Emancipation

Mama dearest,

You are probably wondering why I am writing you when I can simply blurt all these out since I’ve been very outspoken with you all my life. I’d pretty much say whatever I wanted, even if I knew it would cause you pain, and I’d never really care much, either.

I know: I’ve been a very bad girl. My lips emitted poison and struck not only your heart but a hundred others that beat around me, too. Now, I wish to straighten everything out.

Sorry, as the song goes, seems to be the hardest word. I write this letter not only for your forgiveness (personally asking for it won’t achieve what this letter will) but also for your endowment of my only Christmas wish.

Mama, I regret every cruel word I uttered. I regret that I began answering back at the tender age of eleven. I regret that when you chided me (which I know I needed), I’d automatically, passionately snap right back. I regret protesting against your will when it was for my own good. I regret throwing terrible fits at home when things weren’t going my way. I regret cursing whenever I wanted, ignoring your plea that I speak like a true young lady. I regret using my mouth in improper and impolite ways. All these, I not only regret but I am incredibly guilty of and truthfully sorry for.

I’m also sorry for disobeying you and doing whatever I fancied, scorning my conscience that grew fainter with each rebellion. For complaining often for the things I can not obtain straight away not considering that each time this happened, I hurt you, for it’s always painful for a mother to be incapable of giving her child his desires in life. I’m sorry for making faces at you whenever I was displeased. For doing mean things and using the bratty excuse, “I’m going through teenhood!”.

I remember one night, when you stared at me for the longest time and said, “You’re not the daughter I once knew”. Then, I heard faint weeping through your bedroom door.

Just when I thought you’d finally give up on me, you stayed, reminding me of everything that lies ahead of me, telling me to “hitch my wagon to a star”, teaching me what you know of life, love, faith, etc. For all these, Mama, I’m extremely grateful. And I’m sorry for not appreciating them enough. For not seeing the good in our relationship but the faults and imperfections instead, that naturally exist with us humans.

Lastly, I am terribly sorry for saying I love you incessantly, not entirely meaning it as I continued hurting you more. I’m sorry. I really am, for every ache, for every tear.

And as my only wish this Yuletide season, may you forgive me. May you put all the aches and tears behind us now and give me another chance to be the daughter whose memories you keep fondest and dearest to your heart. The daughter I lost to my inner demons.

I know you miss her. Please welcome her home again this Christmas, as she tries to live anew, bathing in the perpetual love and devotion a mother like no other can only offer.

I love you Mama. And this time, I really mean it.

Forever yours,

Lara

Above is a letter that I wrote and submitted to the Philippine Postal Corporations’s First Regional Letter Writing Contest four (or so) years ago. It actually won first prize and the funny thing is , I never gave it to Mama. O.o

I was poring over my past documents when I stumbled on this one. My reaction was a sigh as deep as the Pacific Ocean. Well, it's mainly because, first, I was such a dork then. I was only 15 and was just too happy to care about right and wrong--God knows what kinds of things I am now capable of as juxtaposed against what I did during those times when pimples were as tragic as 9/11 and unrequited puppy love was my own version of religious hermits' corporal mortification. O.o And second, I'm not sure if I still have the guts to say all this again.

What the heck. I don't even know the person who wrote that letter anymore. It felt like reading someone else's diary, and yet, I just knew that it was...familiar...in a way. A Chinese proverb said , "To understand a mother's love, bear your own children." I dunno about my future children but I'm as sure as hell that I won't ever--ever--give up on them. The more sensible part of me tells me that I shouldn't be so certain. After all, I haven't been the kind who deserves a "Best Daughter in the World" trophy or anything. No, not really. I just won a writing competition. That was all.

“A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.” -- Tenneva Jordan


“Motherhood is the strangest thing, it can be like being one's own Trojan horse.” -- Rebecca West


“A girl is Innocence playing in the mud, Beauty standing on its head, and Motherhood dragging a doll by the foot” -- Allan Beck


"To nourish children and raise them against odds is any time, any place, more valuable than to fix bolts in cars or design nuclear weapons." -- Marilyn French


"Sometimes when I look at all my children, I say to myself, 'Lillian, you should have stayed a virgin.'" -- Lillian Carter, at the 1980 Democratic Convention, where her son was nominated for a second term as US President


"Whenever I'm with my mother, I feel as though I have to spend the whole time avoiding land mines." -- Amy Tan, in The Kitchen God's Wife

A mother who is really a mother is never free. -- Honore de Balzac

"A mother is not a person to lean on, but a person to make leaning unnecessary." -- Dorothy Canfield Fisher


"She was the archetypal selfless mother: living only for her children, sheltering them from the consequences of their actions -- and in the end doing them irreparable harm." -- Marcia Muller


"If you've never been hated by your child, you've never been a parent." -- Bette Davis


"Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too. Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own." -- Marguerite Kelly and Elia Parsons


"At work, you think of the children you have left at home. At home, you think of the work you've left unfinished. Such a struggle is unleashed within yourself. Your heart is rent." -- Golda Meir


"Mama exhorted her children at every opportunity to 'jump at de sun.' We might not land on the sun, but at least we would get off the ground." -- Zora Neale Hurston


"Motherhood is neither a duty nor a privilege, but simply the way that humanity can satisfy the desire for physical immortality and triumph over the fear of death." -- Rebecca West


"The best way to keep children home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant -- and let the air out of the tires." -- Dorothy Parker


“I no more thought of style or literary excellence than the mother who rushes into the street and cries for help to save her children from a burning house, thinks of the teachings of the rhetorician or the elocutionist.” -- Harriet Beecher Stowe


"Making the decision to have a child-it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."
--Elizabeth Stone


"The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness." -- Honore' de Balzac (1799-1850)

Magdalene Rests (fiction)

“Eva,” she whispered, her breath perfumed by the double-mint gum that she had been chewing after her eleven o’ clock dinner. It was just 11:30, and the first car that pulled up was a white, brand new Rav4. It might be her lucky night.
“Hop on, Eva,” a husky, male voice said.
She could barely see the man in the dull yellow cast by the streetlight against the dark Timog alley. But she didn’t get paid to pick out beautiful faces. The beautiful cars. They are the standard.
“Are you getting in or not?” His tone was calm, as if finding another woman with a name more exotic than Eva was as easy as driving round the corner. Well, it was.
“Hang on,” she quipped. She might’ve sounded desperate for her next sentence was a well-modulated, deep, and certain “you can’t afford me.”
“Name your price.” This guy was obviously a big shot, she thought.
“Ten. One night. No kissing.”
“Done.”
Just like that, Eva was in the Rav4. She couldn’t believe it. She was chewing her gum furiously. She could’ve asked for a higher amount. 15 thousand, probably. But ten wasn’t so bad for a Monday night. First client, too.
“On one condition,” his voice filled the car as he drove along the hidden avenue that led to the highway. “No alcohol and cigar, I hate the stench. No pills, no weeds, no mushroom, no needles, or anything of the weird sort. If you’re going to use the comfort room, I’ll have to keep watch.” The man turned to Eva, the headlights illuminating his face. He had deep-set eyes and an aquiline nose. His lips were so little, one could hardly see them move. It suddenly dawned on her that the owner was as handsome as his car.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, I already peed. And besides, I’m allergic to all that…weird sort,” said Eva in her slow drawl. She was smiling. The man was a dreamboat. And his pockets seemed to be as desirable, too.
“I don’t like that periwinkle outfit, either,” he said.
“It’s blue.” Eva’s eyes widened at his mockery. She fixed the straps of her dress and shuffled in her seat.
“Whatever. I have a halter dress for you. Size 4. You’ll fit in it, won’t you?” he surveyed her with his deep eyes before making the U-turn.
“I am quite thin, thank you. But I don’t think I need that dress, sir. We’ll just get down to business, and you’ll be hotter than you’ve ever been that you’ll beg me to lick you down there with ice cubes in my mouth. I guarantee that you’ll be moaning my name, asking for more,” she said as she pulled down her spaghetti straps down her shoulders, her face inches from his.
“Could you please get rid of that gum? Oh, and if you have any tattoo, do cover it with a concealer or something.” His eyes didn’t shift from the road for even a second.
“I ain’t got no ink. I told you I’m allergic to needles,” she retorted as she pulled her straps back in place.
“And the gum?”
Most men would flip for Eva’s “subtle skills of seduction,” or so the other girls would call them. But this one—this mysterious, stunning driver—was impossible to please.
“Please dispose of the gum.”
Eva sighed and spat the gum out, wrapping it up in tissue paper. She fought the temptation of sticking it onto the car seat, but she thought about the ten grand and decided against it.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling for the first time. The smile was so endearing that she forgot all about his earlier offenses.
“Okay, you may keep that dress so long as you keep your skirt down. You’re having Noche Buena with my clan. You’ll meet my parents, my siblings, my cousins, my friends, everyone very dear to me. This is the story: you’re my girl and we’re incredibly happy. We met at the Le Cabaret Gala last September and we’ve been going out eversince. You work in sales but dream of putting up your business someday,” he instructed quite nervously. “Oh, and you’re 20 years old, so they’ll excuse your naivete for youth. And I’m Rupert, by the way. I’m gay, and I prefer that the world doesn’t know of it.” Rupert offered his free hand, smiling shyly at Eva.
“Eva. I think I’m fine with Eva.” She shook his hand and laughed.
“Right. Oh, and merry Christmas to you…Eva.”
“Merry Christmas, sistah!”
Eva leaned comfortably on her seat and gazed out the window, watching Manila’s December passing by: thousands of shimmering Santa Claus and reindeer figures as well as nativity scenes, of Christmas lights, and of parol happily hung around the city.


(Writer's note: above is a flash fiction that I did for my Creative Writing 110: Fiction class. I had to start writing with nothing but these random words: Eva, mushroom, ice cubes, tattoo, streetlight, periwinkle. I wove a little story out of 'em, also had them in bold letters, if you noticed)

Romanticizing Lising

Analysis of the Personal Narrative, "A Portrait of Lucila":


“I don’t want to recall.” These were the exact words that my Grandmother, Lucila “Lising” Carrillo Sinson, 76 going on 77, had replied upon being asked about her family’s experiences during the 1941-1944 Japanese Occupation. “It was the worst tragedy that we were ever subjected to.” At first, I thought it would be hard to make her tell her story, and I thought that going home to Bicol, particularly in Sorsogon City—where my maternal family resides—was not worth all the effort. Eventually, she warmed up to me and remembered that I was, after all, her granddaughter, and not a mere snooping student who wanted a monologue for her Chamber Theatre class.


Before January ended, I travelled back to my hometown and spent the rest of the weekend tracing my roots. I figured that making my own personal narrative had to be a lot easier, but the thought of writing Lola Lising’s biography appealed more to me. Mama was hesitant about sending me home as the bus fares would have to cause a serious glitch on my weekly allowance. The idea seemed impractical and unrealistic even to myself, and I did think that it was just one of those sporadic enthusiasms that I get every now and then, and which vanish at the surfacing of newer, fresher, more exciting ideas. But one certain portrait of Lola Lising has always roused in me a sort of curiosity that I could not kill. This is a framed photo of her as a young woman (refer to next blog for image) silently resting on the dresser beside her antique sewing machine. Having spent most of my childhood years in Lola’s ancestral home, I do not remember any instance in which they moved that portrait anywhere apart from its present location on the dresser. It’s always been there, maybe even before I was born. And yet, despite its worn-out, aged appearance, it has always been an enigma in that old, wooden house. Reflecting on it made me wonder why, in my 19 years on earth, I have never asked Lola the story behind that picture of a young girl, standing proudly, her legs crossed rather mechanically, her lips forming a wide, happy grin that perhaps only flamboyant youth could flash. And true enough, I’d never seen that grin decorating my Lola’s face at all. She smiles and laughs, but nowhere had I seen that girl in her somehow.


Lola Lising has a serious pastime: mahjong. Every after lunch during the seven days of the week, Monday to Sunday straight, at the local mahjongan—this is her daily routine. My aunts shared with me that the reason behind Lola’s “compulsive gambling” (a term that she never quite liked or admitted) is that during World War II, when she and her parents were busy running away from the Japs, her Father, Commander Aquilino Carrillo, had no one to play cards with. This left Lola, then not older than ten, to be his constant “co-gambler.” One would get the impression that this is one of those old familial myths but Lola herself confirmed this fact quite merrily, and one which I did not feel necessary to include in the performed text. This omission is hugely because I wanted to shed more light on the positive side of her life as well as the pains that surrounded her during and after the war, and not her personal flaws which have yet to manifest themselves as she’s grown older. Considering that I am to play the role of the young girl in the old portrait, I believe that her struggles as an older adult are not that relevant anymore, although there are some hints of these struggles at the end of the text, some details that I dropped for important reasons which I shall disclose later in this paper. Overall, I guess my favorite part of the entire project which I have taken to a personal and historical level is the deep connection that I have rediscovered with my past and that of the people who are basically the reason I am even breathing as I write.


I would like to focus first on the technical side of the performance. I plan to use several scanned copies of photos from the past, the availability of which I owe greatly to Lola who has graciously provided me with historical memorabilia that spanned through decades in the family. The use of other audiovisual elements, I believe, is to be crucial in a historical narrative, especially if the era being depicted is significantly distinct. The early 50s, during the Liberation Period, for instance—the times in which the monologue supposedly takes place—is a dramatic moment in Filipinos’ lives. This was the rehabilitation, the ascent from the ashes, the wake of the Japanese. Apparently, our culture was also going through a sort of metamorphosis as we were once again indebted to the United States after their leadership during the war (although they were the reason we ever got into war in the first place), which means that the American ways were embedded in our own ways once more. The music was going through a transition from the ballads and blues to rock n’ roll, the sarswela and vaudeville were fast becoming extinct to make way for the silver screen, and many other changes. I want to establish the 50s mood in that one scene where I’ll be playing The Beatles’ Baby, It’s You—definitely a classic—as well as a string of photos which I have made into short film sequences for that added “nostalgic” effect. Other than that, adjustments in language must also be made because people back then probably didn’t talk like people these days. To make the 50s jargon and manners of speech sound even more convincing, I took inspiration from Vivian Leigh’s Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind as well as a personal narrative/novel whose setting and plot centered on the Japanese occupation (Hernandez). Of course, to be certain that my history is accurate, apart from Lola’s personal account of her times, I also consulted other easy sources of historical information on the net (Philippines Travel Guide.com and Mitchel). As a personal narrative juxtaposed against a historical event, it is only crucial that I recheck the facts and details that I was able to gather and come up with a credible text as historical as it is also largely personal.


The first person point-of-view also proves to be more powerful in order to make distinct a voice recounting the pivotal moments in her life which were caused by or part of all the events that occurred in World War II. Of course, that unique voice belongs to Lola whose passive-aggressive ladylike character is a bit alien to me, but whose passions—which were clearly manifested even in our interview—are very characteristic of the women in my Mother’s family. These passions might have been repressed by a somewhat patriarchal society—and I wouldn’t say “at that time” because it is still very much an issue even to this day, perhaps on a different level, but timely just the same—that still frowned on women’s donning pants which was probably only considered to be a bad fashion fad. Seen in this light, not only does A Portrait recount historical events or the “loves and losses of Lising.” Moreover, it gives us a preview of gender communications during those days. Imagine not even having to “pass by any of your suitors’ houses” when they’re just practically your suitors, or having to be married without your full consent (“…the latter would not be my boyfriend in the first place but some war veteran whom I married only because he asked for my parents’ hand, and not mine.”). This play between powers—those of man and woman—is especially true in my Mother’s family, in which a woman either has a soldier for a brother or a father, or is actually married to one. My youngest Aunt was in the Navy and also met her husband there, despite having a Registered Nurse license. One Aunt is wife to an Army personnel, and Lola’s father, brothers, and husband (already deceased) were all soldiers. And with these women having a reputation for being outspoken and assertive (some family friends call them Amazonas), I can only imagine what it’s like to assert their own persons to the men in their lives, those who are evidently “macho,” a characteristic that one could easily relate to the kind of training that they had to endure. After all, these men in uniform are trained to, technically, “be armed and kill” for the civilians’ protection, of course. Although Lola’s girlish character somehow fails to deliver this certain assertiveness that our women should be famous for, this trait gradually grows in her as she deals with more struggles in her adult life but is only hinted at by the “foreboding” on her marriage in the last part of the text.


Which brings me to the anachronism of the text—well, sort of. With regard to the main character/narrator, I could not seem to hear her tell her story in only a single or two tenses. The reason I also included the future through that little “prophesying” towards the end is for me to also present the possibilities that she faces. I do not intend to only portray the 22-year old girl that my Lola was. Because I want to “romanticize” her but never in an inaccurate way, of course, I also capitalized on her other real-life joys, and pains, and realizations later on. This makes the text become not just an ordinary personal narrative, but a sort of “stream of consciousness” as well, in which the narrator goes through an epiphany and even prophesies about her future. Looking at it in this certain angle then betrays the concept of the voice of the young woman in the photo of 1953, which then makes the narrator’s voice not so much as that of the 23-year old girl as it is that of the girl in my dear Lola Lising. In fact, this “prophecy” was only a recent addition to the text outlined beforehand. I felt that it was necessary to somehow give the audience a little window through which they could have a peek at Lising’s later life. Perhaps this might have also had a huge effect on the length of the narrative. My first reading rehearsal lasted for about twenty minutes, and I am not exactly sure just how long we are allowed to perform. And I do not intend to shorten the piece in any way. It is a sprawling monologue and biography in one, and I believe that cutting it won’t do it any justice.


A Portrait of Lucila is my tribute to the Grandmother with whom my friendship has recently strengthened, thanks to her willingness to let her guard down. She might have been hesitant at first. Before I knew it, though, the interview would end after one night and one morning. When I asked her just how much of our talk I am allowed to divulge, she casually responded, “Oh, go ahead. Say everything. It’s the truth,” before rambling about her first kiss and being a virgin until she got married. At that moment, I was definitely sure that I was talking to that girl in the portrait—the air, the sparkle, the grin, they were all there on my Lola’s face and in the animated gestures with which she told her story. And the portrait ceased to be a mystery. Oh, and that Sunday, she didn’t play mahjong.






Sources:
Hernandez, Juan B. Not the Sword: A True Story of the Courageous People of the
Philippines During the Japanse Occupation in World War II (First
edition). New York 17, N. Y. Greenwich Publishers: 1959
Philippines Travel Guide.com. “Japanese Occupation of the Philippines.” Philippine Travel
Guide.com. Online. Available URL: http://www.philippines-travel
guide.com/philippines-japanese-occupation.html.
Mitchel, V. “World War II and Japanese Occupation 1941 – 1945.” ualberta.ca. Online.

Available URL: http://www.ualberta.ca/~vmitchel/fw6.html.

A Portrait of Lucila (personal narrative for chamber theatre)

A Personal Narrative on the Life and Loves of Lucila Sinson y Carrillo:

A Portrait of Lucila

A full-body portrait of Lucila is projected on the screen (“Baby, It’s You” plays in background). Lucila enters and walks across the stage before pausing in the middle to strike the same pose as that in the portrait, freezes for five seconds (music stops), and sings a slow acapella rendition of “All My Lovin’,” a pink love letter and a pen in her hand (projected image vanishes as she sings).

LISING: (sings) Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you. Tomorrow, I’ll miss you. Remember I’ll always be true. And then while I’m away, I’ll write home every day (scribbles something on the letter)—signed with love, Lucila—And I’ll send all my lovin’ to you (folds the letter, kisses it, and tucks it beneath her belt). There! This ought to hide it. No one else must be able to read this letter before it reaches the sight of his dark, brown eyes, and the touch of his perfumed hands. Oh, the glory of youthful love! (sighs)

Have you a lover? Someone who writes you every single chance that he gets, tells you how he feels in silly, little poems and sweet, extensive prose that just put Shakespeare to shame? (whispers to audience) Well, I do. And believe me, this feeling that I get whenever I read those grand words of ardor and passion is unlike any other feeling in the entire world—it’s like God’s finger is on your shoulder. Oh, but hush! What do I speak of, even including the Divine Providence in such nonsense? I shouldn’t be saying such things. I’ll be damned if I get caught swooning over a man, wondering how it’s like to be swept up into his arms before closing the gap between our faces for that much, much desired first kiss—mercy me! I ought to be ashamed of myself! All these emotions are best kept to myself, oh yes. Pay must never hear of this. Pay is our term of endearment for Father, because a cabeza de barangay visited our family way, way back before I was born, and criticized Filipinos for calling their parents Mamá and Papá. “Who do these indios think they are, fancying themselves Español?” I can almost hear the arrogant Spanish say. And so, we have since settled for May and Pay if only to avoid trouble with those who fancy themselves “the high and the mighty.” Now, where was I? Oh yes, Pay must never hear of my yearning for men for I shall receive a mighty load of spanking. I cannot even merely pass by any of my suitors’ houses! Oh, no, no, no! That would be appalling! If I must go to the market or to church on Sundays, I must take the looooooong way around those houses—on foot, mind you! Well, you know the neighbors. Anything peculiar and the whole barrio knows it. My Mother, the towering and regal Aniana Jasmin Escobal Carrillo y Lacao, always reminds me, “Lucila, as young girls, it is our duty to maintain our delicadeza.” What is wrong with being Maria Claras anyway? These days, other girls assume that just because women can already vote, it’s okay for them to go out and dance and drink with random men—and mercy!—even go out in shorts and those awful, long pants! Why, was it not just yesterday that only the men wore them?

Oh, but love!—how it ensnares. Plato himself did say that “at the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” And so, all these letters are all that I have that are nearest to his very touch. That particular touch belongs to a certain gentleman by the name of Jesus Letada, son of the former Vice Governor of Masbate. I call him Jesse. (Sighs) He may not be my first beau but he has definitely sent my heart a-flying to the moon, whose mere presence in the night sky remains my only comfort as I know that the same moon will always be shining on us both no matter where we are. Always. They say that missing someone gets easier every day because even though it is one day further from the last time you saw each other, it is, after all, one day closer to the next time you will. Missing Jesse is like holding my breath for a whole three months or so! You see, he’s taking up Criminology in a place far away, so we’ll have to make do with dispensing all our caged affections in ink on paper. And yet, the nicest part about missing someone is that it could actually turn from pain to pleasure, if you just knew that he was missing you, too. And Jesse never failed to make me feel that. One particular love mail that I shall never forget is a long message written on scented floral stationery carefully tucked in two, stitched-up, heart-shaped velvet pillows—oh, I swear I kept on rereading it for about a thousand times! “Within you, I lose myself. Without you, I find myself…wanting to be lost again”—or so one of those hackneyed sayings goes. All those as lovesick as I, say aye! (giggles) Fiddle dee dee! Well, pardon me, scoffing sirs and ma’ams, but that’s all I am: hopelessly, mindlessly, ridiculously in love! There is love, of course. And then, there's life, its enemy. (air raids in background)

My life has not at all been as rosy as I would like to make it seem—and I am quite sure that all other Filipinos’ lives have never been the same, either. December 8, 1941, 17 days from Christmas and ten hours after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the first Japanese troops landed on Philippine shores. I was only nine. What did I know about war? Quite simple, actually. War meant running away, being chased after by Japanese spies because Pay, Aquilino Carrillo y Estabaya, has been heading troops in the Philippine Constabulary Command, which means we had to isolate ourselves in the most farflung of barrios, Pay and May, and me, which means I had to grow up alone most of the time—no siblings to play with, to cry to whenever other children insulted me, to share sentiments with on war, love, life, and the hope that never dies in the heart of every Filipino. I supposedly had seven siblings, only that two girls died when they were both toddlers because of poor health. They were both named Araceli because May thought that she’d somehow redeem the first one by giving the same name to the second one, only to find out that our family had lost enough Aracelis. A brother also died right before he could actually see the world and its many wonders because his head was too soft for the birthing process, and we never got around to naming him. Manay Asuncion or Ason, the eldest girl among us, married a wealthy Chinese businessman, which saved her from being seized as a comfort woman even if she raised her own family away from us. My closest sister, (photos of Betty projected on screen) Beatrice or Manay Betty as I’d fondly call her, also happens to be the most beautiful among us girls. She has won two crowns and was hailed Queen of Sorsogon and Queen of Masbate. She has porcelain-white skin and the prettiest feet I have ever seen! (Carrillo family portrait projected on screen) And I, Lising, born on the 10^th of April, 1932, the youngest in the brood, would pale in comparison to Manay Betty, as a child. Other people would joke around, “O, uni na palan su mutsatsa ni Betty!” (giggles as image vanishes) Perhaps that made me upset before, but now that I am in my 20s, I find it funny that they have been telling me that I’m beginning to look a lot more like Beatrice herself. In 1942, though, came my very first heartbreak caused by men: (photo of Ampoy and Milio appears on screen) my two only brothers, Serapio and Emilio, were two of the ten thousand prisoners-of-war who died in the Bataan Death March. Manoy Ampoy was 25 and Manoy Milio was barely 21. Their bodies were never found. And their heroic deeds swirled into oblivion. Apart from the Star Spangled Banner on their caskets and the Bataan Veterans Pension in dollars, I have not heard of any genuine sort of commemoration that would honor many of these forgotten heroes. Ampoy and Milio could have had wives and many children who would continue a long line of Carrillos. I was only in Grade Six when I turned 15 since the war caused irregularities on children’s schooling. It was then that May died of depression, always looking for her only sons and our only brothers. “Ampoy, Milio, hain kamo?” “May, nasa Bataan.” (photo vanishes) Pay suffered greatly after her demise, along with the rest of us. The war did not only take from us three lives, it also deprived us of the many more blissful moments with May, Manoy Ampoy, and Manoy Milio, had they lived to see the country free from the chains, the bayonets, the wrath of the Japanese. But they only formed part of the lost generation that the Liberation would soon uncover. Just how high the death toll was in those three oppressive years? A million, they say. But just how many hearts were broken? Probably enough to love and mourn forever.

Meanwhile, Pay might not be able to love another person as dearly as he loved his dear Aniana. But he was able to remarry many years later, and Mama Agatona, our stepmother, has never been like Cinderella’s. She has since treated us like her own children. In 1952, just last year, I began my college schooling as Dentistry student in the College of Oral and Dental Surgery in Oroquieta, Manila. This I was able to pull off, thanks to the veteran pensions of my heroic brothers. At present, my picture is about to be taken by—take note—a professional photographer, having recently won first runner-up in the Ms. Dentistry beauty pageant. One of my professors has graciously lent me her clothes because I actually have nothing pretty enough to wear for this pictorial (giggles), but oh, am I thrilled to smile for the camera! I may send Jesse a copy of it so that he may always see me somehow and perhaps, even keep me in his breast pocket right over his heart—oh, I shall faint by the mere thought of it! (sighs)

It is a small wonder how I can be so young and restless and naïve after the war, isn’t it? Looking back, though, despite the great losses that I had to endure in my earlier days of youth, I would never trade my childhood for anything. It was a happy one. Being the youngest meant plenty of privileges. Like I said, I was the only one who had the opportunity to run along with Pay and May and feel protected in our hiding places during the war. Even then, I was a normal kind of child. They called me Bungkay after the endearing moniker for the female genital—(giggles)—because May always reminded me that when I was born, I would wail and bawl so hard that everyone, including the neighbors, thought I was a boy—until they saw what it was between my legs, and the midwife could not help but let out a loud “Ay, bungkay pala!” (laughs) As a dalaga, however, I shall be mortified if I am still to be called with such a nickname! And so, this has been the reason they “rechristened” me Lising, further shortening my original name, Lucila Carrillo y Lacao.

Hmm…I wonder when I shall get to be Mrs. Jesse Letada. Lucila Letada y Carrillo! Oh, boy, oh, boy, it is indeed music to my ears! Never mind that he has not been writing as much as before. Never mind that not long after, he will stop writing, and I will start pining. Never mind that we shall never see each other again until he shows up to tell me that he might have impregnated another girl in the province. “Napikot ako,” he will say, leaving me to wonder just how “accidental” making love may actually be. Never mind that I shall keep his letters to remind me of the loves and losses of those who are brave enough to love and lose. For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these: “It might have been.” (wedding photo appears) And never mind that I shall never get to be Mrs. Jesus Letada but Mrs. Jose Sinson, instead—never mind that the latter would not be my boyfriend in the first place but some war veteran whom I married only because he asked for my parents’ hand, and not mine. (Sinson family portrait projected on screen) I shall bear him four beautiful daughters: Josefina, Carolina, Glenda, and Ma. Magnolia, a child I shall be having way into my forties. (photo vanishes) And I shall eventually learn that even if love is indeed blind, matrimony does restore sight, and that the nicest thing about marriage, it seems to me, is that when you fall out of love with him or he falls out of love with you, it keeps you together until maybe you fall in again—but oh, ladies and gentlemen, that is another love story that I shall live to tell. Whatever it is that awaits me in the future, Scarlett O’Hara could not have said it better in Gone with the Wind: “After all, tomorrow is another day!” In the meantime, I stand here innocently in front of a professional photographer about to take a portrait of me, in all the glory of my borrowed clothes, and just a genuine smile to bare and mine to own. (photos of Lising as young woman projected on screen as she strikes the same beginning pose as in the portrait while “Baby, It’s You” plays in background)

The Secret: The Do-It-Yourself Guide on How to be God (book review)

The following is a review that I wrote on the phenomenal "The Secret" by Rhonda Byrne (in upper photo). I'd like to extend my thanks to Ate Nikki, my roommate, who lent me her copy. ^^


The Law of Attraction. This is the not-so-secret essence of the self-help book The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. Although, technically, she didn’t write it all, as she quoted extensively almost every best-selling self-help author/financial guru—and in her words—“avatar” alive (some have already passed away, though). Aside from quotations and repetitive teachings on “thinking out one’s reality” as declared by a handful of self-help authority (think Jack Canfield of Chicken Soup for the Soul and John Gray of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus fame), there are also testimonials sent out by The Secret “practitioners” who would’ve probably bet their lives on its effectiveness.


Well, I guess everyone’s got a “The Secret moment.” For instance, I first came across the Law of Attraction in U. P. Los Baños where I went in my first year. It was late February and I was attending to some very important papers for my transfer to U. P. Diliman. The office buildings back there are ridiculously built kilometers (I swear) apart from one another, and it was already afternoon, and I was DRAINED, man. All of a sudden, though, I met a friend along the way—a brother, actually, as he had been part of a religious community I once joined in. He was chuckling because I told him it was my first time to walk along the Engineering departments since I sort of got lost in my building-hopping [mis]adventure and I was a true-blue Humanities kid. He asked me what my errand was all about. Strangely, because of this meeting by chance, he was one of the first to know about my plan to move schools—despite the fact that we weren’t really as tight as Piglet and Pooh—and I appreciate the fact that he was really supportive. I was careful not to share too much with anyone, see, lest it migh not push through--this mentality being just another product of, y'know, the common Pinoy saying, "baka maudlot." I never regretted spilling it out to him, though. I remember him recounting a professor’s lesson in which he mentioned about the Law of Attraction, how all that you want can be attracted by your thoughts, and that everything is connected by this law, this force. After this little story, he then parted with some words of advice on how I could move to UPD if I believed hard enough and if I just put my heart on it. Up to now, I still remember the exact date of that fateful day. I'd never become that optimistic about a huge choice that I had to make in life. In fact, I sent my application for transfer thru LBC that very afternoon.


I don’t remember having consciously used the Law of Attraction to my advantage, but here I am, currently in my third year in the College of Arts and Letters in U. P. Diliman. If I get lucky--no, if I study my a** off, I'll be able to graduate next year, and "hello, world!" it is for me. In secondary school, I listed B. A. Speech Communication as my primary choice. I did not make it because I flunked Math in the UPCAT. The only reason they allowed me to enroll in UPLB was my test scores in English and Comprehensive Reading, or so I was told. However, my mind was set on SpeechCom so intensely that I vowed to run after it no matter what. To borrow a line from a nice little indie, it was "SpeechCom or NOTHING!" I was pretty happy in Elbi--no, extremely happy, in fact--but I knew that I had to pursue my calling in Speech Communication (naks!).


Even before UPCAT, I was certain I’ve always wanted to be a UP student eversince I made the UP banner my mobile phone’s wallpaper when I was in third year high (damn right, "feeling talaga!"). Mama also confirms that the first color I was able to spell that exceeded four letters was M-A-R-O-O-N and I was, like, four or five then (Awc'mon! Don't you think it's a rather startling coincidence?! LOL). So, I not being aware of the Law of Attraction in the past, is it still responsible for my being a UP Speech Major now?


To be completely honest, I am not a fan of self-help books. After reading The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren, I just decided not have a shot at self-help anymore. From the first chapters through the middle pages, I really thought that my life was about to make a 180-degree turn (I think the book intentionally meant to make its readers feel that way). I was incredibly inspired by what I’d been reading that I even asked my parents for a Bible so that I could study it more closely, and I almost read the entire Old testament, including Numbers--and that was a pretty hard book to get by...whoa! Talk about inspiration, eh? Then came the last few pages wherein Warren already sounded like some sort of recruiter. Being a Catholic just didn’t appear to be quite enough for one to find his/her purpose. It seemed to say, “Do good, and you’ll find bliss. However, for maximum results, go and be reborn.” Of course, everything was like a euphemism that should lead you to conversion. It felt like being Born Again Christian was the purpose, as if it really were the key to finding God—the entity of which is supposedly everyone’s purpose, no matter what kind of dream he/she may want to pursue. Then again, every religion/sect seems to claim that its god is the real God, so I was disappointed that Warren should be so biased with his own religious beliefs—just like any other evangelist—when I thought that finding and living out one’s life purpose was the business of everybody and not just a select few, i. e. Born Again Christians. What was worse was learning that The Purpose Driven Life was a huge franchise including daily devotionals, newsletters via snail and electronic mail, bookmarkers, greeting cards, and the whole shebang. I just could not help but feel bad that they’re making money out of virtually everything. I mean, I’ve always believed that the Ultimate Truth—whether it is finding out your own purpose, or uncovering the Secret, or meeting your one, true soulmate, or finding your G-spot for that matter—should come for free.


This has since been my problem about self-help sources: they are overly commercialized. They are little puking cash machines. I can totally understand if J. K. Rowling, Paulo Coelho, Joyce Carol Oates, and even Nicholas Sparks (although I personally think that his works are a bit too weepy) or Dan Brown (highly far-fetched conspiracies) get to be top-selling names. At least people still have the taste and time for literature (I don’t like the Dan Brown part very much, though), which, I believe, needs a lot of nurturing this day and age of the Internet. My only worry is that self-help books, especially those that promise wealth and success—and all other euphemisms for “money,” actually—are the ones which are stripping shelves naked, making their way into the society’s coffee tables, bedside tables, study tables, and libraries both private and public. It is somewhat saddening that most people only care about getting rich. And with what? The green stuff (the blue, in our case)…bread…moolah…mucho dinero. Whatever happened to being rich with relationships and “living, loving, learning” (Leo Buscaglia)? And even if the focus weren’t so much on “money making the world go round,” it’d have to be about dating, i. e. dividing the world into Mars and Venus or being bitches because men seem love 'em (Why Men Marry Bitches by I-forgot-who). And all these--because they have to sell like hotcakes, or more accurately these days, like those overrated, disposable jelly shoes—whatever the subject matter, lead to money, money, money, and more money. The elders were right: it’s not like you can bring it along with you to heaven.


Speaking of heaven, Byrne did not mention the afterlife in her record-breaking book. Neither was there any mention of sin and the evils of the world nor death. According to Byrne and the 29 co-contributors/avatars/teachers of the Law of Attraction, everything in the “Universe”—which has always been capitalized and usually synonymous for "God"—vibrates on a particular frequency. The only time you’ll ever receive wealth is when you think in harmony with the frequency of something, that is, to think only of wealth. You’ll have to attract it to you, whereas, if you think about your debt, you will receive nothing but debt. You attract what you think about. It is your thoughts that will have to determine your destiny. Donald Whitney, prominent spiritual conference speaker and writer, wrote:

In the final analysis, The Secret is nothing more than Name It-Claim It, Positive-Confession, Prosperity Theology (without God and the Bible), built on a foundation of New Age self-deification. In other words, the book is just another version of what some TV preachers have taught for decades, namely, if you will sustain the right thoughts, words, and feelings, you will receive whatever you want. But The Secret adds this important twist: your thoughts can bring anything into your life because you are god (emphasis mine).

This, in fact, is no exaggeration, as Byrne proclaims:

You are God in a physical body. You are Spirit in the flesh. You are Eternal Life expressing itself as You. You are a cosmic being. You are all power. You are all wisdom. You are all intelligence. You are perfection. You are magnificence. You are the creator, and you are creating the creation of You on this planet (p. 164).

If it is not Megalomania that this book is teaching, then I do not know what it’s called. Nevertheless, there is a brief chapter on The Secret and relationships. Of course, it still talks about bringing about the perfect romantic partner by thinking that he/she is already practically yours. Here comes the creepy part: Mike Dooley, one of the teachers featured, had a story to tell. It was of a woman who wanted to attract the man of her dreams. She did everything right. She got clear about the traits, both physical and on the inside, and visualized him in her life. Despite all these efforts, her prince charming wasn’t showing any sign of existence. And then one day, fresh from work, she was parking her car in the middle of the garage, and she just gasped all of a sudden. You see, she realized that if her car were in the middle all the time, then there wouldn’t be any room left for her partner’s car. So she immediately changed her position and began parking on one side. She also changed the rest of the setup in her house. She made room for her partner in her closet and she started sleeping on only one side of the bed. And when she met up with Mr. Dooley for dinner, she even had an extra seat for her imaginary—no, “visualized” partner. Dooley claims that this woman is currently happily married with a real, tangible man, thanks to—tadah! The Secret. This, to me, is the most disturbing part of the book. Dooley has somehow narrated some events from the life of a schizophrenic, and yet, they call it a miracle brought about by quantum physics (since they claim that the Law of Attraction is very much in the field of quantum physics and other impressive-sounding sciences).


There is one thing that I like about this chapter, though. The Secret stresses that “one’s job is oneself.” Lisa Nichols says that “inside relationships, it’s important to first understand who’s coming into the relationship, and not just your partner. You need to understand yourself first (qtd. in Byrne, p. 117).” James Ray, another teacher, verifies this by posing a few questions: “How can you ever expect anyone else to enjoy your company if you don’t enjoy your own company? And so again, the law of attraction or The Secret is about bringing that into your life….Here’s the question I would ask you to consider: Do you treat yourself the way you want other people to treat you? (qtd. in Byrne, p. 117)” Love and respect. Those two inseparable elements must be present in our relationships with ourselves. Prentice Mulford has also put it ever so nicely:

Undoubtedly to some, the idea of giving so much love to self will seem very cold, hard, and unmerciful. Still this matter may be seen in a different light, when we find that “looking out for Number One,” as directed by the Infinite, is really looking out for Number Two and is indeed the only way to permanently benefit from Number Two (qtd. in Byrne, p. 119).

Unless we fill ourselves up first, we have nothing to give anybody. Byrne says that we must “attend to our joys first” (p. 119). Then again, there’s a part that’s hard to stomach:

Many people have sacrificed themselves for others, thinking when they sacrifice themselves they are being a good person. Wrong! To sacrifice yourself can only come from thoughts of absolute lack, because it is saying, “There is not enough for everyone, so I will go without.” Those feelings do not feel good and will eventually lead to resentment. There is abundance for everybody and it is each person’s responsibility to summon their own desires. You cannot summon for another person because you cannot think and feel for another. Your job is You. When you make feeling good a priority, that magnificent frequency will radiate and touch everyone close to you (Byrne, p. 118).

This I cannot seem to accept because I firmly believe that love, more than anything else, is sacrifice. If one does not know how it feels to sacrifice, then I doubt that he/she knows about loving at all. The Secret also emphasizes that the Universe is infinite, that there is no such thing as “lack.” So how do they explain people below poverty line? Are they incredibly negative about their lives that they’ve become as miserable as they are? Is it really all their fault? I know rich people who can’t even appreciate a good thing when they’ve got it.


On a lighter note, though, Byrne did mention something about making relationships work. She says that in order for you to do this, you must focus on what you appreciate about the other person, and not your complaints about him/her. Because it is only when your focus is on the strengths that more of them will come to you. However, other than these, Byrne does not mention anything else on how to deal with people. All the book talks about is how to have this, have that, and how to be whoever you want to be. It is too “self-help” if you know what I mean. Almost everything is self-ward, which isn’t really surprising since The Secret even discourages all thoughts that emanate from the outside world. Instead, it teaches that one considers oneself as the Universe itself, and that foci on things other than the self will not bring anyone happiness. For example, if one has cancer, The Secret blames him/her for having brought the disease unto him/herself. The book stands by its conviction that we are a product of our own thoughts. Everything negative that happens to us is a result of all the negativity in our minds which is apparently the same negativity that we summon from the Universe. What’s even more dreadful is the fact that some fans have so devoted themselves to The Secret that those who were diagnosed with serious illnesses have refused medication because they believe that positive thinking will have to cure them eventually. Talk about being SICK! Oprah Winfrey—ironically one of the reasons the book became a household name in the first place, after having it aired on her show which is basically every woman’s TV bible—once urged a guest to seek medical attention for cancer by saying, "The Secret is merely a tool; it is not treatment (emphasis mine).” Alas, even its once stark—and probably most influential—supporter now knows that there really are limits to The Secret. It isn’t as pervasive and an almighty law as what Byrne and 29 other New Age thinkers might have claimed after all.


Karin Klein, editorial writer for the Los Angeles Times, called The Secret "just a new spin on the very old (and decidedly not secret) The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale (1952) wedded to the ‘ask and you shall receive’” kind of mentality. The editorial, in one of its strongest criticisms, asserted that Byrne "took the well-worn ideas of some self-help gurus, customized them for the profoundly lazy, [and] gave them a veneer of mysticism” (qtd. in Wikipedia). Tony Riazzi, columnist for the Dayton Daily News, also questions the phenomenal book. "The Secret's ideas are nothing more than common sense. Take out the buzzwords and pseudo-religious nonsense about what you 'manifest' for yourself, ignore the vague prose and you get the message that thinking positively serves you better than thinking negatively," says Riazzi (qtd. in Wikipedia).


Moreover, James Ray, one of the teachers featured in The Secret was interviewed by Harry Smith on The Early Show (CBS) in an episode that was aired on March 1, 2007:

Smith: If I get this straight, the secret of The Secret is, "ask—believe—receive." Is it as simple as that?


Ray: Well, that's one of the author's interpretations. I believe that you have to think, feel, and act...(qtd. in Wikipedia).

I guess James Ray pretty much summed it up for us and even for Byrne herself.


Thing is, one cannot possibly live in this world and turn a blind eye to all the negativity, i. e. poverty, racism, global warming, war, and what have you--also known as REALITY. This place is indeed filled with madness, but I believe that it is because of this dark side that we still know what is good, what is bright, and what is beautiful. This knowledge enables us to appreciate the good stuff, and that’s where love comes in. If I were to be asked, the hippies of the late 60’s are still right: All we need is LOVE. We do not need to proclaim ourselves God. Sure, we chart our own destinies and much of our lives depends on our own hands—not etched lines on palms, but actions…deeds…initiative. However, life has taught me the hard way that not everything is within our control. I have been humbled many times before and have since realized that my say does not really matter in all the things that happen to me and to the ones I love. Maybe the mind really is a powerful thing, but to shun the concept of suffering if only to make yourself believe that you are as powerful as God and that the world—the Universe, even—is some cosmos built in your brain, would be to defeat the purpose of being human. It is not every time that you can put on a genuine smile on your face. Because once conflict is obliterated for the benefit of HARDCORE POSITIVE THINKING, then I am afraid that The Secret is proposing a world of no interpersonal communication at all. To focus all of your energy unto yourself and yourself alone, without the slightest pain to spare for others would be to isolate yourself from the world to live in your own little corner where you can be eternally happy playing God...and come off as some retarded bloke in the process.


Frankly, The Secret is like “Building Your Own Planet for Dummies.” It is not even Utopic in a sense that it betrays the entire notion of an ideal unified society. It is narcissistic, materialistic, and utterly megalomaniac thinking. “Egotistical” is a term that does not even quite touch upon it. I honestly do not understand how anyone could've taken this book seriously. Then again, the number of sales that it’s made—which is fast surpassing that of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, last I heard—may be explained by the marketing and packaging of the product which, I must note, is not only a book but a documentary on DVD as well as a limited pay-per-view video on the net, not to mention a whole package of The Secret: Extended Edition and The Secret: Gratitude that may come along with the first book for an extra amount of charges, of course. The Secret has also been promoting itself as “The Secret to everything—the secret to unlimited joy, health, money, relationships, love, youth: everything you have ever wanted” without even saying what it really is all about. Imagine how much of the public imagination and curiosity they have spurred. It’s an incredibly deceptive way of introducing “a most important secret” to the world. It's even reminiscent of cheap, commonplace sales talks ("But Wait! There's MORE! Call ***-**** and you'll get **** for fu**ing FREE! CALL NOW!"). And The Secret has, in fact, been widely criticized for being a mere infomercial. It's poor literature, really. It’s like the Da Vinci Code and Donald Trump in one. I would never rely on it to save my own relationships, thank you. I believe I have been dwelling on myself far too long now for me to even consider to be more “self-ward.” If you want to have good relations with other people, then by all means start from within, but know how it is to love and sacrifice for them, for it is only when you do that you realize their value. If there is one secret that the world deserves to know, it is love. And they don’t even have to buy a pricey book that comes with a DVD and the rest of the self-help caboodle just to gain from it.


Albert Einstein, one of those who believed in the Law of Attraction, as claimed by Byrne, of course, once said that “Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former.” Oh, and this wasn’t quoted in The Secret, by the way.

Onli in Da Pilipins

A scientific study once observed that in all of Asia, only the Philippines has people casually greeting one another with just the raising of the eyebrows. This simple gesture already means anything from “Uy!” (roughly translated to “Hi” in Pinoy context) to “Kamusta na?” If Chicanos make beso with one another and some Middle Easterners kiss on the lips, the Filipinos can get away with this effortless way of acknowledgment: the ascent of both eyebrows. This is also not far from the special use of our lips which may very well serve as substitutes to fingers pointing to certain objects. Whether it is “’Yun!” or “Doon!” the nguso has never failed to guide the Filipino sense of direction.


There are just a number of things that are intensely Filipino. These distinctions are even given special focus by a particular sub-field of knowledge that has been known as Sikolohiyang Pilipino. Even our values are considerably distinct from other cultures’. One Pinoy societal value that’s always appealed to me is the concept of hiya or shame. A couple will have to settle for a huge wedding celebration even if their finances aren’t sufficient enough because there simply is no way that you should invite people to the wedding ceremonies but not to, say, the reception. This greatly contrasts with the American way of sending separate invitations to the ceremony and the reception, a course of action that is highly pragmatic. Back here, the town fiesta is serious business that “caters” to the entire population whether we are capable of feeding n number of mouths or not. “Mangutang na lang tayo, nakakahiya naman”—a statement that is not atypical among true-blue Filipinos. This is also greatly mirrored in Filipino politics. One significant outcome would be that the great interplay of powers from small institutions to “Lopez-ish” ones involves endless bloodlines. Seemingly, nepotism in other countries has never taken a form as orthodox as it has in our country’s many establishments. You get your nephew into the company—never mind that there must be a better applicant around, say, a U. P. graduate—because it is a given that you prioritize the ties that bind the most over anything else. And those ties, in the normal Pinoy’s case, would be of blood and kin. You run for president and choose a running mate who may not exactly have the ideal characteristics of a competent leader but who happens to be your primary supporter in the turbulent political scene. “Walang kumpa-kumpare. Walang kai-kaibigan,” or so one infamous president, Erap, would say. And this was quite ironic because it was his friends themselves who sold him out. One particular kumpare, Bobby Tañada—who was lead prosecutor for the plunder charges in the impeachment case against him—would be throwing Erap’s lines back at his face by replying, “Walang kumpa-kumpare at kai-kaibigan kung paglilingkod sa bayan ang pinag-uusapan” when asked if his role in the case would ever affect their friendship. So much for the “nakakahiya” frame of mind. It is not as much as a positive trait of being thoughtful as it is a brand of hypocrisy. Kaplastikan. And the way I see it, it has never really taken us anywhere progressive.


Of course, one should not get me started on the Pinoy superstitions that have plagued everyday life, from the waking-before-sunrise-just-to-be-more-prosperous all the way to not-sweeping-during-night-to-avoid-bad-luck kinds of mentality. My personal favorite is not passing by an area in which a black cat has crossed, which finally condemns the poor believer to searching for another possible route, if any, to his/her destination. It is ludicrous that we’ve stuck with these superstitions even in the 21st century. During my Lolo’s—my father’s dad—burial, the family even had to break down a wall just so they could make a pathway for the casket since there is an old saying that one is not supposed to carry coffins through doors because that would mean more deaths would have to “come in” and occur in the family. Many practical matters are betrayed because of some of these beliefs and somehow, I cannot help but hypothesize about the reason the Philippines has not flourished, and has remained a third world country for centuries up to this day. These simple manifestations in the ways we communicate—the rhetoric of them all, if you will—say a lot about who we are, who we have been, and ultimately, what we will be, if at all such behaviors persist.


That is not to say, however, that there is nothing positive to be found in Juan Dela Cruz’s frame of mind. The world has been constantly amazed by our distinct way of laughing even during the heaviest misfortunes, i. e. happily bathing in chin-high floods during super typhoons, usiseros waving in excitement at cameras during a mutiny’s media coverage, etc. We are an exceptionally happy country in the most dismal of times. In my opinion, this all boils down to the broad scope of our concept of tiis. “Magtiis ka na lang kasi nakakahiya” (being considerate or being a hypocrite); “Magtiis ka na lang sa abroad para sa pamilya” (being family-oriented or being individualistic); “Magtiis ka na lang para swerte” (being hopeful or being superstitious); “Magtiis ka na lang kasi wala nang iba” (making do with what one has or being tolerant of society’s deficiencies). There is this pressure to be enduring at all times even if it meant keeping mum and tolerant of all things arduous. Whether this spawns more positive effects than dreadful ones is beyond me. Onli in da Pilipins, indeed. After all, I am only one Filipino, and—despite all this—proud to be.

Back to Basics

The following is a brief essay that I've written for a major course last semester. It's [supposed to be] about my self-concept. I dunno if I did the right thing. Then again, I'm usually clueless when I'm able to write something. So...whatever, right? Here it goes:


Interpersonal Communication:
A Worse Kind of Writer’s Block
(on the Concept of Self—and Self-rediscovery)
by Lara Sinson Mendizabal


I am not the typical “girl next door.” That, I’ve always known eversince I knew that I hated the word “ordinary.” I do not believe that I am a “girly girl,” either. My Barbie doll never really had her head located where it was supposed to be, and I’d go off and make my own paper dolls and their paper clothes and paper things. If that was girly, that was a more creative kind of “girly”—no, I’ve always taken fashion more seriously than just dressing myself in pink and sporting all the season’s goods all at once. Sometimes, I also doubt that I am young at heart. For some reason, I’ve always found it difficult to try to like my generation’s trends, e. g. some hip hop, a lot of pop—boy bands, most especially, my one and only past guilty pleasure being A1—as well as Gossip Girl and American Idol. Oh, and EMO (short for “emotional rock,” a subculture that’s had kids applying thick black eyeliner, growing bangs over an eye, and threatening to slash their own wrists whenever they’re down in the dumps--and they're always down in the dumps) may just die anytime, thank you. Whereas with The Beatles, phonographs and vinyl records, faded photographs, worn-out radios, yellowing pages of dusty books, vintage cameo brooches, vintage tees, vintage cars, and vintage what have you, it’s almost like I feel one with them. Many have often told me that I’m an old soul. Back in high school, they thought I was boring, and I thought they were tiring.


In college, there have been a few—or so I believe—changes. I’m glad to say that I am able to cope with diverse kinds of people now, very much unlike my pre-college antisocial self. I guess it’s mainly because I go to the University of the Philippines where—and this is totally my favorite illustration—you may find yourself sitting next to the mayor’s nephew to your right and the janitor’s son to your left. I’ve often told Mama in my utter amazement that it’s only in U. P. that you learn how to rise among the great and stoop along with the oppressed and lowly at the same time. Oble’s crest definitely makes up an enormous chunk of my self-concept. U. P. does not just mold you to be “men and women for others.” More importantly, you also learn how to think for yourself just so you may live for your fellow Filipino men and women—or so the ideal scenario goes. I owe it to my school that I’m well aware that I’m only part of something bigger than myself, and that is the society we are all living and struggling in. It can be mirrored in so many ways, art being one of the strongest and most enduring.


The arts have been close to my heart from the day I first held a pencil. From smiling angels with halos on their heads on little nimbuses, to wedding dresses I’d pretend to have designed for my aunts’ girlfriends, to short stories about mermaids magically gaining legs (not very original, I know), to my crack at creative nonfiction through blogs and campus journalism, my pen-and-paper affair has introduced me to many worlds. Eventually, writing—my very first love—has also led me to my second love which is speaking. It all started when I wrote a speech and delivered it, and from then on, I just couldn’t understand—for the life of me—why Glossophobia, fear of giving public speeches, is actually number one among all phobias on earth. I love talking and I love writing, and I love how one can play with words.


And yet, there are times when I cannot help but question where exactly I am to go. After all, all I have are words. I cannot remember any particular Physics formula to save my life. I’m too nonchalant to care for money for me to be running a long-term business in the not-so-far future. I’m way too in love with freedom for me to be stuck in an eight-hour cubicle job. And I worry that a freelance job may never really be enough to sustain my unstable self—well, as far as my sense of handling money is concerned, anyway. I’ve been pondering on this quite heavily this past semester, and it’s been real hardcore thinking so far. At times, I wonder if Speech Communication will really be able to give me a future to look forward to. But then I realize that thinking about it won’t exactly do me any good, so I guess I’ll just have to work my eyeballs out—something that I know I should have been doing but have largely neglected due to some personal dilemmas. It was actually more of a question whether everything I do was going to be worth it. And I’ve been questioning for as long as I can remember until I realized that I’ve been worrying too much about tomorrow that I forgot all about today. That’s me, a constant distant dreamer.


Recently, I think there’s been a clash between my present self and my ideal self, and it just so happens that I got lost in all that discord. Right now, all I have are my passions and my rhetoric, but as to a personal vision, I am not even sure about what I want exactly anymore, and that, to me, is quite sad. “Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worse kind of suffering.” Paulo Coelho wrote it so beautifully. Oh well, perhaps it’s just a phase, and I do hope it is. I guess I’ll just have to take on one day at a time, and slowly rediscover my dreams, one by one, like picking up little breadcrumbs in a tangled wilderness, gradually directing me from loss to my gingerbread house—without the old hag, of course. No, I’ve had enough of old hags this year. And I think I’ll be going back to my smiling angels with halos on their heads on little nimbuses for now. Yep, I’m back to basics.