task to make it stretch through the week. The last thing she needed was us adding to her troubles.

Father’s zodiac sign was Tiger.  Like everyone else, he believed that the birthright gave him the powers to heal mumps sufferers. His was a simple cure. With a Chinese paint brush, he wrote the Chinese character, Tiger, in iodine, on the victim’s cheek. Called it coincidence or otherwise, somehow, the remedy always worked after he painted on them on one or two occasions. News travelled and neighbours, even those who would not normally speak to him because he was too poor, came knocking, to seek treatment for themselves and their families.

We knew by heart all of Father’s remedies for fevers and colds. His brand of herbal tea came in a tiny paper-wrapped cube which belied its potency. This drink was followed up by barley tea boiled with winter melon strips. And mysteriously, cups of Glucolin. This last ‘medicine’ was one we needed no coaxing to take. With half-baked knowledge, Father himself never understood what glucose was for, and we did not question him either.

Between June to September, a dry spell often followed in the days after the monsoons. Rain waters turned to breeding pools for mosquitoes which swarmed us when night fell. Father was relentless in his search for ways to lessen our misery. We had no mosquito nets, only blankets. Mine was mottled with holes, which gave little defence. Like everyone else, he tried burning green coils repellant, sometimes getting up in the middle of the night to light another when the coil burned down. Piles of ashes that I found on the disused tin cover the next morning told me that he had been kept busy. The repellants worked for a day or two before the pests, soon accustomed to the scent, overwhelmed us again.

At this point, Father gave us his other trick.  From under the bed, he pulled out a clay stove. It fitted perfectly on his palm when upright. He dusted off the cobwebs, took some smoldering charcoals from the kitchen and placed them inside the stove. Squatted close beside him, youngest brother and I watched him throw incense powder over the coals, and then readied ourselves to get out of the smoke swirl that shot up. With a discarded tin lid as holder and his nose pinched with his free hand, he carried the stove into the house, leaving a smoke trail in his tracks. If we felt faint inhaling the smoke he called Kam Loh Yen, our nemesis with their tiny bodies would drop off. Father’s incense gave us a longer relief, perhaps three days before the pests intensified with a new vengeance.

Once, I saw Mother sitting on the veranda outside the kitchen looking wretched. The granite mortar bowl and a few garlic cloves were on the floor next to her. She took a mound of crushed garlic and pushed it into her mouth. Toothache, she said distractedly.  She read the question on my mind. “Whole night awake.”

Mother’s self-prescriptions were bizarre. A pineapple and beer concoction, which I found out in later years, was for abortion. More than once, sisters and I stumbled on her preparing this lethal mix in the kitchen, but seeing her red-eyed and troubled, no one dared probe. Not content with treating herself, she sacrificed me for her ringworm remedy: a sulphur-kerosene rub with a slice of lime. It left me scarred for a week. I had to lie to those who dared ask me in school about the burn on my cheek. She dismissed my concern, saying that my condition was temporary, but the cure would be permanent.

Mother apparently had uses for kerosene in more ways than one. Third Sister was fond of wearing long hair, which was a dead attraction for hair lice and for that, she had to suffer painful sessions of home treatment. Mother would push her next to the drain, amid her screams and protests that could be heard houses away, while she poured kerosene over her head.

Bent over our books, in the languid afternoon heat we fought hard to stay awake, and I grew deaf to Third Sister’s cries. My mind wandered. School fees due next week. Got to buy that mug and toothbrush for the hygiene campaign. And a compass set for geometry class. Costs, costs, costs. Damned. Father at this time was probably making his rounds in the neighbourhood, and I pictured him heaving and sweating on his tricycle. At home, he sometimes spoke about hard luck days when he circled 5-Milestone compound, then 4-Milestone and back at 5-Milestone without meeting, a single customer. Having run out of options, he might park next to the row of shops at South Buona junction, or linger under the angsana tree further up the road, only returning when it grew dark. How he loathed facing Mother’s wrath for returning back empty-handed.

One evening, I found Mother in the backyard, sitting on the low drain block. Our landlord, when not attending to his many food businesses, took time to entertain punters who wanted to place bets on his 12-stick lottery. It was our misfortune to be living next door, actually sharing a wall, and every day the hopefuls made their way through our front veranda to his house. Our backyard, far from the stream of people and constant chatter, was Mother’s sanctuary. Fanned by the breeze from the bamboo thicket which grew next to the drain, she sat hidden in the shadows of the hedge and watched passers-by without getting noticed.  To be sure, this was no idyllic hideaway, as being next to a duck’s pen ensured a stench hanged in the air, which got more unbearable when the wind carried it in our direction.

While we whiled away the time staring down the road at nothing, all of a sudden, Mother slapped her thigh, seemed to remember something and exclaimed she had the solution for me. I turned to her. Not till a moment later did I realize what she was referring to.

For many years, I suffered from scaly skin, which would tear and bleed at times.  Mother suggested cooking oil since this was cheap and available in the house. Lotions and moisturizers were unheard of, maybe they were sold at Robinson’s but stepping into that high-class store stayed only in our dreams.

Hock Tee, a towkay who found fortune in sawmills, portable gas supplies, electrical appliances and whatnot, had died. His funeral hearse would be travelling through Zehnder Road, next to our house the day after, she said.  A death was a topical subject for days on end – cause of death, age of the departed, religion, food served at the wake, visitors, rituals – virtually everything connected to the grieving family. I was not surprised that Mother knew about it.

The funeral itself was a showcase of the deceased’s wealth. A chance for neighbours to search for faces, especially womenfolk, often talked about but rarely seen out of their house. These members were probably second or third wives, kept indoors throughout their lives, or who were often too sickly to venture out.

At the sight of the lorry hearse festooned with giant pompoms, tassels and drapes, villagers standing at the roadside gasped. Silently, they wished the hearse would move even more slowly as they needed time to feast their eyes on the exhibits out there. The canopy atop the lorry; a garish dome bordered by turrets and swathed with blankets edged in gold and with gold Chinese letterings. Their eyes quickly moved to the black-and-white portrait affixed above the windscreen.  Then, the brass band troupes at the head of the hearse, wreaths, blanket offerings paraded by helpers, bereaved family members, their garments, relatives and friends who turned up; they took mental notes all the while, as these would become items to comment on afterwards. As the lorry inched, and jerked its way down the slope to South Buona Vista Road, the coffin peeked through the curtain that shielded it both from the sun and onlookers.  How people waited to catch that glimpse.

It was a taboo for children to see the hearse, so we hid in the house and peeped through the cracks in the plank wall. Watching mourners passing by sobbing with heads bent, adults loved to whisper to one another. “Look, how she cries.”

Barely had the procession left, Mother shoved me down the footbridge and on to the road. In the distance, strains of the brass band music, Not Returning Home Today, an evergreen at funerals, was still in the air.

“Hurry. Now’s the best time.” She tugged at me and saying to herself, “clean and fresh.”

Hell money lay scattered on the road, grass patch, drains, and as far as the slopes on the sides, paving the path an inch high. Here and there, joss sticks and half-spent candles with their stick holders stuck to the ground in their melted red wax. Yet, others flattened by human feet that thronged through, lay smeared. With this thick litter, the deceased was no ordinary family, that’s for sure.

Mother walked ahead of me, looking unsure, and with a smile at the corner of her mouth. At a quiet stretch of Zehnder Road, she stooped down.  Two sheets of hell money turned up at the sides in the breeze, caught her attention. She picked them up, and swiped them down my legs. Once, twice, thrice. Before I could react, she threw the pieces behind me. Impulse made me turn around, in time to catch sight of the two sacred sheets fluttering in mid air before Mother pulled me back, and onwards to Grandma’s house. I was obsessed with locating the papers. I had no idea what I hoped to find. Would they sparkle like magic or burn away slowly, and so walking the same way back after some time passed at Grandma’s, I searched the ground, only to discover that now all the papers looked exactly the same.

Days after, I kept checking myself; if there were any signs of a cure, they never showed up. I was grateful that quack-doctor Mother never subjected me to the treatment again.

Glossary:

angsana: a large tropical tree with sweet-smelling yellow flowers

Kam Loh Yen: incense smoke

towkay: wealthy businessman

Maikling Kwento: Utos ng Hari (Jun Cruz Reyes)

Utos ng Hari

Jun Cruz Reyes

galing kay ephephurray sa kanyang Tumblr account

“See you in my cubicle, after lunch.” Pahabol sa akin ni Mrs. Moral Character kanginang matapos ang klase. Si Mrs. Character ang teacher namin sa Social Science. Siya rin ang adviser namin.

Para naman akong si gago na isip nang isip kung ano na naman ang sasabihin nito sa akin. Nawalan tuloy ako ng ganang mananghalian. Halos tiyak ko nang sermunang umaatikabo na naman ito. Kamakalawa lamang ay halos ilabas niya ang kanyang calculator para ipakita kung gaano ako “katanga” at kung gaano katama ang kanyang pagsuma sa aking mga 5. Hindi naman maikatwirang “paano ko di masi-5 kung kalian ako absent ay saka ka magbibigay ng quiz. Kung kelan tinatamad mag-recite saka mamimilit.” Saka pag sinabi ko naman ang gusto kong sabihin kakapain yung pulang ballpen.

Pero tipong maganda naman ang kanyang mood sa klase kanina. Katunaya’y ‘yung kanyang paboritong paksa ang pinag-uusapan namin. ‘Yung kanyang dazzling Malaysian at ang kanyang paboritong pabango. Nagtsismis din siya (tulad ng dati). Kesyo si Mr. Espejo raw, kaya tumandang binata, dahil dalawang beses niyang binasted noong dalaga pa siya. Si Miss Kuwan daw kaya wala sa eskwelahan hindi dahil nag-study leave: nagpa-abort sa America. Magbi-bell na nang maalala niya ang leksyon namin, ang normalization process sa gobyerno.

Sabi niya kangina, “Para tayo maging fully democratic kailangang mataas ang literacy rate.” (Sinabi na ‘yon ni Rizal.) “May sapat na communication system ang pamahalaan at may mataas na moralidad ang mamamayan. At higit sa lahat, kailangang maging westernized ang ating pamantayan. By so doing, hindi tayo magiging uncivilized sa western standards.

Nang tanungin niya ako, sabi ko’y mas basic ang dapat na pamamaraan sa pagtingin sa problema. Halimbawa’y bakit hindi umpisahan sa economic condition ng bansa. Kung kuntento ang mga tao, normal ang takbo ng pamahalaan. Pero kung maraming dissatisfied, natural na abnormal ang sistema. Hindi basta effective communication process, hindi rin basta mataas na literacy rate. Mga manipestasyon lang ito ng talagang problema. Nabigla siya. Doon na kami inabutan ng bell.

Ay, konsumisyon sa buhay, gusto kong lagnatin. Kay layo ng kahapon sa kasalukuyan. ‘Pag nasa bahay ako, ako ang bida. ‘Pag ang kababayan ko ang magkukwento, ako ang sikat. Pero dito sa iskwelahan, walang isko-scholar ng bayan.

Talagang gusto kong maghinto, pero ayaw ni Tatay. Kung sabagay sino ba namang ama ang matutuwang magkaanak ng drop out? Talagang sawa na akong mag-aral. Kay ganda sanang isiping hindi ako nakatali sa sintas ng sapatos ng teacher ko na kasama ko sa bawat hakbang. Ipaling kung saang sulok gusting dalhin, ikaliwa kahit kahan ang gustong puntahan, ilakad-kaladkarin kahit gustong mamahinga. At isipa kahit ako ang masaktan.

Ay, buhay estudyante. Maka-uno lang, kahit lulunin ang sariling dila. Kumontra sa kanila, singkong maliwanag. Tumango-tango ka naman para maka-uno, ibig sabihin noo’y sarili mo na ang kailangang lokohin. Pakisama lang talaga. Konting kompromiso, konting tango at “yes, ma’m lang,” dos na’yon o tres. Kung bakit naman kasi nauso pa sa mundo ang diploma. Kung wala akong diploma, sino naman ang maniniwalang may kaubrahan nga ako. Sana’y di nauso ang grade, di sana’y hindi ako mahihiyang pumasok kahit Metro Manila Aide. Kung graduate naman ako, hingan ng experience sa pag-aaplayan ko, dedo rin. At kung tapos nga, nakakahiya naming pati trabahong pang mahirap ay pagtiyagaan ko.

Grade lang naman, problema ba ‘yon? Uno kung uno. Singko kung singko, tapos ang usapan, bakit kailangan pahabain pa? Bagsak kung bagsak. Kick-out kung kick-out. Pero hindi naman talaga ako dapat bumagsak. O.K., matigas ang ulo ko, rugged at medyo bastos pa raw, pero bakit kailangang isali pati conduct at ayos ng katawan sa usapan? Hindi naman ito military school, hindi rin naman seminaryo, bakit panay “yung conduct mo” at “appearance” ang panakot nila?

Ano ba ang sama nang bumagsak? Kung si Recto, bar flunker pero isa sa kinikilalang constitutionalist ngayon. Si Einstein, bumagsak sa Physics at grammar school pero big time scientist. Kahit teacher niya hindi alam ang theory niya sa relativity. Kung sabagay, hindi ako si Recto at si Einstein. Si Jojo lang ako, kung ang walang sinabi kong teachers ang tatanungin. Sa mga kapitbahay namin, pambihira daw ako, biro mong sa probinsiya namin ay ako lang ang nakarating ng Maynila para mag-aral ng libre. Kung nalalaman lang nila.

Aral nang aral. Aral sa umaga, aral sa tanghali at aral pa ulit sa gabi. Hindi ko naman maintindihan kung para ano ang pinag-aaralan. Hindi na naubusan ng ipari-research. Walang alam itanong kung hindi “What is our lesson for today?” Parang mga Diyos na sila lamang ang may monopolyo ng tama. Kaya hindi pwedeng tanungin at lalong hindi pwedeng pagsabihan ng mali.

Ay, mga teachers sa mundo, bakit ba ginawa pa? Tulad ni Mrs. Moral Character, bago mag-umpisa ang leksyon, magsesermon muna na virtue of honesty, kesyo masamang mandaya, kasalanang mortal ang magturo sa kaeskwelang nakalimutan ang sagot dahil sa pagkataranta, krimen ang magkodigo at kung anu-ano pa. Lahat na yata ng masama at bawal sa mundo ay alam. Pero ang kanyang lihim ay buking na namin. Noon daw nakaraang referendum ang teacher naming morally upright ay biglang nabulag at nabobo. Nang mag-watcher daw ito sa presinto, tatlong letra lang ang kabisadong basahin. Katwiran nito’y “Anong sama doon, kahit matalo, panalo par rin. Bakit, me magagawa ka ba?” Kaya naman ngayon hindi na siya si Mrs. Moral Character sa amin, Mrs. Eraser na lang.

Tapos magtataka pa kung kangino kami nagmana sa mundo.

E sino naman kaya sa kanila ang pwedeng gawing idolo? ‘Yung teacher ko sa English, walang pakialam sa mundo. Basta magamit lang niya ‘yung nalalaman niya sa voice at diction, maligaya na siya sa buhay. Basta kami ang papel lang namin, tagapakinig sa kanyang mga asides. Para tuloy kaming pang-therapy niya lang.  At ang kanyang paboritong paksa, ‘yung kanyang nuno na purong Kastila raw na nagpatayo ng simbahan sa kanilang bayan. Antique s’yempre ‘yung simbahan (tulad niya at ng kanyang lolo). Ibig lang niyang palabasin ay may dugong bughaw siya. Sarap sanang bukuhin na ang Kastilang napunta rito noong araw ay mga butangero at kriminal sa Espanya. Kesa nga naman maging problema sila ng gobyerno nila, di Pilipinas na ang bahalang magtiis ng konsumisyon. ‘Yung ganoong sistema ang namana niya sa kanyang lolo, ang mangunsumi ng mapagtiis. ‘Pag nabuko mong hindi nag-aral, lagot ka. Pagsasabihan ka nito ng “What? Iyon lang hindi mo pa alam hanggang ngayon? O.K. that’s your assignment for tomorrow.” Saka niya sasabayan ng bura ng maling nakasulat sa blackboard.

Kunsumihin ka ba naman araw-araw, pag naging gago ka nagtataka pa. Hindi ka na nga pwedeng magwala, hindi ka pa rin pwedeng maglibang. Kung sa pagtitiis ng kunsumi ay sigarilyo at beer ang mapiling pagbuntunan ng sama ng loob, ayun at, “Sinasabi ko na nga bang masama sa pag-aaral ang bisyo,” ang agad ikakatwiran ng mga ito.

Kung bisyo naman ang pag-uusapan, masama raw sa katawan ng tao ang alkohol at nikotina. Para na rin sinasabing, ‘pag teacher ka na ay pwede. Dahil estudyante ka pa lang, tiis. Itanong mo kay Mr. Discipline at alam na alam niya ang sagot. Huwag mo nang itanong kung nagdaan din siya sa pagkabata, kung noong araw ay gago rin siya, dahil sa isasagot nito’y, “Kaya nga ayaw kong matutuhan n’yo ang bisyo dahil pinagdaan ko na ‘yan.

Sa amin sa barkada, dalawa lang kaming mag-gu-goodbye my school goodbye. Kick-out ako sa kagaguhan daw. Si Minyong nama’y sa kabobohan daw.

Kung paano nila natiyak na dapat nga kaming palayasin sa pinakamamahal naming paaralan, ganito raw ang naging takbo ng usapan nina Mrs. Moral Character (Eraser), Mrs. Gles-ing, Mr. Mathematician, Miss Spermatozoa at Mr. Discipline.

“Hindi naman korum, say quorum, kuwow, quorum. That’s correct, that Jojo Boy has no sense of de-quo-rum. I feel though he is brilliant, only my reservation is that….”

“Only he is stubborn. Papasok ‘yan sa klase ko nang nakainom, para pang nang-iinis na lalapitan ka. Ipaaamoy sa iyo ang hininga.”

“How true, how true, I swear to God that’s true.”

“Hindi lang ‘yan, minsan gusto pa mandin akong kulitin sa klase na akala mo’y mahuhuli niya akong hindi prepared sa lesson ko. Tambakan ko nga ng research work, di atras siya.”

“And he is always absent. Sometimes I don’t want to give him an excuse slip anymore.”

“So what is the verdict of the group?”

“I could not pass him.”

“Ako rin.”

“God will punish his naughtiness.”

“I will report the matter to his parents immediately.”

Ang masama ay ang akusasyon nila kay Minyong. Nababaliw daw. Tuwang-tuwa silang pagtsismisan ito. Iyon ay kung hindi sila ang tinatamaan ng mga pinagsasabi ni Minyong. Pag medyo kinabubuwisitan nilang co-teacher ang tinamaan “hi-hi-hi” lang ang sagot nila. Pag bulls-eye si Minyong, “My God, baliw talaga, hindi alam ang sinasabi,” ang katwiran nila.

Si Minyong kasi ay “cultural minority.” Kindi naman nagprisinta sa kanila ‘yung tao na ditto sa Maynila mag-aral. Kinuha-kuha nila sa bundok, tapos pilit pinaniwalang makakasabay ito sa standard ng exclusive school, pinaniwalang dito nito matututuhan ang paghango sa kahirapan ng kanilang tribo, saka ngayon, basta na lang sisipain. Bobo, ang sabi nila. Binigyan ng isang pagkakataon. Pinagsalita nang pinagsalita, para raw mahasa nang sa gayo’y mawala ang inferiority complex nito. ‘Ayun, nang matutong magsalita ang tao, na-shock silang marinig ang katotohanan.

Sabi ng pangkat ng mga Hari.

“I find him kinda weird lately.”

“So what shall we do with him.”

“Definitely I could not pass him.”

“Oo nga naman. Gagawa tayo ng masamang precedent. Mauuso ang bobo sa eskwelahan. Remember, Philippine School for Science and Technology ito. Tapos magpapasa tayo ng estudyanteng so-so? Hindi pwede.”

“Pero cultural minority ‘yan.”

“And so what?”

“Kailangan babaan natin ang standard sa kanya.”

“Excuse me, mayroon lamang isang standard ang excellence at wala nang exception pa.”

“What now?”

“Ano pa, e di ibagsak.”

Saka sila nagkorus ng “Ibagsak.”

Kung sabagay nang mabalita ang kaso ni Minyong sa eskwelahan, humigit-kumulang ay nakapagpasya na sila sa magiging dulo ng istorya. Ganito raw iyon.

“Have you considered his case lately?”

“Anong gagawin natin sa kanya? Meron ba tayong policy sa ganyang kaso?”

“Mabuti siguro’y pauwiin na natin sa kanilang tribo.”

“Dapat nga, baka manakit pa ‘yan ay maraming madamay.”

“Oh, how I abhor violence.”

“Baka ‘ka mo manunog pa yan. Uso pa naman sa Maynila ang sunog ngayon.”

“E kung ipa-confine natin sa mental?”

“At sinong magsu-shoulder ng bill?”

Tapos ang kaso ni Minyong bago pa man pasimulan ang deliberasyon.

Hindi naman sila parating ganoon kabilis magbaba ng hatol. Paminsan-minsan nama’y “humane” sila ika nga. Tulad halimbawa ng kaso ni Osias at Armando, mga kaiskwela rin namin.

“Ipasa na natin si Osias.”

“Pero mababa ‘yan sa Physics.”

“Sus, naman ito, e talaga naman mahirap ‘yang klase mo.”

“Thoughtful yang batang yan. Kahit saan ka makita ay panay ang good morning.”

“Talaga. At prisintado agad yan pag nakasalubong ka na maraming dala.”

“How about Armando? Another cultural minority?”

“Excuse me. He is not a thoroughbred cultural minority. It is only the mother. The father is an Ilocano who migrated to Mountain Province.”

“Ang sweet-sweet ng batang ‘yan. Manang-mana sa Tatay nya.”

“Pogi talaga.”

“You bet. Doctor pala ang ama nyan.”

“Ipapasa ko ‘yan. Kaya lang naman ‘yan mababa, kasi matagal umabsent. Nagkasakit kasi.”

“Ano, pasado na tong dalawa?”

“Approve.”

Mahirap talaga sa mundo ang hindi pogi at walang amang duktor.

“Come on in. Sit down.” Sabi ni Mrs. Moral Character matapos akong kumatok at papasukin sa kanyang cubicle. Inabutan ko siyang nagsasalansan ng mga libro.

“Called you for two reasons. Regarding our lesson and your attitude in class.” Idiniin niya yung your attitude. Heto na naman kami sa loob-loob ko. Kung bakit kasi hindi na lang ako nagkasakit. Sana’y natuloy na ang lagnat ko para wala nang sermunang naghihintay.

“Jojo, ang tao’y hindi pulos tiyan tulad ng gusto mong palabasin.” Sabi niya habang nakataas ang isang kilay.

Huwag kang kikibo, paalala ko sa aking sarili. Konting tiis. Mahirap makipagtalo sa teacher. Ngiti ka lang basta. Titigil din ‘yan pag nagsawa. Pero tipong wala siyang balak mag-short cut ng sermon.

“Walang essence ang pinagsasabi mo kanina. Iyon ay isang halimbawa ng a priori statement. Do you get me?” Tumango naman ako.

“Good. Now, alam mo sigurong wala kang pinanghahawakang data, which I happen to have.Panay speculation lang ang pinagsasabi mo at walang katuturan ito sa scientific world. Our lesson is more complicated than you thought. What you mean probably is the role of economic determinism in contemporary philosophy, which is altogether wrong. Bait hindi mo gamitin ang power o elite approach? Behavioralism ang trend ngayon sa West. Bakit hindi ka makigaya?”

Huwag mong pansinin, ngiti lang. Paalala ko ulit sa sarili ko. Hayaan mo lang siyang magsalita nang magsalita. Pasasaan ba’t mauubusan din yan ng sasabihin. Pasok sa kanang tenga, labas sa kaliwa. Siya ang teacher kaya ang pakiramdam niya’y siya lang ang pwedeng tama.

“Do you get me?”

Tango pa rin ako. At ngayon, ang part II ng kanyang sermon.

“To be honest about it, I don’t like your attitude in class. Smart aleck!” Yuko na lang ako. Saka ako bumulong ng “I’m sorry, Ma’m.”

Kahit hindi ko siya tingnan alam kong tatangu-tango siya sa tuwa. Napaamo niya ang suwail ng eskuwelehan. Sana’y kasing “honest” din niya ako, di sana’y nasabi ko ring “The feeling is mutual. I also don’t like you, Ma’m.” Sa halip ang nasabi ko na lang ay “Can I go now, Ma’m?”

“I’m not yet through.” Ibig pa palang sabihin ay may part III pa ‘tong usapang ito.

“They saw you in the chapel last night.”

Diyos me, pati pala personal life ko’y pinakikialaman na rin nila ngayon sa loob-loob ko. Nararamdaman ko ang init ng kanyang titig sa aking mukha.

“How young are you, Jojo? Speak up.”

Wala akong dapat ipaliwanag sa kanya. Hindi ako sasagot.

“Speak up I said.”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen and already you are…” Sa ayaw at sa gustoniya, tama na ang narinig ko. Tumayo ako para umalis. Bago ako nakahakbang, dinugtungan pa niya ang kanyang sermon, “I’ll let your mother know about this.”

Gusto ko na talagang magwala. Gusto ko siyang balikan. Gusto kong isambulat sa mukha niya ang lahat ng hinanakit ko sa mundo. Sanay kasing tapang ako ng gusto kong mangyari. Ano ba’ng masama sa ginawa ko sa chapel? Magkahawak lang kami ng kamay ni Tess. Masama ba yon? Siguro ang masama’y kung bakit biglang napasyal si Mrs. Gles-ing sa chapel ng ganoong oras ng gabi. Kawawang Tess. Halos natitiyak ko nang gagawin na naman itong halimbawa ng mga Mrs. Moral Character ng kung anong hindi dapat maging ang isang babaeng estudyante. Si Mrs. Gles-ing, tiyak na halos pumasok ang dila sa pagbabando ng kanyang scoop.

Ano pa ang magagawa ko, di suntok na lang ulit sa hangin at magbubulong ng “balang araw.” Kung mababaliw ako tulad ni Minyong, siguro’y hindi nila ikatutuwa, pero natitiyak kong ipagtataka nila kung bakit.

Nasa lobby ang mga kabarkada kong alaskador.

“Jo, balita nami’y bida ka na naman.”

Hayaan mo na ang mga hayupak na ya’t magsasawa din yan” sagot ko naman.

“Kung nagmu-motel kayo, di wala sana silang alam.”

“Tigil,” sabi ko.

“Ano ba talaga ang ginawa nyo’t nagpuputok ang butsi ni Mrs. Gles-ing sa klase namin kanina?”

“Isa pa ‘to, anong magagawa ko sa chapel? Kahit ka may madyik, walang himalang mangyayari doon,” sabi ko.

“Ligawan mo kaya si Mrs. Gles-ing.”

“Isa ka pa.” Buwisit na buhay ito, alaskado na naman ako.

“Malay mo, baka may lahing Mrs. Robinson yon.” Saka sila nagtawanan. Nakitawa na rin ako kahit na nabuburat na ako sa buhay.

“Tara na lang sa Cubao.” Yaya ko sa kanila.

‘Yung isang round ng beer ay nasundan ng isa pa nga at isa pa ulit. Saka pinabuntutan ng one for the road. Kung gaano kabilis ang bote ng beer ay ganoon din kabilis ang oras.

“Ano ba talaga ang ginawa mo sa chapel?”

“Ano ba, di holding hands. Masama ba ‘yon? Para nagsusumpaan lang kami sa harap ng altar na hindi maghihiwalay kahit ako ma-kick-out. Kabastusan na ba yon? Bakit kasi ang dudumi ng isip nila. Akala mo’y hindi nakipag-holding hands noong mga bata.”

“Sila kaya, paano naging tao?”

“Natingnan lang, nabuntis na.”

Saka sila nagtawanan. Buti pa sila, kahit paano’y masaya. Ako yata, kahit sa paglilibang ay mga teachers ko pa rin ang nakikita. Sobra na ‘to. Bakit ba ayaw nilang makakita ng katotohanang iba kaysa kinagisnan nila? Bakit ba kasi gusto nilang maging kamukha nilang lahat ang tao sa mundo. Dahil ba sa kanilang palagay ay sila ang nakadiskubre ng mina ng talino at tama, kaya wala nang natira para sa amin para diskubrihin? Pero hindi ba ‘yung tinatawag nilang expertis,  ‘yung dalawampung taon sa serbisyo, ang ibig lang sabihin isang taong karanasang pinatagal ng dalawampung taon?

Ngayon ko lang naiisip, kung buhay siguro si Beethoven at kukuha ng eksamen sa ekswela kahit bilang estudyante o teacher ay tiyak na hindi siya tatanggapin. Philippine School for Science and Technology ito, ang eskwelahan ng mga magiging scientists balang araw, tapos pakikitunguhan at ituturing na tao ang isang kung sinong bukod sa tamad magbihis ay madalang pang maligo?

Si Einstein kaya? Henyo ‘yon, kaya lang hindi nagsusuklay. Kick-out din siya. Bawal sa school ang mahabang buhok. Tiyak na pagsasabihan siya ni Mr. Discipline ng “Comply with school requirements. Maximum tolerable haircut please.” Ibig sabihin noon ay ahitan ang batok. Gawing korteng kutsarita ang tuktok.

Si Hemingway kaya? Hindi rin pwede, mabisyong tao ‘yan. Bawal ang lasenggo sa klase. E si Maxim Gorky kaya, ang greatest Russian writer para kay Chekhov at Tolstoy, pwede kayang magturo ng comparative literature dito? Sa palagay ko’y hindi rin. Bukod sa wala siyang unit sa English ay wala rin siyang diploma sa education.

Si Kristo kaya kung mabuhay ulit at magpunta sa Science? Maestro daw siya kahit walang M.A. at Ph. D. Papasukin kaya sa gate pa lang? Hindi pwede, kung makasalubong siya roon ni Mrs. Moral Character o ni Mrs. English, baka ma-shock pa ang mga ito. Palagay ko, ganito ang sasabihin nila: “Imagine, kay lakas ng loob, ang bastos naman ng appearance. Long hair, hindi nag-aahit, tapos nakasandalyas pa. Maano kung anak siya ng Diyos, wala naman siyang sense of decorum.” Saka kung magsermon dito si Christ, baka mabuko lang siya ng “Who is your authority, where is your data, behavioralism na ang trend ngayon sa West, bakit hindi ka makigaya…” Siguro kaya sa sabsaban na lang ang napiling birthplace niya, dahil kung sa Science siya ipinanganak, mababago ang kasaysayan ng Kristiyanismo sa mundo.

Ay, sense of propriety at decorum talagang nakakataranta. Clean cut (pagsuklayin mo si Einstein) white polo shirt at black pants (pagdisentihin mo si Kristo). Naiisip ko tuloy kung propriety din ‘yung tawag sa mga teacher kung nakadamit civilian sila kapag Miyerkules. ‘Yan bang parang aatend sila ng party. ‘Yun bang ang tipo ng tela ay mapapansin agad at mapagsasabihang “Ay, ang ganda, saan mo nabili? Siguro ang mahal ano?” na sasagutin naman ng kausap ng “Mura lang ‘yan , siento isang yarda. Christian Dior, original ‘yan, hindi gawang Rustan’s.” At para talagang mapapansin, kailangang humahalimuyak din sila sa bango. ‘Yung parang walking pharmacist. Saka kukulayan ang mukha na parang painting (pa-surreal). At saka tatambakan ng brilyante ang tenga, leeg, dibdib, braso at mga daliri. Sa kanilang “ganda” at “ningning,” para kang nakakita ng Xmas tree sa isang mahal na araw. ‘Yun ang proper sa kanila.

Kung sabagay, hindi nila maiino ‘yon. Noong gabing mahuli kami ni Tess ni Mrs. English, noon ko lang napansin ang ayos ni Kristo. Ininsulto raw ito ng mga Hudyo kaya ipinako nang hubo sa krus. Pero naiinsulto sa hubo ang mga Mrs. Moral Character, Mrs. English, Miss Spermatozoa, Mr. Mathematician at Mr. Discipline at kanilang mga katribo. Kaya siguro nila tinakpan ang kahubdan ni Kristo ng pelus na nangingintab sa dami ng borloloy. Si Virgin Mary ay asawa daw ng isang hamak na karpintero, pero sa bigkas niya ngayon ay mistulang peacock at Xmas tree na rin siya. Pati nga kanyang luha ay ginawang perlas.

Ang hindi nila naging kamukha ay agad nilang napapansin. Ang taong naniniwala sa sarili ang gusto nilang lapastanganin. Sino nga ba naman si Jojo sa kanila na “isang kung sino lang.” Noon kayang mga estudyante pa sila, nakapasa kaya sila sa Science? Scholar din kaya sila? Pero bakit naging teacher lang sila sa loob ng mahabang panahon? Iyon lang kaya ang alam nila sa buhay, ang magturo? Para silang hindi naging bata. Para bang nang ipinanganak sila’y alam na nila ang lahat ng bagay. Baka akala nila’y biru-biro ang maging estudyante. ‘Yun kayang conduct nila sa klase noong araw, panay uno? Kung talagang hindi sila nagkakamali, dapat itong ireport agad sa Santo Papa ng Roma. Nasa Pilipinas lang pala ang mga living saints.

Alin na lang kaya ang pwedeng pakialaman? Saan kaya pwedeng maging bida sa mundo? Buti pa sa referendum kasali kami. Alin kaya ang mahalaga, ang kapalaran ng Pilipinas o ang moral character? ‘Yung kapalaran ng Pilipinas, pwedeng isugal, pero kung sino ang mas seksi, si Alma Moreno o si Elizabeth Oropesa ay hindi namin pwedeng pagpasyahan, “for adults” lang kasi ‘yon.

Ops, nakadi-jingle mag-isip. ‘Yung barkada, iba na ang usapan.

“Lagyan kaya natin ng thumbtacks ‘yung upuan ni Mrs. English?”

“Di aaray yun!”

“Hi-hi-hi.”

Buti pa sila at nakukuhang ngumisngis. Ako kaya, kanino pwedeng magreklamo? Sulatan ko kaya si Valencia? Baka naman sagutin ako nito ng “Uminom ka na lang ng kape.” Si Marcos kaya? Santambak ang problema nito sa buhay, biro mong problemahin nito pati kapalaran ng Pilipinas, tapos ipasasagot pa ito sa kanya sa kasaysayan baling araw, paano ako nito mapapansin? Magreport kaya ako kay Carter, issue rin ito ng human rights, ang kapalaran ng mga sinasadistang estudyante, pero mahirap namang umingles. Saka interesado lang ito sa giyera na naluluma sila.

Sa Diyos na lang kaya ako susulat? Pero nasa lahat ng lugar at sulok daw ito, kaya tiyak alam na niya ang problema ko. Bakit nga pala sa sermon on the Mount of Sinai wala yung “Blessed are the poor students for they shall inherit…” Siguro dahil wala na siyang langit o lupang pwede pang ipamana sa iba.

Ayaw kong maging Minyong. Kailangang magsalita na ako, baka ako mabaliw. Ayaw kong maging robot, ayaw kong maging bato. Hindi baleng drop-out, basta tao lang ako. Maliit ang comfort room kung doon ko isusulat ang akung sumbong. Marami na roong nauna. “What you’re holding now is the future of the fatherland.” “If you can reach this high, you shall be great.” “Ibagsak ang pasismo.” “LABAN.” “Putang’ina n’yo.” “Alpha Phi Omega.” “Wanted pen-pal.”

Magrereklamo rin ako sa pader kung kailangan, hanggang may makabasa at makarinig ng aking sumbong. Pero sa ngayon idi-jingle

ko na lang muna ang sama ko ng loob.

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    Ang aking value-added para sa kwentong ito.Ito ay ang nacite ni CJ Corona tungkol kay Presidente Noynoy. Si PNoy daw nag-uUTOS na parang HARI. Diktador daw. Ang sabi ko naman talaga? Kung diktador siya paano naman si CGMA?