*Larita Kutsarita - n. see THE AUTHOR
*Spoonfuls - n. articles/dispatches/scribbles by Larita Kutsarita
(Background photo by Aiess Alonso)

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Para Kay B (Chamber Theatre Script) (adaptation)

The following is the the script that we collectively wrote straight from Ricky Lee's first and only (so far) novel "Para Kay B." The text is a special adaptation for Chamber Theatre. Its performance will be part of a three-act production called "TUKSO. Panoorin mo 'ko." This Thursday, March 26th, UP College of Mass Communication Media Center, 6-7 PM. See you there.


Para Kay B
Ni Ricky Lee


Mga tauhan:


Irene, Ang Unang Kwento
Irene – Karen
Jordan – Marvin
Narrator – Kez
Sandra, Ang Ikalawang Kwento
Sandra – Ivy
Lupe – Marvin
Narrator – Rhan
Erica, Ang Ikatlong Kwento
Erica – Lyanne
Jake – Marvin
Mrs. Baylon - Eky
Narrator – Steph
Ester, Ang Ikaapat na Kwento
Ester – Nikki
Sarah – Jema
AJ - Brish
Narrator – Isah
Bessie, Ang Ikalimang Kwento
Bessie – Lara
Lucas – Barry
Brigs – Rex
Narrator – Jenica










Panimula
Writer/Lucas: Me quota ang pag-ibig. Sa bawat limang umiibig, isa lang ang magiging maligaya. Ang iba, iibig sa di nila iniibig. O iibig nang di natututo. O iibig sa wala. O di iibig kailanman.
Irene: Ang iba’y iibig sa maling panahon, umibig noong 1980s, nakipagmartsa sa mga aktibista, pero ang taong nakatakda para sa kanya ay nabuhay noon pang 1930s, isang rebelde laban sa mga Amerikano, matagal nang namatay. Kaya she keeps falling in love sa mga lalaking mas matatanda, hinahanap sa kanila ang di mahanap na wala, hindi mapagtagpo ang kahapon at ang kasalukuyan.
Sandra: Merong pinalad na nagkakilala, nagkaibigan at nagsama. Pero sa di malamang dahilan ay iniwang ng babae ang lalaki. Mabubuhay ang lalaki sa walang hanggang paghahanap. Mari-realize niya na ang pag-ibig ay laging paghahanap. Pero di niya kailanman mahahanap ang babae dahil ang totoong hindi niya mahanap ay ang kanyang sarili.
Erica: Merong away nang away kapag magkasama pero hindi naman makaya ang magkahiwalay. Merong nagmamahal lamang kapag nananakit. Merong relihiyon ang humaharang, o katayuan sa buhay, o mga magulang. Merong sila mismo ang gumagawa ng harang.
Ester: Merong umiibig na habang nagtatagal ay nawawalan ng IQ. Merong pag umiibig ay napupundi ang 4 out of 5 senses, touch lang ang natitira. Merong ang tingin sa pag-ibig ay tali. Merong di makahakbang dahil sa pag-ibig, at meron namang nakakalipad. Merong ang tingin sa pag-ibig ay hapunang walang sawsawan. Merong pag umibig ay nakaharap sa salamin, sarili ang sinsamba. Merong ang tingin sa pag-ibig ay parusa.
Bessie: Ang iba’y iibig sa mga hayop, dahil noong unang panahon ay mga hayop sila. Ang iba’y iibig sa mga bahay, kinikilig kapag hinahaplos ang barandilya, nalilibugan sa mga kisame, pinagnanasaan ang sahig. Patuloy silang mananakit sa mga babaeng umibig sa kanila dahil hindi nila kailanman malalaman na ang puso nila ay gawa sa kahoy.
Writer/Lucas: Pero merong isa sa lima, harangan man ng kulog, ng mga ganid, ng lindol at ng teknolohiya, mahahanap niya ang kanyang mahal. Siya lang ang magiging maligaya.
Bessie: Aba, gusto mo pala maging writer! Anong gusto mong isulat?
Lucas: Mga kwento….






Irene, Ang Unang Kwento
Irene: Alam niyo bang a pig’s orgasm lasts 30 minutes? At ang lions naman, they can mate over 50 times a day!
Narrator: She’s our Ms. FYI! Name it, she knows it!
Irene: Me advantage din naman ang ganitong me photographic memory. Dahil malaki ang boobs niya, madalas dito lang nakatingin ang mga lalaki.
Narrator: Kaya ang gagawin niya, bigla niyang sasabihin sa ka-date—
Irene: Alam mo, an object that is behaving in a uniform manner is either continually moving or continually at rest. Watch an arrow as it travels along its flight path. Clearly, at any instant, the arrow is occupying a given space. If it is occupying space, it must obviously be at rest there, in that given instant!
Mapapatanga na ang lalaki at ang atensyon ay matatanggal na sa kanyang boobs.
Narrator: Meron siyang filing system kung saan maaalala lang niya ang isang bagay kung kailangan niya. Isang alaala lang ang di niya makontrol, lumalabas maski kelan, maski hindi niya gusto. Ito ang alaala ng isang rally noong 1994. At lahat ng mga nangyari noong taong iyon sa San Ildefonso.
Irene: Mahusay akong mag-memorize. Bumanggit ka ng 20 words na lahat konektado sa buhay mo. Tapos lahat ‘yon uulitin ko nang wala akong nakakalimutan.
Jordan: 20 words.
Irene: Karne. Aso. Gulok. Bukid. Pako. School. Damit. Baril. Sako. Salawal, Sabon. Sementeryo. Gumamela. Papag. Five-centavo coin. Dugo. Pasko. At ang pinakahuli, na matagal bago nasabi ni Jordan, Nanay.
Narrator: Marami nang rally ang nagdaan sa buhay ni Irene. At maski na hindi siya kasali, kapag may nakikita siya, muli magbabalik sa alaala niya, bisitang ayaw magpapigil, ang alaala ng isang rally labing-apat na taon na ang nakalilipas….Nakita niya sa ibaba, sa ilalim ng tulay si Jordan, nakatayong nanonood ng rally. Mula sa mga nagmamartsa ay may nahulog na isang cheap watch, iniabot sa kanya ang cheap watch, saka sinabi nito
Jordan: Paglaki ko pakakasalan kita.
Irene: Isang batang babae, isang binatilyo, pinangakuan ng lalaki yung bababe, paglaki mo, pakakasalan kita….
Narrator: Isang araw ay nakipagsuntukan si Jordan sa tatlong tinedyer. Kinantyawan kasing NPA daw ang mga magulang. Sa galit ay biglang binigwasan ni Jordan ang pinakapinuno ng mga tinedyer, ang anak ni Mayor Ignacio, pati na rin ang dalawang kasamahan nito na mga duwag naman pala.
Irene: Bilang ng mga donasyon ng Mayor sa simbahan: 263 thousand pesos a year. Bilang ng mga punong pinuputol ng lumber company ni Mayor taun-taon: 13 752. Bilang ng mga scholars ng Mayor: 27. Bilang ng mga kabit ng Mayor: 3. Bilang ng mga anak sa labas ng Mayor: 7. Bilang ng mga napalayas ng Mayor sa San Ildefonso: 1. Si Jordan….Lumipas ang mga taon. Isang pangako, o biro lang ba yon, ilang mga salita. Pero naghintay siya.
Narrator: Sa college ay nasangkot siya sa mga NGO, pero gusto niyang isiping hindi siya puro pakikibaka lang. Kaya pinaiksi niya ang bestida, ipinagmalaki ang malaking boobs, nakipag-date sa kung sinu-sinong lalaki, and being a woman of this age after all, she fucked around.
Get real, girl! 25 ka na! You have to do something with your life!
Irene: Bakit, ang fate lang ba ng babae ay makatagpo ng tamang lalaki?
Narrator: Hindi, pero mas masaya! Kung ganon talaga kahalaga sayo si Jordan, bat di mo hanapin?
Irene: Fate ang nagdala sa kanya sa akin, fate din ang magbabalik sa kanya sakin.
Narrator: Fate, fate! Pride kamo!
Irene: Pero the next day kumilos na ang fate.
Narrator: She met Jordan.
Irene: Excuse me!
Jordan: And you are…?
Irene: Irene Magsinoc. Di ba sa San Ildefonso ka lumaki? Inampon ka ni Fr. Zuñiga? Sorry ayaw mo na sigurong maalala. Pero me natatandaan ka ba, habang me nagmamartsa sa tulay….
Jordan: Parang me hawak siyang isang napigtal ng bahagi ng katawan ng isang matagal nang namatay.
Irene: Isang batang babae, isang binatilyo, pinangakuan ng lalaki yung bababe, paglaki mo, pakakasalan kita.
Narrator: Anong gagawin niya sa lalaking itong walang maalala? She fucked him.
(seks sa paraan ng movement)
Narrator: Para siyang isang amasona, umiindayog ang buong katawan, with an army of memories behind her, goading her, urging her on. Habang nakaupo siya sa hubad na pawisang katawan nito, hanggang sa wala na itong magawa kundi parang nagpapasaklolong umungol at humingal na lang.
Irene: Minahal ba talaga niya ang lalaking to, o umiibig lang siya sa isang alaala?
Narrator: Habang nakikita ng mga mata niya ang bawat detalye ng lahat nang madaanan, basurahang umaapaw sa gilid ng kwarto, paisa-isang tulo ng nagli-leak na aircon ng kasunod na kwarto, floormop sa may hagdan…
Irene: …ay parang sumpang humahalo dito ang mga detalye ng nakalipas, pilat sa leeg, pulang ribbon sa buhok, nagbabagsakang punungkahoy sa gubat, cheap watch sa ilalim ng tulay, at isang pangako…isang pangakong narinig ng buong San Ildefonso.


Sandra, Ang IkalawangBold Kwento
(Sa gilid ng kwarto, si Lupe sa kasalukuyan, madungis at mistulang may inaalala)
Lupe: Maganda si Sandra, malinis manamit, at kung tatanungin kung ano sa mga ugali niya ang sa palagay niyang pinakamaganda, sasabihin niyang ito ang kanyang pagiging fair.
Narrator: Sa umagang ito, katatapos lang niyang mag-mediate sa diskusyon ng janitor at waiter. Noon niya napansin na nakatingin sa kanya ang isang lalaki.
Lucas: Isa itong writer. Pinuri siya ng writer sa ginawa niya. Fair daw siya.
Sandra: Wala yun. Sa bahay kapag nanay ka, madalas nag-aaway ang mga anak mo kaya nasanay kang maging fair. Tungkol saan ang sinusulat mo?
Lucas: Limang love stories.
Narrator: Me teorya daw kase ito sa pag-ibig. Ito ang teorya ng writer:
Lucas: Me quota ang pag-ibig. Sa bawat limang umiibig, isa lang ang magiging maligaya.
Sandra: Isa ba siya sa mga hindi kasama sa quota?
Narrator: Disisiyete noon si Sandra, 15 years na ang nakalilipas. Isang hapon ay inutusan siya ng ina na tulungan ang kanyang Kuya Lupe na kumuha ng ilang paninda sa bodega.
Sandra: Sa bodega’y napakainit at ang pakiramdam ni Sandra’y pinagpapawisan ang buong katawan niya. (tigil) Nakasalawal lang at T-shirt ang Kuya Lupe niya.
Lupe: Tinanong niya ito kung bubuksan pa ang electric fan.
Sandra: Pero sabi niya’y huwag na.
Lupe at Sandra: Pinagtulungan nilang buhatin ang lumang baul na nakaharang sa mga paninda. Naghawakan sila ng kamay. Nagkatinginan. And they knew.
Narrator: Mula noon kapag nakatingin siya sa labas ay…
Sandra: (sexy) Parang sinusunog ng araw ang mga bahay. Paypayan nang paypayan ang mga tao sa di matapos-tapos na init.
Narrator: Minsan ay nakahigang nagpapahinga sila sa bodega. Naglatag sila ng banig. Nagsimulang tumugtog sa gitara si Lupe.
Sandra: Nagsasayaw ang mga daliri ni Lupe sa mga kwerdas at hinihigop ni Sandra ang bawat akyat at baba ng mga nota.
Lupe: Alam ni Sandra na maski magtakip siya ng tenga o kaya’y tumigil sa pagtugtog si Lupe, maririnig pa rin niya ang musika (nakatitig na parang nang-aakit)
Narrator: Nakatingin ito sa kanya.
Sandra: Parang nagmamakaawa.
Narrator: Napatingin din siya dito.
Lupe: Nagpapaawa.
(seks sa paraan ng movement)
Sandra: Dugo sa dugo.
Lupe: Laman sa laman.
(Hihilahin ng narrator si Sandra)
Narrator: Mga hayop kayo!
Lupe: Nagmamahalan po kami!
Narrator: Totoo ba? Totoo ba?
Sandra: Hindi po.
Narrator: Paano mo ito nagawa sa sarili mong kapatid?
Lupe: Sumama ka sa akin, pupunta tayo ng Maynila.
Narrator: Kademonyohan ang nasa isip mo!
Lupe: Patutunayan ko.
(Aalis ang narrator at si Lupe na parehong galit)
Sandra: Patawarin niyo po ako. Babaguhin ko ang buhay ko!
Narrator: Di na siya natahimik mula noon. Madalas ay nasa bahay lang siya, nakatulala sa cellphone, na para bang nagkaroon ito bigla ng madilim na meaning. Naghintay siya ng tawag ng salvation. Dumating nga minsan ang tawag.
Sandra: Kuya?
Narrator: Pero walang sumasagot.
Lupe (sa kabilang linya): Sandra…
Narrator: Nagkita sila sa isang mumurahing motel sa Pasay.
Sandra: Marumi. Masikip. Napakainit dahil umaandar man ay sira ang aircon.
Lupe: Ang monotonous na tunog ng aircon. Ang images sa TV na walang sound. Ang mga tsinelas sa sahig.
Sandra: Ang matigas na unan.
Lupe: Ang tuwalyang di pa nagagamit.
Sandra at Lupe: Ano na ang gagawin natin?
(seks sa paraan ng movement)
Narrator: Hindi nagpaalam si Lupe. Alam niyang hindi papayag si Sandra. Nandoon si Sandra lagi, mag-isa, naghihintay sa motel…
Sandra: …Room 23. Ang mga tsinelas sa sahig. Ang tuwalyang di magagamit. Ang monotonous na tunog ng sirang aircon at ang images sa walang tunog na TV.
Narrator: Nang magbuntis siya’y takot na takot si Sandra. Nakahinga lang siya nang maluwag nang pagkapanganak ay makita niyang normal ang itsura ng baby.
Sandra: Belinda…
Narrator: …sagot niya sa pari nang tanungin nito ang pangalang ng baby noong binyag, habang mag-isa niya itong karga-karga.
Belinda (tinig lang): Mommy?
Narrator: Pinakahuli niyang pinuntahan ang bodega. Napatingin siya kay Belinda na nakadilat ang mga matang nakatingin sa kanya. Gusto niyang sabihin dito…
Sandra: There is a love story, a long time ago, that started in this room.
Narrator: Nagsimula uling maglilikot si Belinda, paikot-ikot at may hawak-hawak na tinidor na pinangkakaskas sa sirang electric fan, sa maalikabok na silya, sa inaagiw na dingding.
Sandra: Belinda! Anak, ano ba yan, sabi na dirty yan!
Narrator: Pinipigilan ni Sandra ang anak na nagwawala pero nagsimula na ring tumulo ang sarili niyang mga luha, walang pakundangan, hinuhudyatan ang mga alaala sa bodegang iyon upang sabay-sabay na maglabasan at daluhungin siya…
Sandra: …dala-dala ang wasak na gitara, kumot sa hubad na katawan, dugo sa sahig, kamay na inipit sa pinto, at musika…
Narrator: …musikang ngayo’y galit nang naninibasib sa lahat ng sulok ng bodegang iyon, buong kalupitang humahampas sa kanya at kay Belinda, walang awang nilulunod sila maski hindi na fair….Mga hayop kayo! Magkapatid kayo! Totooo ba? Totoo ba?!....Kaya napakipit siya nang mahigpit sa anak, pinuprutektahan ito habang ang luhaang mga mata niya’y taranta nang naghahanap sa mga dingding, sa kisame, sa mga butas at siwang ng bodegang iyon…
Sandra: …ng kung anuman doon, o sinuman doon, na mahihingan ng tulong.
Narrator: Mga hayop kayo! Magkapatid kayo! Totooo ba? Totoo ba?!


Erica, Ang Ikatlong Kwento
N: Maghanap ka ng isang malaking globe. Paikutin mo ito ng paikutin. Pagtigil, bigla mong ituro ang hintuturo mo dito. Ang makikita mo ay isang maliit at hugis-papayang lugar sa mapa, sa may banding Luzon, na ‘di na halos makita.
N: Ito ang Maldiaga, isang community ng mga taong nakalimutan na kung paano umibig. Isang mundong walang romance,
E: walang I love you
N: walang Valentine’s
E: walang monthsaries
N: walang kiss
E: walang foreplay when they make love
N: They just do it.
E: Pero with tenderness. Para lang magkaanak.
N: Hindi naman sa walang emosyon ang mga tao. They care about their wives and cars, their children and their credit cards, pati na rin pets and plants. Hindi nga lang romantic love.
N: Kumakanta rin sila, pero wala nga lang love songs. Sikat ang children’s songs, parents’ songs, animal songs. O kaya wow songs,
E: Wow, ang abs ko, wow ang abs ko!
N: Briefly nauso din ang non-love songs.
E: Hindi kita minamahal. Hindi ito pag-ibig. Ayoko sa’yo. Walang pag-ibig sa puso ko. I totally un-love you. Hindi ito love song.
N: Pero later pinagbawal din.
N: Sa orphanage na kinalakhan ni Erica, lumaki siyang
E: maganda at maraming kaibigan. Pero may kulang pa rin.
N: Kaya curious siya sa isang matandang babae sa Maldiaga. Ito lang daw ang tanging tagaroong nakapunta sa kabilang mundo. Nagbalik ito ng Maldiaga pero bago namatay ay naghihingalong tumingin sa kung anuman, itinaas ang kamay at sinabing,
E: I love you.
N: Pagkarinig ng bawal na salita ay napakrus ang lahat, ang iba sa OA ay napaluhod pa sabay palo ng kamay sa dingding.
E: Saan nanggaling ang mga salitang iyon? From a distant past na ang matandang babae mismo di niya matandaan? I love you--- parang alingawngaw na nagpalipat-lipat, bouncing back and forth, sa corridor, sa dingding, sa hallway, sa plasa, sa dinner time, sa bedtime, taunting everybody, making everybody tilt up their heads na parang me narinig…
N: Maraming nangalumata dahil di makatulog at lumakas ang kita ng psychiatrist.
N: Iyon ang goal ni Erica,
E: Ang madiskubre ang misteryo ng matandang babaeng namatay na nagsabing I love you.
N: Sa sobrang desperado ay napadpad siya sa harap ng sapa sa dulo ng Maldiaga.
E: Ang mga dahon--- nag-aawitan tungkol sa chlorophyll, ang mga kambing---- pagod na sa kamimehee bilang chorus sa kanta ng dahon.
N: Saka biglang tumahimik ang lahat.
E: Nagtaka si Erica.
N: Ang naririnig na lang niya ay boses ng matandang babae. Parang nanggagaling sa ilalim ng sapa…
E: I love you, I love you…
N: Nilulon ng sapa si Erica. Bigla niyang itinaas ang kamay at bumulusok na nakaahon.
E: Ito na ba ang kabilang mundo?
N: Dali-dali siyang tumakbo papaunta sa flower shop. Sa loob, isang matandang babae ang fascinated na pinagmasdan ni Erica.
E: Nakapusod ang buhok niya--- napakataas, napakalaki, parang bombilya
B: Tagarito ka ba?
E: Hindi po. Sa Maldiaga po.
B: Maldiaga? Di ko ata alam yun. Masama ang panahon ngayon, walangg nagsiswimming.
E: Di naman po ako nagpunta para magswimming.
B: E ano?
E: Gusto ko pong matutong umibig.
B: Halika, sama ka sa akin sa bahay.
B: Jake, kala ko di ka darating!
J: Me kukunin lang akong gamit, Ma.
N: Napatingin si Jake kay Mrs Baylon. Kay Erica. Balik uli kay Mrs Baylon. Saka kay Erica.
N: Biglang tumawa nang tumawa si Jake kasabay ng kidlat, nakaturo ang kamay sa buhok ni Mrs Baylon. Di malaman ni Erica ang gagawin kaya tumawa na rin siya. Nakitawa rin si Mrs Baylon.
N: Noon nalaman ni Erica, dito sa lalaking ito niya gusting umibig.
E: Di niya alam kung papaano, pero saksi ang kulog at kidlat, matututunan din niyang mahalin ang taong ito.
N: Pero maski ilang beses niyang subukang lumingon kay Jake, pinapapungay ang mata’t binagalan nang mas mabagal pa sa slow motion ang galaw, hindi pa rin siya pinansin nito.
E: Walang lumipag na butterfly. Absent ang biyulin.
E: Pwede bang magsurvive ang love ng one-way lang?
B: Hindi.
E: Walang way way kasi nasa loob ko siya!
N: Unlike Mrs Baylon, Jake is promiscuous, tingin sa babae object of conquest lang.
B: Iha, iyan naman kasing mga taktika mo napakabaduy! May isyu kami. Kung ano ang gusto ko, automatically ayaw na niya. Alam ko na, babaguhin ko strategy ko!
N: Isang araw, pinagsabihan ni Mrs Baylon si Jake
B: na huwag ng ligawan si Erica
N: Saka parang hindi naman bagay kay Jake
B: masyadong barriotic ang dating.
N: Napatigil si Jake at napatingin kay Erica.
J: Sino ba ‘tong babaing biglang sumulpot sa buhay nila?
N: Sa townhouse, suddenly he felt all the gentleness of love overflowing from him, enveloping Erica. Alam na ni Jake ngayon kung bakit siya nabubuhay---
J: Para ibigin ang babaing ito.
B: You’re the luckiest girl in the world!
E: Ako nga ba?
J: You belong to me.
N: Tumulo ang luha ni Erica.
B: Anong di ka marunong magmahal? Meron bang ganon? You’re just intellectualizing the whole thing!
N: Dirediretsong tumakbo si Erica sa kanyang kwarto, nang mapaharap sa salamin, nakita niyang wala siyang puso.
N: Sa Music Museum, sinabi ni Jake kay Erica na gusto niyang makasama ang babaing ito. Saka siya lumuhod, at itinanong ito:
J: Will you marry me?
N: Nakatingin lang si Erica kay Jake. Nagsimula siyang magsalita para sabihing yes, I will marry you, yes… Pero may humaharang sa lalamunan niya.
E: Di niya kayang lokohin si Jake. I’m sorry.
N: Habang papalayo, iniidip ni Erica na napakasama niya pero anong magagawa niya?
N: Isang taon mula noon, sa dressing room ng TV station, may naghahanap sa kanya.
B: Kailangan ko ang tulong mo.
E: Kumusta na si Jake?
B: Nasa loob siya.
N: Nakita niya ito sa kwarto.
E: Parang estatwang nakaupo, may hawak na flashlight, di gumagalaw.
B: Look who’s here! Hindi mo ba babatiin si Erica?
N: Kinwento ni Mrs. Baylon na nang umalis si Erica isang taon ang nakaraan, hinanap siya ng hinanap ni Jake.
B: Nagtanong kung kani-kanino kung nasaan ang Maldiaga. Isang araw, natagpuan na lang nakalutang sa dagat. Ayon sa doktor, naapektuhan ang spine nito.
N: Nakakatayo, nakakalakad, pero hindi nakakapagsalita, walang nararamdaman.
E: Naaalala mo yung taping na ginulo natin? E yung building na sabi mo ipapatayo mo sa’kin? Yung Maldiaga?
N: Lumipas ang mga araw, linggo, buwan. Si Erica, walang sawa’ng pagsisilbi kay Jake.
E: Sa wakas ay natuto na siyang umibig.
N: Isang araw, may ibinubulong si Jake.
J: Maldiaga, Maldiaga…
E: Ulitin mo, ulitin mo.
N: Pero nagbalik na sa dati si Jake, hindi kumikibo.
Kumalas sa pagkakayakap si Erica. Hinaplos niya ang pisngi nito. Hinalikan. Hindi ito nagrespond. Nagsimula siyang hubaran ito. Walang reaksyon. Inakay niya ito, and there she kissed every pore of his body. Sa wakas ay biglang nabuhay si Jake. Napatingin kay Erica at pumatong sa kanya. Unti-unting umangat sa hangin, naglevitate pataas ng pataas hanggang sa umabot sa may kisame. Pero mabilis din silang bumagsak. Sumemplang sa sahig.
Napatayo sila. Napatingin sa kisame.
E & J: Ganito na lang ba? Kung sino ka man, please make it last… Please…


Ester, Ang Ikaapat na Kwento
Narrator: Kapag tumawa si Ester, hindi lubos. Bahagya lang na nakabuka ang bibig at ang tunog ay naudlot, parang isang biyaherong natigil sa gitna ng isang daan.
Sa edad na 20, matapos na matapos na ang kasal niya ay natawa si Ester. Tumatawa rin ang pinakasalan niyang si Lucio, ang mga magulang niya, si Sara ang katulong nila, ang mga bisita.
Ayaw ni Ester na ang anumang bagay ay sumobra sa dapat. Buong buhay iisa lang ang patakaran niya: Never go out of bounds. There are certain boundaries para sa bawat tao at doon lang ang lugar mo. Kapag lumagpas ka, maaari ka nang makapanakit ng iba.
Ester: Hindi ako tomboy! Wala kang karapatang sabihing hindi ako masaya! Hindi ako tomboy!
Lasenggong Uncle: Gusto mong malaman kung sinong mamahalin mo habang buhay? HIntayin mong bilog ang buwan at tulog na ang lahat, iyong walang istorbo maski mga aso o nagtitinda ng balot, magdala ka ng salamin sa bubong at sa reflection ng buwan sa salamin ay makikita mo kung sino siya.
Narrator: Tama ang lasenggo niyang uncle. Isang gabing umakyat siya sa bubong dahil may narinig na ingay doon , walang dalang salamin, 27 na at lima na ang mga anak sa nasa abroad na si Lucio, nakit niya ang taong kanyang mamahalin habang buhay.
Ester: Si Sara
(form the other line): Nabangga po ng trak, sorry po, gagawa po agad kami ng arrangement para maiuwi ang bangkay.
Ester: Ganoon lang ang ibinalita sa long distance call ng taga-Philippine embassy sa Egypt ang nangyari sa asawa. Sa tatlong pangungusap. (lalapit si Sara) Naalala mo nong kasal naming ni Lucio?
Sara: Tama na, tama na.
Narration: Hinawakan siya ni Sara sa pisngi. Parang isang basang sisiw na sumilong siya sa mga bisig nito. Hinahaplos nito ang likod niya habang umiiyak siya. Dumikit ang mukha ni Ester sa mukha ni Sara, umatras, saka hinagkan niya ito sa labi. Nagiutla ito saglit, napaurong. Basa pa rin ng luha ang mga mata niya. Hinagkan niya uli ito at nagpaubaya na ito. Nahiga sila at habang hinuhubaran niya ito’y hinahalikan niya bawat parte ng katawan nitong natatanggalan ng saplot. Malulusog na dibdib nito. Walang buhok nitong mga kilikili, pusod nitong maliit, at sa ibaba, sa gitna ng mga hita, ang simple pero hindi simpleng hiwa.
Pagkatapos ay parang batang pinatulog siya ni Sara. Nang magising siya ay wala na ito, hindi lang sa kuwarto kundi sa buhay niya.
N: Ang nakikita ni AJ ay isang mundo na kung saan lahat ng mga tao ay kagaya niyang masaya at glamorosang nagkekendengan at rumarampa,
AJ: may mga butterflies sa hangin at mga petals sa kalsada, sexy music at handsome hunks. Samantalang sa isang tabi ay malungkot na nakaupo lang walang ginawa kundi magburda..
N: Ang kanyang ina.
N: Alam ni Ester ang intension ni AJ. Para siyang nasa loob ng isang guhit na bilog, at goal ni AJ na mapalabas siya. Pero di niya makita ang dahilan kung bakit kailangan iyon.
Minsang kakauwi lang ni AJ, ingat na ingat na niyaya siya nito at naupo. Noomg huling ginawa ni AJ ang ganito ay ipinagtapat nitong bakla ito. Kaya inihanda na niya ang sarili sa sasabihin nito.
AJ: Mommy may ipagtatapat ako.
E: Me masahol pa ba sa pagiging bakla?
AJ: Since diba, patuloy ni AJ, dapat wala tayong secrets as mother and daughter? Dapat lagi tayong open sa isa’t isa? Me ipagtatapat ako.
E: straight ka?
A: Mommy naman e! Kakapanood ko lang kasi ng Terma of Endearment, at doon ang mother and daughter naging honest dahil iyong anak mamamatay na sa cancer.
E: Me cancer ka?
A: Mommy, ang ibig kong sabihin, you never know, you know!
E: Bat di mo pa kasi sabihin?
Mommy alam ko ang tungkol ke Sara..
Mommy hanapin natin siya
E: Hwag na hwag mong magagawa yan!
AJ: Mommy, humble opinion ko lang ha, pero you deserve to be happy!After all you’ve done for us! Maiintindihan ng kaluluwa ni Daddy. (pause) Nakatira daw sa Mercedes, isang fishing village, 33 years old na, me asawa’t 3 anak.
N: Nagulat si Sara nang makita sila pero di maitago ang saya nito.
S: Ang laki-laki mo na AJ!
A: Isang certified nene.
Pio: Amoy tuyong isda ang buong lugar at ang hangin ay naninigid sa init. Kita ang pagdarahop sa lugar pero disente ang pagkakaayos ng lahat. Bawat bagay ay nasa tamang lugar. At malinis
N: Nang lumabas ang asawa ni Sara ay nagulat si Ester. Matanda ito ng 20 yrs kay Sara, pangit at parang may sakit. Pio daw ang pangalan nito, at me alta presyon na madalas sumumpong. ANg hindi alam ni AJ, alam ni Pio ang lahat.
S: Kaya isinumpa niya, mabubuhay siya ng matagal
E: Umusad ang mga taon
P: Tuwing Biyernes ay nagkikita pa rin sina Ester at Sara, habang dumarami na ang mga puti sa buhok nila
E: Nasa likuran ang bubong na patanda na rin ng patanda
AJ: Kaya tatlo silang naghihintay
N: Kung sino ang unang mamamatay. Kung sino ang unang makakalaya.


Bessie, Ang Ikalimang Kwento
Narrator: Pinaglalaruan lang ni Bessie ang pag-ibig—babae, lalaki, me edad, walang edad, sa ibabaw ng tren, sa ilalim ng mesa, Amerikano, Aprikano, thong lang ang suot, naka-leather o naka-jutes, burara o hulugang pag-ibig—lahat na nasubukan niya. Sa trabaho niya bilang real estate agent, walang open house na hindi niya napatunayang siya ang totoong open house.
Bessie: Feel at home….Bigyan mo ko ng libro, o kaya play, o maski na ano, anytime maiaarte ko yan!
Lucas: Sige nga.
Bessie: (kukuha ng libro) Gusto mo? “Bakit, kayo lang ba ang may karapatang umibig? The love that dares not speak its name is the most powerful love of all! For my love transcends boundaries and reaches out to the unloved, the unsure, and the unloving.”
Lucas: (papalakpak) Isa pa!
Bessie: Sa tingin niya ay medyo nagiging attractive na si Lucas, dahil napuno na ng glow ng paghanga sa kanya ang mukha nito. Virgin ba kaya ito? Mahusay ba ito sa kama? Ang laki ba ng kamao nito ay siya ring laki ng nasa ibaba nito? Ito ba yung tipong matapos labasan ay humahalinghing? O nanguguyapos na lang na parang naupos na kandila? (lalapit si Bessie kay Lucas, iiwas si Lucas)
Aba, ni-reject ang beauty ko! Sa bagay, mas madaling maghanap ng lover kaysa fan.
Narrator: Matagal bago nahihiyang nagkwento tungkol sa sarili si Lucas. Taga San Ildefonoso daw ito.
Lucas: Kung anu-anong trabaho ang pinasukan, mula waiter at salesman hanggang typist sa Recto, at ngayon ay messenger, hindi lang para mabuhay, kundi dahil nangangalap ito ng kwento.
Bessie: Aba! Gusto mo palang maging writer! Anong gusto mong isulat?
Lucas: Mga kwento. Tagalog.
Bessie: Gusto ko love stories ha? Love stories ang isulat mo!
Narrator: Nagbitiw si Lucas bilang messenger at ito na ang naging driver, alalay, handyman, at kung anu-ano pa ni Bessie. Nilinis nito mula kisame hanggang sahig ng buong pad. Ni-repair lahat ng sirang electric fan, aircon, plantsa, venetian blinds. Binigyan ito ni Bessie ng mga damit na galing sa naiwan ng kung sinu-sinong lalaking inuwi niya sa pad. Sa harap ni Lucas…
Lucas: …Si Bessie ay naging isang emperatris at isang alipin, amasona, Mangyan, bilanggo, pilay, iba’t-ibang nanay. Pero sa lahat ng mga ito, ang paborito ni Bessie ay ang mga character na umiibig nang bawal.
Bessie: Sa kapatid, o sa babae, o sa gitna ng isang community ng mga taong nakalimutan na kung paano umibig. Isang bagay lang naman ang nagpapatakbo sa buhay ng tao e. Libog. At mas masarap yung bawal.
Narrator: Nag-expand ang mga games ng pag-aarte ni Bessie hanggang sa mga lalaking iniuuwi nito gabi-gabi. Minsan ay mahinhin siya.
Bessie: Ay, please, huwag diyan! You’re too fast naman.
Narrator: Minsan ay malandi.
Bessie: Anong masarap sa enrollment?! Pasukan na!
Lucas: You never know what she would become every night. Ang hindi lang nagbabago ay ang kanyang pangalan. Lagi, siya si B.
Narrator: Hindi niya alam kung kailan nagsimula. Basta’t natagpuan na lang niya ang kanyang sariling paminsan-minsan habang nagta-type, ang lumalabas ay ang pangalan ni Bessie. Madalas ay nakatangang pinagmamasdan niya si Bessie habang natutulog, ini-imagine na hinahagkan niya ang tattoong LOVE nito sa kamay.
Bessie: Hep, hep, nagkagusto ka sakin, ano?! Alam mo naman, Lucas, ayokong ma-in love! Ayoko ng mga commitment at mga relasyon. Gusto mo mag-sex na lang tayo?
Lucas: Gusto niyang sabihin ki Bessie na papayag lang siyang mag-sex sila kapag mahal na siya nito. Gusto niyang sabihin ditong kaya niya itong turuang umibig.
Bessie: Basta friends lang tayo ha?
Lucas: Balang araw, magsusulat ako para sayo, at magugustuhan mo, hindi lang ang sinulat ko, pati ako!
Narrator: Napatigil si Bessie. Napatayo lang habang binabasa ng ulan, hindi gumagalaw, parang me pinaglalabanang emosyon sa mukha. Nagtaka si Lucas. Kung anuman iyong masakit na biglang naalala ni Bessie, hindi alam ni Lucas. At kailanman ay hindi niya malalaman. Pero sa sandaling ito, habang nakatingin kay Bessie, alam niyang siya lang ang pwedeng makahawak dito.
Bessie: Tulungan mo ako, Lucas.
(seks)
Lucas: Kanina, habang nakatayo tayo sa ulan, bago tayo…me sinabi ka…?
Bessie: Ano yun? Wala yun! Ikaw talaga! Halika na nga!
Brigs: Teka! Damit ko yan a! Bat mo suot yan?
Bessie: Binigay ko.
Brigs: (binugbog si Lucas) Sa lahat ng ayoko, yung kinukuha yung akin! Boyfriend mo ba to?!
Bessie: Hindi a!
Narrator: Sa paglipas ng mahabang panahon ay iisipin ni Bessie kung bakit wala siyang ginawa. Dahil nga ba sa takot niya kay Brigs? Dahil ba sa nabanggit minsan ng ama nito sa kanya ang posibilidad na mag-produce sila ng pelikula at siya ang gagawing artista? Epekto ba ng drugs? O dahil masama lang talaga siyang tao?
Bessie: Bata pa man ay hindi na bago sa kanya ang sex, o ang violence….Anong gusto nyong gawin ko?...Gusto nyong sayawan ko kayo? Ginagawa ko lagi to sa Daddy ko noon! Mahilig yun e!...Ito ang katotohanan sa kanyang buhay at maski hindi siya gumalaw, sa kanyang silid noong bata pa siya, 9 years old, at namimilog sa takot ang mga matang nakatingin sa pintong anytime ay bubukas, o noong dalagita na siya, sa mga kalsada kung saan nami-mick up siya ng ka-date, nangyayari ito. Sanay na siya.
Narrator: Nasa sahig pa rin si Lucas, duguang nakahandusay sa gitna ng mga kalat, wasak ang isang mata, pero may malay na at nakatingin sa kanya.
Bessie: (lalapit pero lalayo si Lucas) Sorry…sorry…sorry.
Narrator: Wala na si Lucas. Hindi na siya naka-function na gaya ng dati dahil para bang tinanggal ng pagkawala ni Lucas lahat ng kasamaan sa kanyang katauhan, at ngayo’y hindi na niya alam kung ano siya, kung sino siya.


Wakas
Narrator (Kez): Sa mga paghahanap ni Bessie kay Lucas ay nagsimula siyang makita ang mga kababayang kagaya nito, at hindi niya alam pero doon nagsimula ang kanyang politicization—mga bedspacer na nagsisiksikan sa napakainit at madagang kwarto, mga messenger na nagpipiket dahil kulang sa minimum ang sahod, mga waitress, street sweeper, basurero, mga sumisilong sa imburnal kapag bumbagyo at mg inang naghahanap ng mga tirang pagkain sa basurahan upang ipakain sa mga anak. Hindi na ito mga tauhang kailangang gampanan. Mga totoong tao na.
Narrator (Rhan): Isang araw ay natagpuan niya ang sariling kasama ng isang volunteer group na tumutulong sa mga nasalanta ng bagyong Elsa sa San Ildefonso. Natatandaan niyang sinabi ni Lucas na dito ito lumaki. Baka sakali, maisipan kaya nitong magbalik?
Narrator (Steph): Pagkatapos ng maghapong pagtulong sa napakaraming biktima sa loob ng mga tent ay lumabas siya. Siya’y pagod na napatayo na lang sa lumang tulay. Napatingin siya sa kabilang dulo ng tulay. Nakatayo doon ang isang lalaking hindi niya kilala pero kilala natin. Si Jordan.
Narrator (Eky): Fourteen years ago ay lumayas sa lugar ding ito si Jordan. Sa isang miting sa hotel tungkol sa darating na eleksiyon ay nakita niya uli si Irene. Pero sinabi niyang di niya maalala si Irene. Nasaktan ito, pero patuloy sa pagtatangkang ipaalala sa kanya ang lahat. Nag-make love sila sa hotel. Habang nakapatong sa kanya si Irene ay parang isang malaking bugso ng energy na nagbalikan lahat ng mga kinalimutan niya. At strangely, ang naramdaman niya ay relief. Mula saan? Hindi niya alam.
Jordan: Nakikita niya na ngayon kung gaano kahungkag ang buhay niya bilang isang taong walang nakalipas. Hinanap niya si Irene sa mga hotel, ospital, presinto, na para bang ang hinahanap din niya’y ang kanyang nawawalang pagkatao.
Narrator (Jenica): Dalawang taong naghahanap.
Jordan: Si Jordan kay Irene…
Bessie: …at si Bessie kay Lucas.
Jordan at Bessie: Parehong nagsisisi.
Narrator (Jenica): At kung gusto natin, pwede nating ma-imagine na lahat sa palibot nila, sa harapan at sa mga tagiliran nila, ay wala.
Jordan at Bessie: Maliban sa kanilang dalawa.
Narrator (Kez): Here is the proposition. Me quota ang pag-ibig, gaya ng alam nating lahat. Sa bawat liman tao’y isa lang ang magiging masaya.
Narrator (Rhan): Tapos na ang mga kwento nina Sandra, Erica, at Ester. Puro sila hindi naging masaya sa huli. Pero me dalawa pang natitira, sina Irene at Bessie. At me isa pang slot.
Narrator (Steph): Sino sa kanilang dalawa ang magiging masaya? Kapalaran ba ang magdidikta, ang mga tauhan ba mismo, o ang writer? Bilang pagsunod sa mga patakaran ng ating makabagong mundo, sa kasong ito ang magpapasya ay ang mambabasa.
Narrator (Eky): Kagaya sa mga reality show ngayon, pwede nyong i-text ang inyong mga boto. Sino ang makakahanap? Si Jordan? O si Bessie? Meron kayong isang buwan. Sapat-sapat nang panahon upang ang isang love story ay mabuo, o magwakas.
Narrator (Jenica): Text JRDN o BES sa Smart 2344, o Globe 2366. Ang makakatanggap ng pinakamaraming boto ang papalaring magkaroon ng masayang ending.


Iba-iba ang mukha ng LIBOG:


Pagkakaibigan
(Kunwari).


Pagkabalisa
(Pang-iinit).


Pagsamba
(Pagkakasala).


Pangangarap
(Pagnanasa).


Pag-ibig
(sa Laman).


Kakagat ka ba?


Tatlong kwento.


Isang Sikreto:


TUKSO.
PANOORIN MO 'KO.


Mga pagtatanghal
sa tradisyon ng
Chamber Theatre.


College of Mass Communication
Media Center. March 26. 6pm.


(pubmat courtesy of my utol)

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Benedict's Woman (fiction)



You’re naked and you’re thinking, the premature lines on your forehead as deep as your thoughts. You blink at the yellow ceiling that was made even more yellow by the early morning rays softly entering the blinds. You’re lying on the cold tiled floor. In fact, you’ve been lying there since last night until you realized that it was cold. But you don’t heave yourself up, you’re too busy thinking. Your arms are folded beneath your head, your legs carelessly spread apart. You’re a girl. 18 going on 19. Suppose that makes you a woman. Then again, none of them called you a woman. You were a girl. To them. Always.
“You’re…different, you know…from all the girls…I’ve ever met,” RJ would tell you in broken sentences as he would, in between phrases, take his time to kiss your hand, your chest, your neck, your lips. He did quite a clumsy job, as any stumbling 13-year old who had his first serious shot at making out would, and you’d have doubts whether he had really met that many girls in the first place. “You’re such a special girl,” said Ricky once in the movie house as he lightly touched your cheek. While he closed the gap between you as you kissed, you couldn’t help but wonder what “special” meant. Was it really a compliment? Or a stupid euphemism for “beautiful on the inside?” After realizing that that one, too, is a stupid euphemism, you opened your eyes only to find surprisingly that his were also wide open. A year later, Ralph would cheat on you with a girl who had bigger boobs. He would apologize profusely, ask you to forgive him, and call you “my girl” to which you’d retort, “I am no man’s girl! I will have one mistress here—and no master!” with the same passion as that of Cate Blanchett when she delivered almost the same Oscar-worthy line as the Virgin Queen. You hated his guts and, well, you were 16. You lived for the drama. In between sobs, you’d mutter to yourself that somebody would make him pay for it—“somebody ought to make him pay!”—then you remembered that you didn’t have a father who could do just that, because you and your mother lost him to the same incitements of unfaithfulness before you could even learn to say “Papa.”
Came college and you met Benedict. Even the sound of his name is different. It doesn’t begin with the letter R. Oh, and good kisser, too. No, excellent is more like it. And the feeling that always envelops you whenever you find yourself in his arms makes you quite certain that he’s the only man you’ve ever known. He did say once that you were “such a surprising kind of girl.” But eversince you proclaimed to him that you are now a woman, he never called you “a girl” anymore. Reminiscent of John and Yoko, he’s since called you “my woman.” And just like that, you fell in love.
Or did you? Whenever that question nags at you, you try to shrug it off with a nervous laugh and say, “Sheesh! It’s just your vagina talking!” You see, you lost your virginity to Benedict. Suppose you did not. Suppose he wasn’t so damn good at it. Suppose you said “No, Ben, don’t” the night that he first cupped one of your breasts in the dark of their living room on the couch instead of, say, moaning your approval. Suppose you first kissed him when you were actually sober instead of being drowned by a bottle of Gran Matador because you might have felt too invincible to take the chaser, or because you knew that you would not have enough courage if you were indeed sober. Suppose you started out as friends without any romantic motives whatsoever and he eventually saw the “inner beauty” that boys whose names all start with a capital R (a mystery you never could work out for yourself) also found irresistible. Suppose it were the usual virgin’s fairy tale: stolen glances to kilig moments to courtship stages to the hook-up dates to the corny “monthsaries” to “happy anniversaries”—all the way to happily-ever-after’s. Suppose Benedict were your “prince charming on his white charger” and you were the “damsel in distress.” Suppose sex wasn’t part of the package.
That’s not to say, however, that you hate the sex, or that it’s really just all about the sex. You see, Benedict’s only a god as far as foreplay is concerned. Everything else after it, and he’s a soldier on a mission. Merciless. A man of honor. You do talk after coming, though, or pretending to have come for that matter, a skill that you have since mastered because he can’t make you orgasm all the time. A skill that’s necessary just so you can avoid bruising his ego with a poker face and a shriek of his name in a monotonous voice, or worse, a remark such as “maybe next time” or “you tried your best.” So you talk. A lot. You talk until dawn, in fact. Then again, you must’ve begun grinding at three which is ironically the “devil’s hour,” although you never really reflect on all the “evils” that you do. Not even a single mention of them in statements like “I know this is wrong, but—” so on and so forth has ever found its way into that small living room in the dark house that you frequent only when it is empty enough for two naked bodies to find their way deep into, deeper within, and deepest as each other. Two bodies whose discourse’s lack of honesty betrays the nakedness in which they lay. And so you talk about different kinds of stuff that you both decide are more important than the guilt that should be there. The meaning of life, for instance. The correct enunciation of “either” and “neither.” The real reason Rizal kept on writing to Blumentritt, because one of your previous professors insisted that they were really gay lovers. And a thousand other subjects that would make him whisper to your ear, “Know what, you’re a woman beyond your years,” and that additional sentence that just took your breath away: “You’re amazing.” And yet, the talk is the nicest part not because of the talk itself. It’s when you both pause every now and then to find that his legs are interlocked with yours, your head on his chest, his hand caressing your head while the other is on your left breast right over your heart, which is beating in chorus with his, a tune that the hushed night graciously allows to play. It’s these moments when you seemingly reach that point of silent agreement where things just feel right, which automatically makes everything alright.
And then after weeks of pondering and weighing and replaying all those words that “take your breath away,” all those moments that “feel right,” you hit yourself in the head in a rare fit of emotion. “Of course, it’d feel right! It’s the sex, godammit!” If only that sank in. Suppose it did. And you broke it off with him once and for all. Suppose you had enough guts to say, “It’s over, Ben. I’m sorry” while the inner depths of you would cry, “Ha, I faked it! You never made me come all the time, anyway!” as you walked away from him and his neat, vintage Porsche he’d inherited from his grandfather.
But what if it really isn’t just all about the sex?
“You write well, I like that you still did some research on the lost Pinoy films in Thailand. I saw it in a documentary once. Incredible, huh?” he once told you with a smile that seemed unnecessary for an already beautiful face such as his. You took your paper, returning him a shy smile of your own.
Kasaysayan I became even more interesting for a B. A. Journalism student who was only aiming at finishing her G. E. courses. Your eyes always sought Benedict’s and they never failed to meet each time, always exchanging the passions that perhaps shouldn’t be there. Or were they really there?
It was the end of the semester and you swallowed all the inhibitions that an awkward 18-year old could acquire in the ten or so years that she had previously spent in an all-girls school, a holy community of sorts, run by nuns who give credit to those who are mahinhin and frown upon those who either walk around in pekpek shorts or who sport deep cleavages, or both. Forget the nuns. Forget all the R’s, those silly little boys. You waited for all your other classmates to empty the room and you walked up to him.
“Uhm, hi. We have this org fundraising event,” you started what you hoped would be a complete sentence, “and there’s gonna be free booze, and a live band—“
“Whoa! Hey, you drink?” he smirked as he tucked his hair behind his ear. He had long hair and dressed and looked like Kurt Cobain, except that he didn’t come across as someone who was on crack all the time.
“Yeah, a bit,” you replied, smiling—shyly, as usual, but with a small hint of pride artlessly expressed by youth who live long enough to come of legal age.
“Cool. When’s it gonna be?” Easy. You didn’t even have to finish your sentence. He wanted to come, you could tell. His distinct swagger could come off as totally nonchalant but his hopeful, deep-seated eyes couldn’t. You knew that every time they laid on you, they could see something else, probably someone other than that girl from the all-girls school who fell in love with boys. And you’ve since been infinitely curious about that someone, a person you yourself have yet to uncover. Then again, it could have been just happening in your head. No matter. You mustered the courage to ask him out. And he said “cool.”
You didn’t know that your summer, aside from your mediocre classes in the morning, would be filled by more of those nights with Benedict. You shared interests that you could not seem to make interesting to your girlfriends, the girls you went to the nuns’ school with. All they talked about whenever you hung out together were their boyfriends, or suitors, or the best shades of lipstick that could match their skintones. You were sometimes tempted to share about your nights out with Benedict but you were too ashamed to admit that you only went out with him when Gwen—a painfully screeching word to your ears—was not around, and she wasn’t, every so often. You did try to tell Joan, whom you believed to be the most understanding and open-minded among the girls. You knew she’d be up for anything. You shared about your first kiss with Benedict and how he adores you and calls you “his woman” to which she giggled excitedly, like the schoolgirls you once were. “Come to think of it, though,” she quipped, “he calls you his woman, and yet you’re more like the ‘other woman!’ Naughty, huh!” A rush of blood to the head. You tried your best to smile as she laughed your dreams away. Since then, you never tried to tell a soul about Benedict.
Your orgmates, on the other hand, weren’t exactly the crowd whom you’d like to hang out with. They had regular gimmicks in Katipunan and they weren’t your sort of thing. You were contented with Joyce Carol Oates, and movie marathons, and occasional visits to bars that featured The Jerks…and conversations with Benedict, of course, both sober and wasted, but which were always a probe into each other’s souls. The world suddenly seemed larger than your dorm room’s walls all at once, and yet it became all the smaller at the same time, closing in on you and Benedict. It was a forbidden world, a secret space. But the night he cupped one of your breasts, the night that he acknowledged your being a woman, and the night that he took that portion of your life away, you swear that it was a kind of death that you didn’t mind to relive over and over. Over and over again. A carnal sort of death that must have involved some kind of divine intervention, a brief meeting with God, just like what the nuns were telling you back in high school, making you wonder whether they were really referring to a different kind of death. And so, you know, “It just can’t be all about the sex.”
What if he has, over time, shared with you his secret frustration of not being a rockstar, laughing at himself all the while before resorting to a five-second silence probably filled by nostalgic moments with his first guitar? What if he shared with you his dreams of getting a PhD. because it was the only respectable title he could attach to his name at this point in time? What if he shared with you that Gwen wasn’t exactly the woman he first knew she was, that she’d changed and that he was glad to have met you, known you—every depth and curve of you? What if he kisses you on the forehead as some sort of asking for your acquiescence before he explores the rest of your 18-year old delicate body with his warm, moist lips, making you shiver in the very areas of sin that you never thought God could actually create along with the day and the night and Mother Teresa? What if he whispers to you “I love you” during random moments when those words were quite unexpected like, say, after laughing over a worn-out Erap joke, or scuffling against the rush-hour crowd in the MRT? What if he holds your hand even in front of his friends—only those friends who care for him enough to keep their mouths shut? What if he’s brought you to his nice apartment in Teacher’s Ville whenever you’d get the chance to be alone, and has made love to you in the living room, all over the living room—on the couch, on the tiled floor among Lego blocks and miniature vintage cars, against the wall beside a genuine Malang oil painting? What if he really does love you after all—even if he can’t make you come all the time?
You sigh. There’s too much going on inside your head. You reach for the nearest source of comfort: your crotch. And you stroke it the way he does. You stop. You stop because it reminds you that he does it better than you do. “Shit!” You suddenly suspect with all naïveté, “What if love and lust were one and the same?” No, what if love was just another euphemism for lust? You cringe at the possibility. You’re suddenly reminded of where you lie as you feel the sting of the cold, tiled floor, making your hair stand on end. You shiver. Like an old, silent movie, everything’s on replay: Benedict would whisper a lot of I-love-you’s but he never says it out loud. Why should he? Benedict would hold your hand in front of his few, trusted friends, and all they knew was your name, and you could spend long hours of coffee-induced conversations with them until you’d wonder why they never asked who you were in Benedict’s life in the first place. Why would they? Benedict did bring you to his nice apartment, and you did have crazy sex all over the living room, but you pointed shyly once at the door beside the kitchen because you knew there’d be a bed in there somehow, and he whispered—as he always would—“But, baby, we’re fine here,” and he made you forget with all his warm, wet kisses. Although, you never really forgot. The bed. The bed was all you needed to know if you really could bring yourself to believe everything that he said, no, whispered, to your ear.
You close your eyes. Tightly. You hope that you’ll be in a different place when you open them. And when they do, you’ll be a virgin again. An innocent 18-year old. Fresh and sweet. That kind of Filipino cliché. You open your eyes. You don’t feel anything unusual. Just the cold of the tiled floor. And then he turns to you, still asleep. Beside you, as naked as yourself, on the cold, rigid floor. You run your fingers through his long, disheveled hair as you stare at his face. The kind of face that smiles a lot and never grows old but always appears more attractive when it isn’t smiling because it’s just so darn sexy when he looks serious. Suppose he didn’t have those piercing, deep-set eyes that made you feel like he was uncovering your soul’s deepest desires every time they lay on you. Suppose he didn’t have that perfect, little nose with that cute, little cut in the middle—a flaw that never really ruined its perfection. Suppose you didn’t chuckle whenever you’d remember that he got it when he fell while climbing a santol tree when he was seven because he wanted to see a maya’s nest upclose. Suppose he didn’t have those pinkish lips which, you swear, could’ve belonged to a woman, considering that he smokes chains and chains of “macho” cigar. Suppose you weren’t “his woman” like he’d say you were. Suppose you weren’t 18 and suppose he wasn’t 36. Suppose you weren’t a smart, pretty college student and he wasn’t your Kasaysayan 1 professor who looked and dressed like Kurt Cobain. Suppose he didn’t wear a gold band around his left ring finger. Suppose he wasn’t married to Gwen who happens to teach Communication 3 in the neighboring college in the university. Suppose Gwen wasn’t so pretty and well dressed that you wondered when she ever stopped satisfying Benedict. Suppose they didn’t have a beautiful son named Tyler who loves toy cars and is a genius at making robots out of Lego and is going to turn six two weeks from now. Suppose you were happy.
You’re thinking, the thoughts whirling inside your brain as fast as the actions you’ll be taking after this. You pick up all your things as you put on your clothes. Panties on the couch. Shirt covering the scattered Lego pieces. Benedict does not wake on the floor because he’s the deepest sleeper you know, not that you’ve already slept with ever so many. You slide out of the door and you hurriedly lock it. You run off into the early morning sun, not quite on the verge of tears and yet not quite overjoyed. You just run. And walk briskly. And run again. Mindlessly. You board the parked Ikot jeepney and amidst the noise of the boombox, the radio station’s DJ’s deafening “Magandang, magandang, magandang, magandang umaga poooooooo!”, Manong’s “O, dose-dose yan ha, dose-dose!”—amidst all that racket and rush of Manila’s morning traffic—that’s where you begin to think. You hand in a crisp, new P20-bill and say “Ilang ilang po!” although you’re not quite sure if you want to go back to the dorm yet. You think, and you realize that you don’t know where to go, and you actually don’t have anywhere else to go. The jeep is already filled and Manong revs up the engine as the jeep takes on the busy highway. You’re still thinking. Gwen and Tyler wouldn’t be back from Antipolo until after the weekend. Suppose you stayed. Suppose you were still lying on the cold, tiled floor, your fingers getting lost in his hair, your thoughts getting lost in his quiet, sleeping, youthful face. Suppose you did not leave him. Suppose you stopped thinking.
“Miss, sukli mo,” the ale beside you calls your attention and your thoughts are brought back into the jeep once more, which is now making its way through the university’s gates. You take the coins from the ale’s plump hand. Robotically, you count. Fourteen pesos. You have more than enough to take the ride back.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Lupang HINARANG (Bayang Magiliw) (semi-film review)


Recently--on March 12, last Thursday, to be precise--I got to watch Ditsi Carolino's (the filmmaker/genius behind "Minsang Lang Sila Bata" and my all-time favorite, "Bunso") latest indie offering: "Lupang Hinarang" in the auditorium of Malcolm Hall (UP Law). The documentary comes in two parts and tells of some Filipino farmers and their battles against their oppressive landowners as well as their woes on the state of national agrarian reform. Specifically, "Lupang Hinarang" recounts the struggles of the Sumilao farmers (walked all the way from Mindanao to Luzon) as well as those of the sugarcane workers from Negros who went on a 29-day hunger strike in front of DAR in protest of their landowners' ongoing oppression. The Negros farmers were able to get their lands back but their victory was cut short when the landowners' armed men killed two of the farmers who participated in the hunger strike not a year later. "Lupang Hinarang" still has that original Carolino touch (no narrator, understated cinematography, realistic presentation of events that is romanticized by a skillful yet honest kind of handling/editing), and perhaps, the best part about the film is that it appeals for the implementation of CARPER (CARP Extension with Reforms), a bill that "pushes to extend what CARP has done and to distribute the remaining 1.3 million hectares of privately owned lands to the farmers who make them productive." (lupanghinarang.com) It must be noted that Carolino's other masterpiece, "Bunso" was also one of the forerunners of the campaign for the approval of the Juvenile Justice Act/RA 9344 in 2006, a law that aims to protect the youth, most particularly those accused of crimes and who are under 18, from further abuse in prison. Carolino's works do not only promote "art for art's sake" but also serve as insightful "social mirrors" that knock on the the society's collective conscience as they present the realities that are present in it, the cancers, the ills that continue to plague what is supposed to be the "Pearl of the Orient," our "Lupang Hinirang."
This move has been brought to Congress and the Senate for some time now and has been ignored until the last 2 days of legislative sessions in 2008. When the legislators gave some attention to CARPER's propositions at last, they came up with an ingenious way of killing it. The Congress and the Senate signed a joint resolution extending CARP but without compulsory acquisition. It means that the program may go on but the landowners may or may not sell their lands. It's the landowners' call. For whom is the program again?
This joint resolution has just plucked CARPER's fangs. It has trimmed and buffed its claws and has taken away the heart of real agrarian reform. Meanwhile landless farmers walk miles to protest and hold weeks of hunger strikes to be heard.
The pseudo-CARPER is effective until June 2009. President Arroyo and the lawmakers have until then to redeem their purpose as representatives of the people. The farmers can still hope and fight for justice. We can still do our part in rewriting our nation's history of poverty and injustice. Speak up, stand up, and show the government that we are fools no more. Let us push for CARPER. Now.
(lupanghinirang.com)
The following is a paper that I had written on the Sumilao farmers' situation almost a year ago. It was a requirement for my Pan Pil 50 under Dr. Apolonio Chua (very respectable man) where we were encouraged to discuss extensively anything that we thought reinforced the essence of being one nation. Here, I insisted that I write in English instead of Filipino which was the language supposedly used in the course. It's a good thing that he conceded ("just as long as you can justify your medium in a preface," I remember him telling me). I couldn't have written it any other way, and even if a year or two have already passed, I still share these same sentiments with our sisters and brothers of the earth.

Preface
I am a Filipino. Proud to be one, too. I am also a Bicolana. That, I am proud of, as well. But it is greatly because of that that I am not accustomed to speaking in Tagalog or in our Lingua Franca herself, Filipino. I hate to make a scapegoat of my heritage every time I insist on writing in English, but I am afraid that—and I am too honest to deny this—I may not be able to write as well if I were to use Filipino. And the Bicol I know is one that is heard on the streets of Legazpi, and not the ornate kind of language read in “Marhay na Bareta” (“The Good News” a. k. a. The Holy Bible) which would have been excellent for formal writing.
If I were to be asked if my conscience was ever bothered by Jose Rizal’s oft-quoted “Ang hindi magmahal sa sariling wika, daig pa ang hayop at malansang isda,” my answer would be “yes and no.” I was a little troubled back then (in elementary and high school, to be specific) because my classmates kept on teasing me that I was being too “sosyal” for their own good taste, which might explain why I never really had many friends. But they were wrong. Our family is of middle socio-economic status. I have not stepped out of the country, we do not even own a car, and up to now, our supposed 2-storey house still has one more floor to go, perhaps due to the fact that there are already two of us being sent to college, plus, my brother wasn’t fortunate enough to steer clear of the damned Tuition and Other Fees Increase or what is more famously—or infamously—known as TOFI (which was curiously implemented just in time for the “carnival-esque” U.P. Centennial Celebration, hmmm). I am NOT sosyal. Otherwise, I would not have gone to the Premier State University in the first place, well, as part of the pre-TOFI batch, of course. Besides, does speaking in English really make a person “sosyal?”
Believing that one’s mastery in English elevates him/her to a higher level of prestige is tantamount to promoting colonialism. My English is not a product of “high-end” living satiated with isteytsayd brands, Philip Stein Teslar watches, Yves Saint Laurent purses, Häagen-dazs ice cream, or those awfully ugly Crocs. My English was borne of rented “Archie’s” comic books, borrowed paperback copies of children’s classics (which have yet to be returned) and hard-earned J. K. Rowling and Jostein Gaarder books (which have yet to be classics), a set of Jessica Zafra’s “Twisted” series and an entire shelf devoted to secondhand Reader’s Digest magazines and “digested” Sunday issues of Philippine Daily Inquirer, and many other literary pieces that I have happily buried myself in as I’ve grown through the years. We did not drive around in a Mercedes but our treasures at home were more than enough to give me a prosperous childhood. And now that I am already an adult, a 10-hour bus ride away from home, I am entitled to starting my personal “library” whose earliest pieces are those of Joyce Carol Oates and Shakespeare as well as those of Filipino writers, Katrina Tuvera and Sheryl Raros. At this point, I plan to save up and select an F. Sionil Jose from the nearest National Bookstore or if I get lucky, from the nearest Booksale which will definitely help me conserve a few bucks. See? Hindi ako sosyal.
I am a Filipino. I can speak the language. I can write in it. But I can express myself better in English and that does not make me less of a Filipino. Of course, I am not saying that I am the best Filipino citizen that I can be—nobly patriotic, passionately nationalistic, and all that. No. I can be better. And that is why I have written this paper. I considered all the news clippings and notes on the Sumilao farmers that I had accumulated late last year, and decided that, despite my materials’ need to be updated, I must write about our farmers’ plight. I do not know how I am going to elaborate on this topic and paint a much larger picture, say, “being a nation.” But I feel very strongly for our fellow Filipinos who are the ones responsible for every grain of rice—the Filipino staple food—in our stomachs. At the end of the day, they are the ones who basically feed us and yet, while we slept soundly or took on the graveyard shift in our little cubicles, armed with headphones and our best impressions of the American accent, some 55 farmers spent their cold December nights outside the gates of the Department of Agrarian Reform (DAR), begging to have their lands back.
I wish I was able to march along with them even for just a few miles. We all have our roles to play. Even Shakespeare said that one time too many. I have written this not only for the farmers of Sumilao, but for all those who already have their brown backs hunched over the earth before daybreak. This is for the Children of the Sun whose voices are those that have yet to be heard. We are one with them as we are one with the earth. And so, I speak for them, albeit in English, because I refuse to be apathetic. And this desire to actually do my part, I believe, gives me more conviction when I say, “Yes, I am a Filipino.”
Lara Sinson Mendizabal
25 March 2008
Pigs Over People: A Peek at the Plight of the Sumilao Farmers
“Te, kumain na po muna kayo,” I said, handing her my little offering of Gardenia sliced bread (I made sure that it’s not a product of San Miguel Foods, Inc.).
“Salamat ha…pero hindi namin magawang kumain, ineng. Kahit maraming nagbibigay sa amin ng pagkain. Masyado kasing masakit sa puso ang mga pangyayari,” Aling Tess answered in her rough accent, setting my little offering aside and taking my hand, stroking it against her own.
As a matter of fact, there was enough food in their tent in front of DAR to get them by (55 farmers in total), thanks to hearts that were kind enough to send some help such as those of San Jose Seminary and Mary, Mirror of Justice Parish in Makati City (both had been visiting the farmers and serving them meals for lunch and dinner). But Aling Tess, true to her words, would not eat until after one in the afternoon, considering that they were engaged in another protest rally all morning, screaming at the top of their lungs, “Ilang milya pa bang kailangan naming lakarin para lang kami’y inyong dinggin?” and many other sentiments that only the most deprived can articulate with as much passion as a seasoned rhetor. The Sumilao farmers of the indigenous Higaonon tribes, who left their idyllic land (if at all it is indeed theirs) in Bukidnon for the hustle and bustle of Metro Manila, are not your ordinary megaphone-toting “tibak”. I mean, sure, we all have a cause when we take our crusade on the streets but the Sumilao farmers, despite their small number, are fighting a much larger battle.
Just how much fervor does it take for one to march 1 700 kilometers, against all odds, if only to reach deaf ears? Those one thousand and seven hundred kilometers (a march called the “Lakaw Sumilao” which literally translates to “Lakad Sumilao” in Filipino), for a clearer illustration, started from Bukidnon in Mindanao, through the San Juanico Bridge that connects Samar and Leyte, to the National Capital Region, the heart of Luzon. Those one thousand and seven hundred kilometers, they walked entirely (except when they had to board a ferry boat from Lipata, Surigao to Liloan, Leyte for the mere reason that there was not any land to tread on but vast waters that did not daunt them still), their backs to their parents, spouses, and children, if only to face suit-and-tie-clad strangers, hoping against hope that those in power will listen to their woes and address their problems. Those one thousand and seven hundred kilometers of heat and rain and cold, which have wrecked their modest slippers and sandals, and have soiled their shirts of thin cotton, they traveled for two whole months (they began their trek on October 10, 2007 and arrived in Manila on December 6 that same year). And when they marched further to the gates of Malacañang, nobody would meet them, not even Executive Secretary Eduardo Ermita, who would later comment, “We understand that anytime they can be seen probably in Quezon City, in the general area of DAR. Of course, they want to dramatize their march, saying they will go to Malacañang” (qtd. in “The Long March”). Words of a foul fool. The Lakaw Sumilao did, in fact, declare the Presidential Palace as its primary destination, not DAR. There was no need for “dramatization.” Walking all the way from their humble homes and corn plantation (from which they were barred by the current landowner) in Mindanao through three major islands, as if their sun-beaten backs have not suffered enough, was beyond “dramatic.” The Lakaw Sumilao is, more than anything else, real. And I believe that nothing quite like it has ever happened before, at least in my limited memory. In the whole post-American Philippine history, the Lakaw Sumilao was the most incredible act of bayanihan after EDSA I and II. To believe that it was mere theatrics in desperate need of attention is wishful thinking. If anything, these apathetic power dressers should fear the tired and slovenly. “We’ve walked this far, and the issue still hangs in the air” as the farmers’ leader, Napoleon “Kuya Yoyong” Merida Jr., would say (qtd. in Burgonio). Indeed, they had come this far. Far enough, in fact. And I believe that theirs is a story that the world must hear.
The Higaonon Indigenous Cultural Communities were the early settlers of a piece of ancestral land in Sumilao, Bukidnon. In the 1940s, the Angeles came and evicted the Higaonons from a 243.8551-hectare portion of their ancestral land and converted it into a cattle ranch. The land was later transferred to the Ilagans. In the 70s, the ancestral land was then divided between two landowners: 99.8551 hectares to Salvador Carlos while the 144 hectares were transferred to Norberto Quisumbing. The ancestral land was eventually leased to Del Monte Philippines, Inc. (DMPI) for 10 years until 1994. At that time, the Higaonons became farm workers of the land that they once owned.
With the advent of the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Law (CARL) in 1988, the 144-hectare ancestral land was covered for distribution to 137 farmers, all of Higaonon lineage. Certificate of Land Ownership Award (CLOA) was subsequently issued to them, hence, recognizing their ownership of the 144-ancestral land which rightfully belongs to them. What followed next was a controversial legal battle which sparked national interest involving the sad state of agrarian reform in the country (Multiply.com).
Fast forward to 2008. None of these Higaonons own the land. Even worse is the fact that Quisumbing has already sold all 144, 000 hectares to San Miguel Foods Inc. five years ago (Monsod). The land that was supposed to be converted from agricultural into industrial use remains idle and uncultivated. Not one of the proposals given by Quisumbing ever materialized. The “promises” of economic vitality, employment and increase in income, leaves much to be desired as everything was a “castle in the air” (Multiply.com). Under the rule, the successor in interest to the property is bound by the terms of the approved conversion. SMFI plans to put up a piggery with 162 buildings to house 4, 400 female pigs and 44, 000 piglets and also to put up a slaughterhouse. Compare this SMFI project with the originally approved conversion plan. The former was people’s welfare-oriented; now it is pig-oriented (Bernas)! In fact, they are also considering to provide air conditioning units for the animals because they are purportedly “not used to the tropics,” since they are to be imported from China. “Pinagpalit kami sa mga baboy,” was how it was perfectly put by one Sumilao farmer (Alfonso).
A large part of total income is sourced from farming. However, the share of farm income has declined from 1990 to 2000. Still, more than half of total income...come from farming...The Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program (CARP) was a response to the people’s clamor and expectations of a more effective land reform program that would supposedly correct the many flaws that plagued the previous land reform programs (Reyes). Judging from the recent “developments,” who has been benefitting? On the eve of Human Rights Day, when the Sumilao farmers first sought audience from DAR Secretary Nasser Pangandaman, their fellow Mindanaoan, the official would not let them in. And as if to add more irony to the turn of events, all this was happening while Gloria was being awarded a medal for human rights in Spain. Perhaps they should have reconsidered granting that award and changed it into “animal rights” instead, those of the hogs to be specific. I am not bayani material. But I believe that the blood that runs through my veins is also that of the Higaonons (for whom my heart bleeds), and that of the incumbent president as well (for whom my heart rages). Norberto Quisumbing is also a Filipino, I presume. And yet, the pigs seem more like family to us than our lowly farmers. That question nags at me: For whom indeed is the Filipino Nation? If She cannot be for those who provide us our food, then who does She nourish?
On Human Rights Day in 2007, Aling Tess was holding my hand, a tear slowly drying on her cheek. My gaze landed on the hall across the DAR grounds. It said “Bahay ng mga Magsasaka.” How dare I think that the only thing I can do for them is to bring them sliced bread! They do not want food. They do not need your money. They do not even deserve your pity. They want action. They need their lands, their lives back. They deserve Justice. They’ve walked this far. There is no need for them to walk any further. It is us, the people they feed by tilling threir lands from sunrise to sunset, who must continue the walk for them. One of my favorite columnists could not have said it better:
...[We must] put the images of Trillanes and Lim’s revolt and the Sumilao farmers’ march side by side, one an extra-constitutional and violent means of solving things and the other a perfectly legal and peaceable way of doing so; one an impatient rush to change things and the other a patient way to do so (De Quiros).
The coup, the quiet march…they all speak of change.
28 March 2008
Works Cited
Alfonso, Nono, S.J. “The Shepherd Finds His Voice.” Philippine Daily Inquirer. 12 Dec.
2007: A15.
Bernas, Joaquin G., S.J. “What Is The DAR Secretary Waiting For?” Philippine Daily
Inquirer. 10 Dec. 2007: A15.
Burgonio, T.J. “Sumilao Farmers Hit DAR Inaction.” Philippine Daily Inquirer. 6 Dec.
2007: A6.
De Quiros, Conrado. “Death March.” Philippine Daily Inquirer. 12 Dec. 2007: A14.
Monsod, Solita Collas. “Injustice in snail-paced CARP Implementation.” Philippine
Daily Inquirer. 8 Dec. 2007: A12.
Multiply.com. “Sumilao March.” Multiply.com. Online. Internet. 2007-2008. Available URL:
http://sumilaomarch.multiply.com/.
Reyes, Celia M. Impact of Agrarian Reform on Poverty. Philippine Institute for
Development Studies, Makati, Philippines: January 2002.
“The Long March.” Philippine Daily Inquirer. 10 Dec. 2007: A14.




P.S.: The author currently regrets having written this Spoonful.  The essay above that was submitted as a course requirement still articulates the same sentiments that she has at present.  However, the author now understands that the only way towards genuine agrarian reform is the GENUINE AGRARIAN REFORM BILL (GARB), because it truly chooses the side of the farmers.  Ditsi Carolino is a wonderful filmmaker, has an eye for awesome shots and a gift for visual storytelling.  And yet, the author feels uncomfortable that the deaths of these Sumilao farmers were only "documented," and that no "real change" was lobbied for. CARPER is highly deceiving, and only "extends" the pro-landowner and manipulative aims of Corazon Aquino's CARP.  One good example of CARP and CARPER's futility is the ongoing struggle of the Hacienda Luisita farmers and farm workers.  The author also mourns over the exploitation of the Sumilao farmers by some landowners and liberal upper-middle-class so-called "leftists" who claim to be friends of the impoverished.  Nonetheless, the author does not wish to delete or edit this post--well, aside from this postscript--in order to retain the openness and honesty of these Spoonfuls.  Also, she is humbled by seeing how far she's gone and how much knowledge and understanding she has gained through the years of reading and writing.  Still, the author takes pride in her mistakes, simply because she recognizes these mistakes and wishes to correct them, altogether, if the need arises.  This Spoonful is only one of the products of misinformation and the liberal culture that still exists in modern Philippine society.  Such a culture still wants most Filipinos to believe that reform is the only way to better our lives, if only to feed these liberals' own interests.  Carolino is hardly a talentless artist.  However, her art and liberal political stand pose a threat not only to the dignity of her subjects, but also to their well-being and overall morale.  The poor and oppressed should be empowered, NOT pitied on or earned from by making a spectacle out of them.  "The artist is becoming a participant.... For it is the supreme duty of the artist to investigate the truth no matter what forces attempt to hide it. And then to report this truth to the people, to confront them with it. Like a whiplash it will cause wounds but will free the mind from the various fantasies and escapist fares with which "the establishment" pollutes our minds," as perfectly said by Lino Brocka.