Since I lost my bike, (this was two weeks back, btw), I had to endure that long walk to and from home every office day and on Saturdays. Here are some scenes along the road that I couldn’t simply brandish from my memory:

Scene 1: Beside our office is a hill leaning on another building. Looming on a 10-meter height, it’s safe enough for a kid’s climb. Oftentimes, I would see a number of them on top of it playing that conventional game of tag. Today, two six-year old girls were occupying that relatively top of the world landform, obviously enjoying that temporary amusing feeling of looking down. Passing by them, I had to conceal a smile when I heard their conversation:

Girl1: Wanna roll over?
Girl2: Go ahead. Ladies’ first.

Oh, well, who’s objecting?

Scene2: To avoid seeing acquaintances along the road, I had to prefer passing on the foot walks over the main road. The drawback to this, however, is that I have to pass by the housing of which roads appear to be deserted on a regular day but since it’s vacation time for the kids at this season, all the streets teem of them. I was gliding along one of those in-between houses foot walks when I was welcomed by a number of kids playing Frisbee (it seems to be an “in” in this community nowadays). I didn’t want to be a KJ so I halted for a while to let a girl do her last flip and decided to resume in a hurried stride when I was sure enough that a boy caught that disk. Just when I was halfway to my intervening yet almost run like walk… WHOOSH! Came the disk swooping only a hairline close to my head. As quick as the flight of that disk, I lost my temper in a snap.

“Did you do that on purpose” (as if the boy could ever lie.) hehe
“Huh?” (Looking flabbergasted.)
“That disk. Did you purposely throw it to me?” (My voice was even but I could feel my muscle tightening in anger.)
“I’m sorry.” Came the reply in the softest voice I have ever heard. Accompanying it is a face that looked innocently and genuinely sorry. Dang! I could have forgiven my anger had he appeared a bit rascal. Why did he have to look like my nephew when he said that?

Scene3: Lyn and I were almost home from watching “Along Came Polly” at the AIT Center when we met our neighbor Toni, her kids Argo (4 years old) and baby Aurin, and her friend Shanta who happens to be my sister and Lyn’s officemate.

Shanta: Oh! So, here comes this sexy girl again.
Toni: Yeah, she’s really pretty, you know.
Argo: She’s not pretty! (Everyone was shocked). She is beautiful.

Oh! What a grand night it was! :)

now, how's that for a good news?

i've been following the development of his release. i just hope the news is confirmed soon.

Truth is, that name above was just an imagined one. Crazy old man? Nah. I’d rather not use that word.

He was our mother’s cousin. Born as an only son, he was relatively rich among the neighborhoods. Our mother used to tell us that all of their properties were sold just to hire those expert albularyos to heal him – to no avail.

He was obviously obsessed with his assumed identity as a military officer that one can only imagine how happy he was when during the political career of one of my sisters, goons would occasionally hover around our house. Naturally, they would have those high-powered guns to flaunt about. Recalling it, my sister told me the other day how scary it could have been when they would let them borrow one of those guns.

As a kid, I was a sure victim to his made-up stories. As innocent as I had been, I hardly figured out that all those stories he would tell were mere figment of his imagination. I remember going home in my second grade one day with an assignment on the national icons and their addresses. Left with no one to entertain me with my predicament, I brandished the paper as if in a hopeless gesture. But then he sat nearby and generously offered his knowledge. So he started to provide me with the addresses and I religiously noted down his pieces of information. Oh how glad I was to have such a knowledgeable uncle. Then I had noticed that as his dictation went on, the addresses he was giving me were the barangays near our own. Surprise, surprise. You could only imagine my excitement at that time upon knowledge that these people are living just near my town. My mind even wandered to dreaming of knocking on their doors one day.

Oblivious to the people passing around, I never thought that my siblings passing by us were eavesdropping. Moments later, everyone was closing in on us with a good laugh on their faces.

And he laughed with them. Reducing me as the laughingstock instead.

He was friends with everyone in the house except for his cousin, our mother. An eloquent English speaker, he would argue about anything in that language. And I should say anything for we would range our topic from politics to the usual stuff about actors and actresses and he would still prove to be more knowledgeable than any of us. If ever he finds his ideas in the losing end, he would end his argument with the memories of his drums and drums of documents burnt by our mother. Wearing his most stern and grim face, he would rehash how in his mind our mother had destroyed all his credentials that would prove his title as a general. But of course, as fictional as his feeling as a general and his assumed name are, those documents never existed. Thus, our mother would often berate us for letting that topic come along in the argument as she was getting annoyed with it.

Then came this sore eyes plague. Everyone in the house had it except for our second sister and him. Confident about the imagined warranty awarded to him as a general, he came around bragging that he would never have sore-eyes. A lifetime warranty for a super king general. Or so this had become his banner. The following day, he came into the house eyes as red as that gumamela in our mother’s garden. And so everyone burst out in a loud laughter.

And he laughed with us.

He was our Tatay Pilis. He died in the summer of 1998. Though an extremely ordinary person with petty peculiarities, he would always entertain us with his stories. Indeed, he did fight the war. I can imagine him as one of those cadets drafted in haste to fight the Japs. But like any war veteran, he was one of those forgotten heroes.

Though he’s not in his proper state of mind, he never lost his instinct of lending a hand whenever he feels needed. In his most lucid mind, he never missed a funeral. With each wake in town, he was never absent in the kitchen to lend a hand. Always, he would be at the bereaved house to help out on the cooking. Sadly, no one seemed to remember his generosity nor his heroism as evidenced by the few attendees in his own funeral.

And so I woke up with tears on my eyes this morning. For the second time in my life, I cried in my dream. In there, he was in his coffin, deposited in a niche to his last place of rest. I stood in front of it, too scared to step on those nice bouquets of flowers nicely arranged in front of his grave lest I might ruin them with my footprints. Feeling sorry for being late on his funeral, I uttered a prayer. And wept.

We had been praying the rosary as long as I could remember. Each night after dinner, we would gather at that mini and wooden altar in our parents’ bedroom to say that prayer.

I was around 6 when I was compelled to kneel while praying. As guilty as I still am in some situations now, I always found it a total bore. Besides, we would always miss our fave TV programs because of that daily ritual, Ora Encantada being one of those. And so I have learned to master the art of speaking loud and fast so the rest of my siblings will follow with my pace.

It’s not that my siblings didn’t condone – they definitely liked the idea. But with our mother as a strict disciplinarian, they simply couldn’t push through with any idea of that sort. So for a short period of time, I was the star of our daily program.

But like any other story, that technique proved to be temporary. For when our mother considered me old enough to take it seriously, she started to pinch me each time I did that.

And so I was back to being that goody, goody angel I used to be.

In my elementary years, most of my elder sisters and a brother were already living in the city for their college ed – some are working at that time. It has been an agreement back home that whoever is the oldest left in the house will take over with the responsibility of all the house chores. As I gained a few years, my sister (a high school then) eyed me to lieu her for the house chores. This oftentimes leads to a fight – a brawl sometimes and a mere bickering in most instances. And since I am five years younger than she is, I would ALWAYS be in the acquiescing end. And so I would often feel devastated.

But of course, I don’t intend to let it happen just that. So off I went on my quest for the solution to my dilemma. One day, there it was! As if in a snap, the idea occurred to me while I was saying my prayer.

That is, to drag the prayer as long as I could during the airing times of my sister’s fave programs.

Could you imagine saying that prayer in 40 minutes? Well, that has been my talent *winks*. Such technique would often award me a bruised rib as my sis never failed to give me a hard nudge each time I pretend to close my eyes as if in an intimate prayer. Nevertheless, I would still feel triumphant. What with seeing my sis being given a good pinch each time our mother’s eyes happen to wander our way and witness the poking. Seeing me on my most innocent face, she would always spare me of the sermon in the process. How could you reprimand an angel like that, anyway?

Ok. So I was a total monster back then. And here’s to even add to my sister’s wrath. Next to praying the rosary, our mother would always stay in the altar to silently say her personal intention. I didn’t know what she was doing then. I only see her closing her eyes with that so serious and passionate look on her face. And since I was a perfect observer, I tried to follow her. This of course I only did to gain more credit from our mother and win her side in each fight I could get myself into. In one of my mother’s sermon though, I heard her praising me for being a more sacrosanct daughter than my sis was, as I would always stay in the altar for my personal intention. Or so she thought. Nanay never knew this but contrary to what she thought me to have been doing, each time I did it, my mind was a total blank. he he.

To this day, my sis would give me a mock wring in the neck each time we recount those days. :)

To be continued.

In Portugal, a woman stabbed her partner in the head for refusing to bring her to the Euro game (report via Sassy). The husband instead preferred the TV screen over the actual court that the woman thought him better in the hospital bed for blithely considering her plead. :)

In Thailand, a 15-year old boy killed the daughter of the house he was pillaging when the daughter cried for help upon discovery of his uninvited presence. When the investigators later questioned him, he confessed for doing the feat sas he badly needed the cash to pay his debts for losing the bet in the Euro game.

Now, here's to beat all those stories....

In AIT, Than Khin appeared groggy the entire day. Reason? She slept at already 4 a.m. for watching the Euro football game.

Holy smokes! Don't we deserve better stories than these? hehe **Than Khin is a dear friend, by the way. She'll kill me if she reads this:) So, I'll just hope she's in a better mood today.

That’s me while I was having a tête-à-tête with my sister over dinner. She was going into the story why Vice Gov Armada took his oath of office at San Joaquin. And she happened to mention that Ninfa Garin, as the town mayor…. Again? Yes. It really was her. The newly elected mayor of San Joaquin.

I don’t know this woman personally (and I don’t have any intention of delving into her former positions in office either) but ask any Ilonggo and he’ll tell you that that woman lives in Guimbal. In fact, her kin had been ruling the town as long as my small mind could remember.

Well, talk about political dynasty. In that report forwarded to me by my sis, her daughter in law is now their district’s congressman, and her son, Richard, (I don’t know if the congressman is his wife) is now the town mayor. Should I be glad that her husband lost the gubernatorial race over Niel Tupas?

Hell, both yes and no.

It’s been a common knowledge to all that Tupas himself is a member of the political dynasty he inherited from his father in law. Last I heard of him, his wife and son were also into politics.

You see, Ilonggos don’t have much choice when it comes to exercising suffrage.

My mother texted me yesterday that the family received an invitation from the newly elected mayor. She sounded enthusiastic. I didn’t want to spoil her mood for that. And so I opted discussing the other topics in her message. But how can I feel glad about that when that newly elected mayor is the veritable daughter of the parents who both served as mayor of our town for a total of 4 terms.

Imagine any typical town in the 60s. Except that each house is enjoying the benefits of the local power supply. Plus all the 10 and 14 wheeler trucks flitting to and fro every 30 seconds of the day. Each road teeming with smoke. It’s a scene when one child gets sick, everyone in the community does.

Hellish? Of course. That’s where I lived. And my parents still live there.

Recently, I had heard one person doubting me of my pronunciation of the word crepe as kreyp. She was really quick to reply “ah, krip”

When I visited my best friend in her college school, she asked me to meet her on the school’s promenade. Since I don’t know my way around yet, I had to ask the first person I met on the road.

Me: errr… can you show me the promeneyd?
Girl: Oh, you mean the promenad? (with the a sounded as like a in the second syllable of façade)
Me: Actually? Either.

I don’t bother people with their wrong pronunciation (at least, not anymore). But couldn’t they at least leave me with mine?

Hearing this from a wise man, this could mean a thousand things. But all those I choose to keep to myself. I have just taken my flight. No, I’m not slowing down. If I have my fall someday, at least I attempted soaring high.

I remember my nephew going home one day sobbing for having received a jab from his cousin. You know what the dad said? “Go back there! Don’t you dare go home unless you got back at him.” Great father, huh. But I think sometimes, compelling our child to fight back helps a lot.

As a kid, I had several experiences of that bullying myself. I swear I was a well-behaved student back then (I think at least). I don’t pick fights. Most of the time, I would avoid trouble unless someone bullies me. Here are my chronological experiences of that sort:

Grade I: it was a Thursday, first few weeks of classes. For all you know, students in a public school are always assigned in groups for a once a week cleaning. Our group happened to be the cleaner on a Thursday. Since we were the cleaners and I was nearest the blackboard, as soon as the teacher adjourned the class, I was quick to pick the eraser to do the job on the board.

Classmate: can you do the floor, instead? I want to do the erasing.
Me: I got here first. Go find yourself something to clean at.
Classmate: please?!!
Me: No, I won’t. Besides, I’m almost finished.

The Classmate then went to the rest of the cleaners and try to convince them not to befriend me for not giving her the favor. So, thus, was the start of our class’ faction.

Grade II: we were at the school’s field doing the daily grooming by pulling the weeds. This particular classmate would find it a habit to pick on me. Just then, the elasticity of my patience turned into a snap. And so I gave him a good hit on the (I can’t remember where exactly). And then what? Of course you don’t expect me to live triumphantly right after that cause my classmate was fast enough to punch me and drag me to the ground before I could position on a defensive move. And so I was devastated and even humiliated with all the looks of pity from my classmates. What’s even more infuriating to recall is the voice of the teacher reverberating to my ear of 8-year old saying that I should not have picked a fight on him. “How shameful of you to get into a fight. You’re the top pupil of this class. Is this the attitude you want your other classmates to follow? You should have avoided it.” (of course, all her words then were in karay-a, my dialect.) Wait. Do you think this is a sad story? Of course, not. Words of the fight traveled so fast it reached my brother before they were dismissed. He was in grade IV then. Right after the class, he gathered all his friends to confront my offender. They gained post in one of the street corner where this little boy is passing and gave him a good scare. Hah. I can’t imagine how pale white he turned seeing my bro and his gang of friends. And since then, that guy never started a fight on me ever again. See, it really pays to have an older bro who’s willing to jump to your rescue.

Okay, enough about this. I’m afraid I have to finish the whole evening writing about this all the way through my 6th grade and high school so I’m deciding to write those other events someday soon. (Although in high school, I had minimal experiences of the bullying.) Anyway. You would want me to offer a solution to bullying? What should the people involved do? Here’s my some cents worth.

Personally, I don’t think I can offer a concrete solution as I’m afraid I even committed some bullying in the past myself. Of course there’s this golden rule to always respect the other people’s space. But how could a child care? I guess it will all just come down to the parents and elder people involved who sometimes forget their responsibility of educating their child in proper manners in dealing with peers. Now here’s the rub, even the saints have their share of offending other people. So, what exactly is supposed to be done?

And so, I guess the bulk of the sermon would go to the “meddlers” who instead of taking an unbiased pose would choose to tell a girl (offended) not to fight back merely because she’s a girl. Hey! You’re supposed to be the prudent judge there. You’re preaching about morality. Is there one rule in the bible for women to step back in any fight simply because they’re women? Would it pain you so much to give a proper stand by warning the offender and not telling the girl not to fight back because she’s a girl? Ah. I’m annoyed now. Why do I get so emotional in this issue?

But here’s one fact about my personal account. Those people above who bullied me were the same people who became my close friends as we grew older. Yes, kids would really take their taste of having to bully someone else. I think the best thing elder people could do is offer them a good advice not to do it. Never this “don’t fight back again cause you’re a girl” line cause someday, these kids will grow up to be the ones meddling in other youngsters’ fight. And if we don’t stop preaching what we perfectly know to be a crooked law, these bullies will grow up believing themselves to have done right.