Four Seasons

Others' joy is real meaning of happiness

2009-04-02T18:45:00.001-07:00

How would you measure happiness? Is it the size of your smile while working on a job you really love? Is it the number of degrees you have attained and the amount of knowledge you have collected? Is the gauge of happiness allied with gathering a surplus, or loving your family and friends, or collecting the latest gadgets or owning pets, stocks, companies and businesses? How is life's joy measured?

Listening to friends could tender a convincing reason that happiness could go beyond any human reason. Clichés most of the responses may be, such as the line that goes "happiness is not at all about being paid, or living in luxury, or getting wealthy, or having a blue-collar job and finding a partner," but there are truths to every line that could somehow point to quantifying happiness.

Carmen, my German friend, went to the Philippines to finish a thesis about garbage management. She visited garbage dumpsites almost every day of her three-month stay. Carmen is a dainty lady and endowed with a life so uncomplicated in her home country in Europe, yet she chose to work in a stinky place called the "real world."

Dumpsites in my country are a squatter's haven. The no-permanent-address people build their shanties out of paper bags and plastics and cartoons and eat their meals from food leftovers thrown by major fast-food chains. They make a few cents from selling metal scraps, bottles and plastic containers.

Carmen did not mind the puzzling stares from the residents every time she stepped on the garbage piles. In fact, all the while, she had made friends with the young scavengers and fell in love with them. During her spare time, the huge city malls were not part of her routine. She went to the dumpsite homes and asked parents that she would take the kids to leisure parks. Even on holidays, she was with the children. After three months, Carmen went back to Germany. She promised to be back and become a full-time volunteer.

Carmen was not alone. I met Nico, another German national whose big heart went for the needy. He came to help a private center for child prostitutes who were rescued from the dangerous and exploitive bars in the city. Nico attempted every effort to keep the children as young as 12 away from the job they were forced to do. Then there was the French Tanya who helped gather donations for the center's daily provisions. Nico and Tanya lifted the broken spirits of the children through openness and realization that there's more to life than just the short-time shifts they got from the streets.

A gift to see people, that is what Carmen, Nico and Tanya have. They are generous givers whose perspective about the real joy in life is in giving. The driving motivation: not self-concern but love for others.

I was touched by their persistence and desire. Because, honestly, how many wealthy people really care about the homeless and the hungry? Would you help those children hunting food in garbage stacks and those teens making money selling their reputation? I know you will. It may take some time to unlearn what your current motivation is, but I am certain that if given a chance, you will develop the grace to perform the worthy purpose and take steps to start the ball rolling.

We need to experience the joy in sharing. Maybe through it, we can measure life's happiness by experiencing someone else's joy.

Nicole's true confessions revealed

2009-03-23T09:33:00.000-07:00

My column for the March 4 issue of this paper entitled “One too many beers changed this life forever” spawned quite a frenzy from readers who thought I was glorifying a rapist. To those who commented and reacted, thank you for raising the questions that I obviously failed to answer in the previous article. At this point, I do not even need a second thought to write part 2.

Did I write the column to glorify the rapist Smith? Or was it to say Nicole, the victim, lied about the rape? No, for the first, and yes, for the second. I am against rape, but I am also against injustice. I am for truth, I do not condone lies. What people might have read from online reports were products of Nicole’s ivy poisoning each and every fragile mind of her dishonesty. She managed to make people believe she was raped. Truth of the matter, she was not.

“The protests outside the court hearing were not in Smith's favor.” I agree. The protests were initiated by a few leftists whose members could not even elucidate the exact reason why they were there. Were the protests in support for Nicole or were they for plain vested interest (they were anti-Americans, anti-VFA weren’t they)? One reader was right when she commented that “it is harder to take when the victim all too often experiences re-victimization through questioning the victim’s actions.” As a retort, how can I not question Nicole’s intention of crying rape when she could not even stick to one statement of what really happened that night of dirty dancing?

Last week, with Filipinos and Americans hoping for truth to finally come out, Suzette Nicolas a.k.a. Nicole, surprised everyone with this news headline “Nicole leaves for US, settles for 100,000 pesos (US$ 2000).” The Filipina, who claimed she was raped in the back of a van by a US Marine named Daniel Smith, left the Philippines to stay in the United States “for good”. Nicole’s mother told reporters her daughter wants to move on and wants to get married abroad. The most shocking of all surprises was a five-page notarized affidavit from Nicole herself, recanting her testimony in court. She was singing a different tune because as she said “My conscience bothered me.” Here is a part of what she said through the Philippine Star (March 18, 2009), which I quote:

“My conscience continues to bother me realizing that I may have in fact been so friendly and intimate with Daniel Smith at the Neptune Club that he was led to believe that I was amenable to having sex or that we simply just got carried away. I would rather risk public outrage than do nothing to help in ensuring that justice is served.” Nicole said she wondered how she could recall her testimony that Smith kissed her lips and neck and held her breast inside the van, when witnesses told the court that she passed out and looked unconscious when he took her to the van. “How could I have resisted his advances given this condition? Daniel Smith and I were alone on the third row of the van, which had limited space and I do not recall anyone inside the van who held my hand or any part of my body. What I can recall is that there was very loud music and shouting inside the van.” Denying any alleged pressure from the government to recant, she further said “With the events at the Neptune Club in mind, I keep asking myself, if Daniel Smith wanted to rape me, why would he carry me out of the Neptune Club using the main entrance in full view of the security guard and the other customers? Why would the van park right in front of Neptune Club? Why would Daniel Smith and his companions bring me to the sea wall of Alaba Pier and casually leave this area that was well-lighted and with many people roaming around? I believe, if I was really raped by Smith, he and his companions would have dumped me instead in a dimly lit area along the highway going to Alaba Pier to avoid detection.”

These were the same statements she told a lawmaker a day after the so-called rape. Rep. Mitos Magsaysay said Nicole’s latest recantation from her previous testimony strikes a chord to what really happened than her original complaint that led to US Marine Lance Corporal Daniel Smith’s conviction. The circumstances in Nicole’s new affidavit are what she and other witnesses, including the driver of the van, narrated to the lawmaker. Magsaysay said Nicole was crying when she first talked to her, but that she did not complain of rape. She was more concerned about the possibility of her mother getting angry at her because she was out the whole night with Smith and his companions.

What was the real intention of Nicole for crying rape? There are a lot of speculations. Bloggers think she wanted an easy passport to the U.S. Reports say that she has an American boyfriend that time she was spending moments with Smith and the other Marines. Political analysts think that there were people who took over, brainwashed and influenced Nicole. Whatever was the exact reason, a fact remained: Smith’s life was destroyed. Would the new affidavit rectify the wrong decision on Smith?

Nicole’s new statement does not have any bearing anymore on her complaint against Smith, especially when all the evidence needed to convict had already been presented. The “people of the Philippines” had already proven its case against Smith with her as its witness. The court already handed the final decision on the criminal case. Justice Secretary Raul Gonzalez said “Assuming there was a settlement, you can’t undo the judgment of the judge. That is not newly discovered evidence. You can only reopen that for similar purpose if you have newly discovered evidence. We can only reopen that for similar purpose if we have newly discovered evidence.”

Gonzalez said that he found it ironic to see Nicole in the US after her case had taken the entire nation into this rape hullabaloo ride. Nicole could have traveled to Italy where her brother resides. If she just did, it would have been more illustrative of her fighting stance against the US. But she did not go to Italy, or anywhere else. She migrated to the US!

While some senators were disheartened by the news, Gonzalez believed that “Nicole” and her lawyers could be charged with false testimony and perjury for backtracking. Problems had been created and foreign policy had been affected by the controversy. An anti-crime advocate said that Nicole must be extradited so she could swear to the truthfulness of her affidavit of recantation.

Now the perception of who is the real victim in this case has shifted from Nicole to Smith. Senator Rodolfo Biazon said that the recantation has raised moral, legal and judicial questions. “Who is the victim, Nicole or Smith? Smith had lost his career if not a big part of his life. Nicole even raised the question of deficiencies of our justice system. Justice for whom? For the Filipino Nicole? For the American Smith? For the Filipino people? Or justice for the Filipina Maria Clara?”, Biazon asked.

The case is still on appeal at the Court of Appeals. Whether the decision would be for or against Smith, Nicole has nothing to lose. Whether Smith’s appeal would be granted or denied, Nicole would still enjoy her stay in the US. But whatever the decision of the court would be, it should be respected.

Finally, this type of “bogus” rape charges could happen to anyone. For sure, there would still be similar cases in the future of “Smiths having casual sex with the likes of Nicole” and ending up in jail. There would be more rage towards those who falsely cried rape and then recanted after ruining lives. Maybe, not here in Brookings; maybe when you travel to some faraway lands. When it happens, what we can do, as people against rape and injustice, is to hope the perpetrators be brought to justice, or if I have to listen to a friend, be shot and quartered.

Neighboring states happier than South Dakota

2009-03-20T07:35:00.000-07:00

For those planning to live a "happy" life, relocating to Utah, Hawaii, or Wyoming may be the best options. Rethink if you wish to live in these states-Arkansas, Ohio, Mississippi, Kentucky and West Virginia. What about living in South Dakota?

According to the latest survey numbers released Wednesday last week by Gallup in partnership with Healthways and America's Health Insurance Plans, South Dakota ranks as the 39th "happiest" state in the U.S.

The title of the "Happiest State of America" goes to Utah. Utah ranks high in almost all indices of well being: life evaluation, emotional health, physical health, healthy behavior, work environment, and basic access. On the list, Hawaii comes next, followed by Wyoming. South Dakota ranks very poor in "life evaluation"-the factor that measures a person's present life and the anticipation of the next five years. Ranking 43 over 50, most South Dakotans are unhappy with their lives and are unoptimistic of what lies ahead of them in the State. In terms of "basic access" (food, shelter and healthcare) the state is way below the rankings.

South Dakota rates very low in "work environment" too. This factor answers questions like: Are you satisfied or dissatisfied with your job or the work you do? At work, do you get to use your strengths to do what you do best every day, or not? Does your supervisor at work treat you more like he or she is your boss or your partner? Does your supervisor always create an environment that is trusting and open, or not? The score of 41/50 tells me how negative the perceptions of people are about their work environment.

What is surprising about the survey results is that South Dakota is surrounded by states that rank way higher. Minnesota is 5th, Nebraska 16th, North Dakota 28th, Montana 12th, Iowa 27th, Wyoming 3rd. If you look at it as a map, South Dakota is the only state that is colored red while the rest surrounding it have blue tints.

Should this be a reason for South Dakotans to frown? I don't think so. In fact, there is a bright side to this, which I find contradicting. Among all indices, the state of South Dakota rates higher (9/50) in "emotional health" compares to Utah (10/50). "Emotional Health" asks how people felt yesterday, from the morning until the end of the day -who they were with, what they did, and how they felt based on responses to these items: smiling or laughter, being treated with respect, enjoyment, happiness, worry, sadness, anger, stress, learning or doing something interesting. It is safe to say that South Dakota is home to some of America's happiest people.

The West has the highest sense of well-being, while unhappy states are clustered more in the east than in the Midwest, the survey says. West Virginia is ranked last among the states, with Kentucky on the 49th and Mississippi 48th on the list.

The survey may have put South Dakota on the 39th place in its well-being index, but being on top or not, there are a few things that make the state attractive: the happy character of the South Dakotans is one saving grace. More info can be found at the Well-Being home page, www.ahiphiwire.org/wellbeing.

One too many beers changed this life forever

2009-03-11T07:32:00.000-07:00

Say you found a stranger very attractive (however you define attractive). Would you want to have sex before or after gulping bottles of beer?

Sex under the influence of beer is common and easy. All you need to do is get yourself drunk (10 bottles will suffice) and in a matter of hours you'll find yourself on someone else's bed, most likely with the stranger you often exchange smiles with in the bar, whom you lusted or dreamed so long to be with. Make sure that both of you are extremely intoxicated so that the alcohol will do all the thinking, talking and the strategic planning of where and how you would perform the sex escapade - hmmm, in the car, at the park, beside a big rock, behind a pine tree, in the garage or just to make it sound so nice, in the comfort of your own room.

Under-the-influence-of-beer sex with a stranger you have just met once has a tag: risk, big risk. Take for instance the case of Lance Cpl. Daniel Smith, a young U.S. Marine who went to the Philippines as part of the Philippine-American war games or also called the RP-U.S. Visiting Forces Agreement (VFA). Just one night of drinking and then quick sex with a Filipina in a van changed Smith's life forever. Daniel Smith was charged with rape. He was with other American soldiers at that time but all, except him, were acquitted.

Nicole, the rape victim, testified that she was drunk and too weak to stop the assault by Smith, as the other Marines inside the van laughed and listened to loud music. Nicole further testified that the incident happened after a night of drinking with Smith.

Smith had testified that the sex was consensual and this idea was supported by a number of the Filipinos, especially those who knew who Nicole was. Why would any woman in her right mind hook up with a group of young and, let's be honest here, horny soldiers in a bar called Neptune (of all places) and late at night? The family of the girl insisted she was no prostitute and that Nicole has a college degree (which of course is no guarantee of not being playful and nasty at times). Here enters another question: What happened to her common sense that night when she agreed to join the Marines in their drinking spree? I am sure she was aware of the consequences she could be getting into by joining a group of men. When she said she trusted the men, damn, no way that you can trust anyone, in this case a gang of men, in just an hour! Upon joining them, alone, she had already voluntarily offered herself!

When the Philippine court handed down the verdict - GUILTY to Smith, a lot of Filipinos cried unfair and stirred emotions in the country. Many believed Smith did not take advantage of the victim and that the latter was fully aware of the events.

The controversial case happened over two years ago. However, recently, the case has resurrected. This time it is regarding the custody of the convicted rapist. Smith is detained at the U.S. Embassy compound and Nicole's lawyer wants him to be transferred and serve out his sentence in a Philippine prison. If the transfer pushes through, it will be the end of Smith. I tell you, Philippine prison is beyond hell.

Nicole had sex with a stranger, Smith, after getting drunk over beers. It seems the intention of the two was casual sex and to satisfy a night of lusty craving. Whatever happened that night, why Nicole suddenly cried for rape, was still not certain for most Filipinos, even up to now.

What we know is this statement from Nicole after the long delay of Smith's transfer to Philippine prison: "If I had the choice, I would like to be a U.S. citizen now because they [the U.S.] would defend a citizen, even if he is a convicted criminal, while the Philippines would not defend someone who is fighting for her rights."

So what really is Nicole's intent?

Some food smells won't appeal to all, but the cook sure likes it

2009-02-04T19:58:00.001-08:00

Fried food is part and parcel of an Asian cuisine. Red or white meat, fish - finding a dish that is oil-fried on the table is no surprise by any means. In my country, lard, a type of oil coming from pork, is vehemently adored. Oh boy, the moment our neighbor starts frying dried salted fish deep in lard, I wonder if he's going to wake up the dead. Dried salted fish, or bulad (boo-lad), even in its raw state, smells terribly unspeakable. What more if you fry and combine it with the reek of burning lard! For foreign nostrils, it sure is out of this world. While it spells heaven for almost all Filipinos, it is extreme hell for those not immune to the aroma.

Never a rose without the prick, indeed. A single frying event, when I was living in the Netherlands, had gotten me into thinking of the possibilities of being killed by flatmates for no other reason but dried salted fish. In a flat with nine others - six Dutch, two lady Russians and one Pakistani - stupid me, I should have known that frying was a big no-no. But for a tongue that had been deprived of the taste of the "Philippines Best" for quite some time, a quick visit to the Asian store for a pack of bulad and boiling oil in a pan were all the necessities to satisfy the urge. Holy smoke! My flatmates might have possessed the most sensitive chemical sensing system; it only took few seconds of bulad hall domination for their olfactory cells to stimulate in perfect unison. Eight of them (where is the Pakistani?) rushed to the kitchen to reprimand a poor, hungry Filipino, plus the Russian girl said without batting an eyelid "Are you trying to poison us?" That was the awakening slap. Adios, dried salted fish. 'Til we meet again in the Philippines.'

I promised to spare myself of the same fate here in Brookings and to avoid every enticement of buying the salted fish. Each time I passed that section of the Oriental store in Sioux Falls where it is displayed like it is calling my name, I think of my four male housemates: the tall Ukrainian, the fierce-looking Ethiopian and the chubby Bolivian and the likelihood of me turned into bits and pieces by them. So far, the evasion strategy is working flawlessly.

The smell caused by frying and using native spices in food can be viewed from two contrasting perspectives. From the familiar side (our side), the smell is the product of love and devotion to cuisines we grew up eating and smelling. From the unfamiliar side (not among us), it is smoke from a belching car, or worse, the putrid odor of a cow's dung.

Those living alone in isolated houses, lucky you. Nobody ever cares what you cook. Those in the Family Student Housing are fortunate lifeforms too as they can always contain the smell of their food to the periphery of their apartments alone. There is one advice, however, that I would like all international students, whose passions revolve in frying and using strong spices, to know. Keep your clothes away from where you are cooking. Store them somewhere that is tightly sealed. The smell of food could easily get stuck on clothes if you are not careful enough. The only way to know whether your clothes smell bad or not is to ask someone not from your household. You will only realize that you are a walking advertisement of a "cow's dung" when people around you start covering their noses or begin frowning at the mere smell of you.

This is reality. We, Asians, or foreign students in general, have to come to grips that no matter how we worship the smell of our fried food or spices, there are "others" whose nostrils are trained only to smell sandwiches, pastries and green leafy vegetables. Respect their smell. My clothes smell good. Start smelling yours.

Looking back on embarrassing memories can now seem humorous

2009-02-02T22:42:00.001-08:00

Do your friends take your childhood disappointments and misadventures seriously? As for mine, sadly, never mind. In a conversation I had with close friends yesterday, never have they been sorry about my stories spiced up with sour remembrances of days past. Am I inadequate with attention? Fine if they laughed. It was worse when those moments I wanted them to hear didn't seem to have significance of sorts. Not meaningful enough.

Maybe, it's funny for me to be forlorn over spilt milk. Come on. Is there really no sense in looking back and basking in the afterthought that I can still dignify, by dint of memory, even the foregone moments I once detested but now merrily summon. Like when …

… I graduated a notch lower from the honor roll after my lady adviser in sixth grade favored a classmate less deserving but much better-looking than I was (she never missed admiring his white-as-a-sheet shirt during classes).

... I became the talk of the school campus after my classmates learned I didn't vote for my own party in the election for the student council in high school owing to a secret disagreement with our class leader's platform.

… My mom figured in a verbal tussle with my Electronics teacher because she thought, like any mother who claimed to know better, I deserved a grade higher than 90 (someone else got 98, by the way).

… I saw big brother's butt full of welts from grandpa's leather belt, which only happens once in a blue moon, after I squeaked on a grave misdeed my brother and I promised each other to keep secret (sorry, bro, for my selfish breach of trust so I could be spared from grandpa's fury).

… Papa bellowed so loud after I accidentally hit his crotch while executing a newly learned karate jab. How I weaseled away from the house, but failed to outrun a good spanking comeuppance.

… I joined a hometown amateur singing contest and lost. Eating humble pie wouldn't have been a big deal if only it was not my little sister who won the first prize and my big brother finishing second best while I failed to get the nod of the judges for, at least, the best in attire or stage presence. If only Mom did not insist I sounded like the old Matt Monro!

… Trying to live up to my mom's belief that I could sing, I fell flat on my face while performing during a PTA meeting even as I felt that the audience tried to cast a spell to pop me off the stage. Oh, if only the guitar wasn't tuned so perfectly!

… I had to wake up at dawn to collect ripe mangoes fallen from the late-night frolic of bats only to find out that being delayed by a mere second of sleep meant going home empty-handed. Too late for me to realize that kids in the neighborhood also harbored my mango principle: "Sweetness is surely reaped from prompt sacrifice of early morning dreams."

… I sent a playmate scurrying home in tears after hitting him with a stone from my slingshot. All the while, I thought my target was on cue only for sparrows and chickens I tried to shoo away from Grandpa's rice fields.

There's still a whole archive of memories about my boyhood misadventures. For now, I reserve the other stories for the times when my friends would be open enough to consider that recalling those "detestable" moments could be entertaining as well.

Living in the land of the free

2009-01-21T17:31:00.000-08:00

Did he just ask that?

"Are you a terrorist?" Jeremy threw that question at me as I was about to part my jaws for a big sigh of relief for completing a stressful day at the office. Caught in an awkward situation, I answered, "NO" straight to his face.

Jeremy is no friend. Neither is he an acquaintance. He merely saw me going out of Wecota Hall at around midnight last weekend after I finally called it a day from work. Suspecting that he was waiting for a friend to come out from the back door of the Wecota student dorm, I calmly strode past him with one thing in mind: to get myself home. Such was my luck that when I started pacing fast, he shouted, "Hey!" With only the cacophony of the snow drifts between us, I knew he was trying to catch my attention.

I stopped. I looked back at him with my hood still covering my head. "Were you the Vietnamese I saw in the bar?" he asked. "I'm afraid I am not," I responded while trying to gesture with my hand that I wanted to leave. But he walked closer to me and asked which country I was from. I gladly answered that I came from the Philippines.

He seemed to be like a red-butt fly that my mother used to tell me has an itchy bottom that just cannot stop hovering around your head and pestering you. Jeremy was sort of like that, a lost ball in the high weeds. The word Philippines flickered like a cigarette lighter inside his dark matter and ignited the probably long kept question he would want to ask someone: "Are you a terrorist?" The association of the Philippines with terrorism may have a little sense of truth, as in a few past cases leftists from down south of the country created world headlines with acts of unlawful violence and war. However, labeling me as a terrorist is beyond any intellectual capacity and forgiveness, especially if you are someone I happen to meet one midnight outside Wecota Hall. You can say any off-putting and discreditable things about the Philippines, but never call me a terrorist.

After saying my "NO" to a question I found so offensive, I tried to compose myself. "If you are a terrorist, I tell you I can kill you right here." Lo and behold! That was the moment I was about to raise a fist and start a boxing brawl. Then the back door opened and an Asian-looking lady peeped out (a Vietnamese, I figured). I have seen her before, and she probably is living in Wecota dorm and Jeremy is her friend. I said my hello.

Jeremy was not planning on cutting the conversation short while his girl watched us from the door. He asked how I viewed the plane crash at the Hudson River a few days ago, which made big headlines online and on TV. Since I have been following the news, I told him it was a tragic experience for the 155 passengers. Although no one was badly hurt, the mere fact that a commercial plane had gone haywire and landed on a river and not on a runway meant the passengers had already cheated death. Without the heroic act of the pilot, everything could have turned disastrous. But Jeremy viewed the incident as something cool. He said it was never tragic, but "cool," yet he never elaborated his stand.

Tired of standing out in the cold, I told Jeremy to go inside. He extended his hand for a friendly shake. I gladly accepted it. Before he finally reached for the door, he said "sorry" to me and uttered this, "America is the land of the free." As I walked home, I thought of a short story of what has happened: Jeremy went to a bar, had some booze, met a Vietnamese girl, followed her to the dorm, saw me as I was about to go home, called me a terrorist, argued that the plane crash was cool and not tragic and then said sorry to me (this part somehow pacified me) before he finally decided to spend time with his girl.

To Jeremy: wake up and smell the coffee. If by any chance you will meet someone from my country, remember that Filipinos do not act like undomesticated animals. We are peace-loving people who consider life like a bowl of cherries. I will give you a free trip to the Philippines, and you will realize that, just like Americans, we also live in the land of the free.

Bisdak born in 1950's, 60's, 70's and early 80's

2009-01-08T09:20:00.000-08:00

TO ALL FOLKS WHO WERE BORN IN THE 1950's, 60' s, 70's and early 80's !!

First, some of us survived being born to mothers who did not have an OB-Gyne and drank San Miguel Beer while they carried us.

While pregnant, they took cold or cough medicine, a te Linunod, balikutsa, bukhayo and didn't worry about diabetes.

Then after all that trauma, our baby cribs were made of hard wood covered with lead-based paints, ang uban kay duyan nga habol gihigtan ug pisi nga inigtabyog ug kusog ma pakong intawon ta sa bongbong.

We had no soft cushy cribs that play music, no disposable diapers (lampin lang sa General Milling nga naa'y faded picture nga nag-salute), and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, no kneepads, wala pa gyu'y brake ang bisikleta.

As children, we would ride in hot un-airconditioned buses with wooden seats (Bisaya Bus nga pultahan puros ang kilid, Corominas Bus nga senimana ang brake), or cars with no airconditioning & no seat belts (karon kay Minibus na nga nindot kaayo ug sounds or Ceres Bus nga bugnaw ug aircon)

Riding on the back of a carabao on a breezy summer day was considered a treat. (karon; ang mga bata wala na kaila ug Kabaw)

We drank water from the garden hose and NOT bottled mineral water sa Nature Spring or Viva, or Absolute Mineral water (usahay gani, straight from the faucet or poso or Tabay!)

We shared one soft drink bottle with four of our friends, and NO ONE actually died from this. Or contracted hepatitis.

We ate rice with star margarine, bahaw nga gibutangan ug asin ug mantika sa baboy, drank raw eggs straight from the shell, and drank softdrinks with real sugar in it (dili diet coke or Pepsi Max), but we weren't sick or overweight kay......

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, and get back when the streetlights came on. Syatong, Bato-Lata, Bagol, Dakop-Dakop, Tago-Tago, Ngita'g Kaka.

No one was able to reach us all day ( wala pa'y uso ang cellphone) . And yes, we were O.K.

We would spend hours building our wooden trolleys (katong bearing ang ligid) or Karitong Kawayan nga karaang tsinilas ang giporma nga ligid and then ride down the street , wala ma'y gidungog nga naligsan atoh! After hitting the sidewalk or falling! into a canal (sewage channel) a few times, we learned to solve the problem ourselves with our bare & dirty hands .

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 100 channels on cable, no DVD movies, no surround stereo, no IPOD's, no cell phones, no computers, no Internet, no chat rooms, and no Friendsters. ........ ...WE HAD REAL FRIENDS and we went outside to actually talk and play with them!

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no stupid lawsuits from these accidents. The only rubbing we get is from our friends with the words..sakit bai ? pero kung kontra gani nimo ang imong kadula,,,,singgitan lang dayon ug..Mayra,Gabaan!

We played marbles (jolen) in the dirt , washed our hands just a little and ate Pan Bahug-bahug & Bagumbayan (recycled bread man diay to kay wala mahalin!) We were not afraid of getting germs in our stomachs.

We had to live with homemade guns (giporma nga kahoy, gihigtan ug garter ug lastiko) , saplong , tirador ug uban pa nga pwedeng magkasakitay. Pero lingaw gihapon kaayo ang tanan.

We made up games with sticks ( syatong ), and cans ( Bato-Lata )and although we were told they were dangerous, wala man gyud to'y actual nga nabuta bah, bukol lang nuon sa agtang naa.

We walked, rode bikes, or took tricycles to a friend's house and knocked on the door or batoon ug gagmay nga bato ang bungbong, or just yelled for them to jump out the window!

Mini basketball teams had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't pass had to learn to deal with the disappointment. Wala pa nang mga childhood depression ug damaged self esteem ek-ek ra na. Ang maglagot, pildi.

Ang mga Ginikanan naa ra sa daplin para motan-aw ra sa duwa sa mga bata, dili para manghilabot ug makig-away sa ubang parents.

That generation of ours has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers, creative thinkers and successful professionals ever! They are the CEO's, Engineers, Doctors and Military Generals of today.

The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.

We had failure, success, and responsibility. We learned from our mistakes the hard way.

You might want to share this with others who've had the luck to grow up as real kids. We were lucky indeed.

And if you like, forward it to your kids too, so they will know how brave their parents were.

It kind of makes you wanna go out and climb a tree, doesn't it?!

P.S. - The big letters are because your eyes may not be able to read this if they were typed any smaller (at your age? Duh!).

How much is that lady in the window?

2008-12-10T18:05:00.000-08:00

Amsterdam brothels are those places where women pose in windows, so men (or women) can simply window- shop for women they want to have sex with. Having lived in the Netherlands for two years, I had been to those brothels many times, seen the women in all their grandeur, admired those with Coca-Cola figures and silently booed the grannies. I was not there for sex tripping, by the way. The locations of these legalized Amsterdam sex arenas, popularly known as "Amsterdam red light districts," are strategically set up so that whenever I had to go to the mall to shop, I would never miss to pass by them. They are everywhere.

It is like your regular window shopping on the sidewalk. However, instead of mannequins in fashion wear that are being displayed behind the clear glass windows, half-naked girls and fat old grannies in varied skin colors stand or sit (they do whatever they like) on small chairs with desire to ensnare locals and snooping foreigners for some "short times."

It was not allowed to stop and stare, but you can take a quick look, of course. If you are interested when flawless girls wink at you while licking their lips and touching their private parts, just enter a small door. Once the window curtain is closed, then you are on your way to fulfilling your sexual urges. Just don't forget to pay.

Prostitution in the Netherlands has been legal since 2000. Ergo, you have nothing to worry about for renting a "lady" by the window. Be concerned about your health, however. The girls may have health permits, but you'll never know how many sick men they've had before you that very day.

Last weekend, Amsterdam unveiled plans to shut down half of its famed brothels as part of the major cleanup of its ancient city center. The Dutch legalized these brothels, initially, as a solution to the myriad problems associated with the sex industry. They were wrong. Lately, they noticed that legalization had been a failure. Exploitation and abuse of women in the sex industry continue to increase. In 2007, Dutch Ministers came back clear that the dilemmas of illegality and abuse are not solved by legalization.

Part of the cleanup is to reduce the number of businesses related to sex trading, including peep shows, sex theaters, sex shops, mini supermarkets, massage parlors and souvenir shops. By the way, the Dutch are good at naming places. For instance, "smart shops" are those that sell herbal treatments and "coffee shops" are places where marijuana is sold openly. When you hear "mini supermarkets," it does not relate to a mini Wal-Mart.

For the prostitutes who may lose their jobs as a result of the plan, Dutch officials will "bail them out" and help them find other work.

Most likely, they will be relocated to the proper sex trade center. When the plan is implemented, prostitution will be allowed in only two areas, of which one has been a center of prostitution since before the city's golden shipping age in the 1600s.

Now, it can be said that legalization of prostitution has been far from being successful in defending women's health and safety. There is good evidence that it has failed to stop the illegal sex trade. What is your idea about legalizing prostitution in your country?

When girls don't put out

2008-11-28T08:40:00.000-08:00

This was written by a guy ... it's pretty damn smart.

I never quite figured out why the sexual urge of men and women differ so much. And I never have figured out the whole Venus and Mars thing. I have never figured out why men think with their head and women with their heart.

FOR EXAMPLE:

One evening last week, my girlfriend and I were getting into bed. Well, the passion starts to heat up, and she eventually says, 'I don't feel like it, I just want you to hold me.'

I said, 'WHAT??!! What was that?!'

So she says the words that every boyfriend on the planet dreads to hear...

'You're just not in touch with my emotional needs as a woman enough for me to satisfy your physical needs as a man.'

She responded to my puzzled look by saying, 'Can't you just love me for who I am and not what I do for you in the bedroom?'

Realizing that nothing was going to happen that night, I went to sleep.

The very next day I opted to take the day off of work to spend time with her. We went out to a nice lunch and then went shopping at a big, big unnamed department store. I walked around with her while she tried on several different very expensive outfits. She couldn't decide which one to take, so I told her we'd just buy them all. She wanted new shoes to compliment her new clothes, so I said, 'Lets get a pair for each outfit.'

We went on to the jewelry department where she picked out a pair of diamond earrings. Let me tell you... she was so excited. She must have thought I was one wave short of a shipwreck. I started to think she was testing me because she asked for a tennis bracelet when she doesn't even know how to play tennis.

I think I threw her for a loop when I said, 'That's fine, honey.' She was almost nearing sexual satisfaction from all of the excitement. Smiling with excited anticipation, she finally said, 'I think this is all
dear, let's go to the cashier.'

I could hardly contain myself when I blurted out, 'No honey, I don't feel like it.'

Her face just went completely blank as her jaw dropped with a baffled, 'WHAT?'

I then said, 'Honey! I just want you to HOLD this stuff for a while. You're just not in touch with my financial needs as a man enough for me to satisfy your shopping needs as a woman.'

And just when she had this look like she was going to kill me, I added, 'Why can't you just love me for who I am and not for the things I buy you?'

Apparently I'm not having sex tonight either....

Filipino joke: Ang Paghihiganti

2008-11-28T08:32:00.000-08:00

Isang gabi, naglalakad ang isang lalaki sa may tulay nang may makita siyang babaeng nasa taas ng gilid nito at magtatangkang magpatiwakal.

"Huwag," sigaw ng lalaki. At sa kabutihang palad ay nakumbinsi ang babae at siya'y bumaba.

Lalaki: Ano bang problema mo't naisipan mong gawin yan.
Babae: Kasi, iniwan ako ng boypren ko't sumama sa ibang babae.

Lalaki: Miss, ganyan din ang problema ko pero di ko inisip na magpakamatay.
Babae: So, anong gagawin natin?

Nag-isip sandali ang lalaki at sinabi...

Lalaki: Kung gusto mo, maghiganti tayo sa kanila.
Babae: Paanong paghihiganti?
Lalaki: Alam mo na ang ibig kong sabihin... (sabay kindat sa babae na nakuha naman ni babae ang ipinahiwatig na yon).

Maya maya'y nasa isang kuwarto na sila ng motel at nangyari na nga ang di dapat mangyari. Nang makaraos si lalaki, nagsindi siya ng yosi. Nang halos filter na lang ay biglang nagsabi si babae ng "Maghiganti uli tayo". Medyo pagod, pero pinagbigyan uli niya ang request ni babae.

Nang makaraos uli, nagsindi uli si lalaki ng yosi. Nasa kalahati pa lang ang yosi.

Babae: Maghiganti uli tayo.

Medyo nangangatog na ang mga tuhod pero dahil sa hilig, muling pinagbigyan niya si babae.

Muling nakaraos ang dalawa. Nagsindi uli si lalaki ng yosi. Unang hitit pa lang niya ay
Babae: Ganti uli tayo.

Talagang lupaypay na si manoy niya pero para huwag mapahiya ay muling pinagbigyan niya ang kahilingan ng babae.

Pagkatapos kumuha siya ng yosi. Sisindihan pa lang nang biglang...

Babae: Ganti uli tayo.

Lalaki: 'TANGNA NAMAN! PATAWARIN NA NATIN SILA!!!!

More than online chatting, social networking part of daily routine

2008-11-20T21:11:00.000-08:00

A few minutes ago, I approved my 128th "Facebook" pal. Do I hear hurrah? Okay, I do not have to blow my own horn as it is too small a number compared to many other members who probably are growing their list of friends every day, even reaching the cap of 5000. While these "others" have been opening and owning multiple profiles to accommodate newly-found online friends, here I am stuck to my slow-growing barely one-friend-a-month account. But it is understandable, for I have never been a fan of the social network anyway. Hence, accumulating over a hundred of so-called friends may suffice for now.

The birth of my Facebook was triggered by the fact that a number of my American friends are aliens to other social networks, like for instance Friendster. What Facebook and MySpace are to America, Orkut is to India and Brazil, V Kontakte is to Russia, Mixi is to Japan, hi5 is to Mongolia, Skyrock is to France and Friendster is to the Philippines.

Friendster is the viral social networking service that is thriving like crazy in my country. You cannot find a high school or college student who does not maintain a profile. I think the question "Do you have a Friendster?" is so hackneyed that you can brand it as the next important line after "My name is _____, and you are?" In fact, it follows that sequence when meeting a new acquaintance. And it does not matter where - KTV bars, disco houses, sex dungeons and strip clubs, busy sidewalks, jeepney rides - all and sundry is aware that it is the only way to get to know the new person better.

The moment you arrive home, say 2 a.m and dizzy from a few shots of booze, you log-in to your account, send the required invitation and hope for miracles that the he/she is still awake to accept it. You envision the countless doors of opportunities that could open when friendship is started by a mere "accept button" from a social networking site.

So, the other end has just been waiting all along. Where: best guess is at the windowpane. What: staring at a rare comet and simultaneously entertaining the thought of you being hit by it. Why: so you would come into your senses and remember that there was this sing-along bar called Comet and there was this person you had asked for a social bookmarking profile.

The profile shows that the person is associated to your friend's friend's friend. More revelations appear when you scour at the tabs: info, photos, and wall. Then you leave a message on the wall. Then you share childish applications or add-ons that, needless to say, look spammy, messy, and annoying (who needs a specialized astrology widget, by the way?) There are few instances when your animalistic urges prevail and you hope you will come across some revealing photos. In all likelihood you will be disappointed to see only full-body shots from some winter vacations, the time of the year when two-piece garments are a no-no. Despite the few insignificant frustrations, you are just contented of exchanging videos and cute applications. The story of you and the person you first met at the bar has begun.

Students choose to bleed their brains dry over their virtual parchment. The social networking has already become part of the daily routine. Be it at the Union or the library or inside the classroom or even at unexpected places like the toilet, checking the whereabouts of online friends is almost always the icing on the cake on a rather regular day. Facebook, Friendster, MySpace or Orkut will always be the cubbyhole that mom and dad do not have pure jurisdiction over what you do.

There may be downbeat reports about online social networking, but that is minor when you look at the positive factors the service is bringing in. You can start and build an online community. You can interact more with friends, find long-lost loved ones and network with those who share your interests. Social networking is a conversation and not just a plain IM chat or an archaic IRC-style chat room.

Before you log-in to your accounts and check-out your friends, you may want to give this a thought: Be my 129th "Facebook" pal.

The Death of the Standard American English

2008-10-31T18:41:00.000-07:00

Whenever you hear a non-native English speaker, a Filipino specifically, uttering broken "carabao" English, or a version you are not used to hearing, please reserve your criticism. Entertain, instead, the notion that the English language might be evolving, that nobody owns the language any longer. To a certain extent, it is already shared across continents and cultures. Just as there are American English (read: the ever prestigious), British English, Canadian English, Australian English and Indian English, there is also Philippine English. In this day of unimaginable innovation, English is no longer a singular term. Numerous Englishes exist around the world!

"You are like constipation, you take my breath away." Here are two more: "My blockmates and I took on different roles as Supreme Court Justices." "I stayed in some barong-barong in town." These are sample lines to show that we, Filipinos, are fond of coining, compounding and innovating words to make it our own. The use of mate is basically abused. We can connect it to any existing noun to create new words with new meanings. So what if "every now and then" means "often" to majority of our locals when in standard American English it means "occasionally"?

This is part and parcel of the Philippine evolution of English. We colonize the English language to create a culture of our own. Today, the Filipino English has its own entitlement, just like other English languages in the world. I concur to what Isabel Pefianco Martin, President of the Linguistic Society of the Philippines and member of the International Year of Languages Committee Philippines, has said that all languages are equally perfect and complete from the linguistic standpoint. In other words, no language is second-rate to the other.

The week I started writing for The Collegian, I thought I could have my articles Americanized, structure them to sound and read like the articles you have been following from other columnists. Failure. Each issue, I was seeing a white flag at the end of that brain wave. My way of writing would never be like "theirs." Although I was forced to learning the standard American English in school back home, which Filipinos are being taught as our second language beginning the day we enter pre-school, our being linguistically innovative has shown its prize. English evolution in the country is very evident that errors sometimes become features of Philippine English. Even Nanette Fernandez, assistant professor of English from the Ateneo de Manila University and a founder of the Ateneo Center for English Language Teaching, affirmed that the "nativized" form of English that the Filipinos use is acceptable albeit it is poles apart from the English, spoken or written, in other parts of the world.

The explosion of our own English version, thus the slow death of the standard American English in Philippine society, is not restricted only to the uneducated masses. In academic circles, the neither-here-nor-there English expressions are acceptable and frequently used. The hundreds of Filipino educated bloggers are into this culture as well. Who is complaining? No one. In the end, the culture becomes a standard.

Although I normally use the 'Filipinayz' standard way of writing my Collegian articles, I have no intention of diffusing the culture to and influencing anyone. For Americans, you can start your own or keep the one you have, or even much better, further hone the language you were born with, which the world has been continually marveling at.

Let me just take pleasure in my brand of English language that I regard as valid and colorful, that I view with confidence and pride. What is the use of the Philippines being the third most populous English-speaking country in the world if we do not have our own variety?

Brookings' night has its share of owls

2008-10-19T17:06:00.000-07:00

Friday blackness. That is how it is this very moment. Interstate 90 looks like one of those highways in horror movies where creatures drop dead from the skies and into your windshield. The absence of light that could have come from civilization along this area in Wisconsin makes it hard to know what lies out there at this time of the night. Corn fields, lakes or just deserted plains, I could not exactly tell. Where few lamp posts stand are billboards pointing to eateries and gas stations. A car or two crosses the way once every 10 minutes. Other than that, nothing disturbs the blackness that takes place in the expanse where light seems to be unheard-of. Not even the starless skies connecting to the horizon somewhere is able to muddle up the supremacy of the swallowing darkness. Blackness creates a way for the horizon and the skies to mate with soft oohs and ahhs minus the spying eyes of traveling creatures.

I suspect a heavy rain would come sooner. The short dashes on the middle of the road are starting to reflect, moist from the intermittent drizzle. They used to be the inanimate whites that only illuminate when hit by bright headlights. This time around they manage to steal life from the rain droplets. The car windshield seems to agree with my thoughts as it slowly gathers moisture in a fashion akin to a bottle of cold soda left to sweat inside a humid room. Right after a flying bug hit the windshield, crushed by the impact, rain starts to fall. Blackness consumes every uncharted territory left for any flickering light. Blackness marries the rain to engender an even blacker environment.

Brookings has its share of blackness too. I could vividly recall the occasion when I came home around 2 a.m. from the office and noticed that the light posts that line 11th street were not lighted, and neither were those on the transverse streets. Residential houses that used to have incandescent light bulbs illuminating their verandas suddenly became devoid of the hot filaments - Thomas Edison could have freaked out. Strange was the only description suitable to the situation. For the very first time, there was a "brown out" in Brookings.

Truth be told, I am used to "brown outs" (or black outs, as Americans term the absence of lights due to power failure). In the Philippines, it could happen without warning, at any hour of the night, at any, without regard for city size. As a result, water supply is likely cut off and phone lines render no services. People choose not to expect quick resolutions as almost always, announced schedule for power restoration is never adhered to.

A day or two of waiting is normal. You can just picture how people jubilate upon the coming back of the "light", reminiscent of salvation from a yearlong of curse. However, that moment when the black out happened in Brookings, I never had a doubt of the situation lingering till the morning. In fact, the following day, the oven toaster worked perfectly for my morning toast, no sign of the power hiatus early on.

Blackness in Brookings should also be identified with the old man who bikes around town with tow colored triangle flags and a two-wheeled cart behind. He sometimes stays in the middle of the road; warning lights flickering in front and at the back of his slow-moving wheels. I cannot count anymore the number of times this man has said hello to me when we crossed paths usually around midnight. Like me, this man is a night owl.

One man's trash is another man's treasure. The old man checks garbage bins for things that can be recycled and he does it when its dim and blackness has already silenced the dogs and people in deep slumber. When he reaches a slope, he gets off the wheels and pushes the load forward, slowly as if he is mathematically calculating the limiting friction, the force when equilibrium is on the point of being broken by his load sliding on the sloping concrete. I have hopes to talk to this man someday, know his name and ask him about living in general. I am certain there is more to this man than what meets the eye and his story is worth for the books.

It is almost midnight. One hour more, I will be reaching my destination. I am seeing town lights from afar. It is great to know that blackness feels like a familiar friend - calm, straightforward - the kind of friend that makes thoughts soar with creativity, the kind that makes one think of the old man and how he loves the serenity of blackness. Nothingness is clarity. Aren't the empty vessels making the most noise?

Cottonwood coffee shop 'the place to be'

2008-10-02T12:07:00.000-07:00

I do not care about evidences of heartburn, anxiety, high blood pressure, hyperactivity and many others that caffeine, a type of drug or stimulant found in coffee beans, appears to be a causal factor. Let the medical experts and researchers keep themselves busy gathering compelling evidences of the side effects of drinking coffee, just let me have my daily dose of caffeine.

When I was still in the Philippines, there was one coffee shop that I spent most of my "coffee night" in. Bo's coffee club was my source of a short mug of dark brewed coffee that went very well with my attempts in solving three crossword puzzles from three news dailies. Most of the time, I went home with the "across" and "down" filled to the last box. Coffee had something to do with my every crossword puzzle success.

You see, I please myself many times with the piece of information that caffeine used in moderation is not particularly destructive (read that as me being defensive). Here is another one of my defensive retorts: the harmful health effects from coffee will ultimately come to a close as there are already a number of verified rewards to partaking it in a daily cup or two. For instance, regular coffee intake could reduce the risk of developing kidney stones; coffee drinking could lower your risk of colon cancer by up to 25 percent; coffee may help prevent cirrhosis of the liver, Parkinson's disease, skin cancer and gallstones. All right, I have no medical expertise to substantiate these claims. As a coffee drinker, I only have the impression that coffee has an enchanting taste drinkers do not need a white man in a robe to enlighten them what a dosage of caffeine could bring into the body or how a dose benefits them.

In Brookings, Cottonwood Coffee - only a hop, a skip and a jump from where I live - is the place to be. Call me a coffee loyalist who happened to find the right place to stabilize my sleepy head. An hour or two inside a coffee shop is more than enough to emancipate myself from the negative thoughts on coffee, especially when there is an exodus of other loyalists - people who try to escape from their daily routines and gratify their palates with caffeinated, drowsy-head-quick-fix drinks inside our "refugee camp".

Russ and Jay know me full well as the coffee mocha guy. No latte, cappuccino, espresso, flavored coffee or other multitude of iced coffee beverages could appeal to me more than the mocha (white mocha is feeding my sense of taste these days). Blame it perhaps to the distinctive espresso shot and chocolate flavor mix done to a T, which never fails to excite my taste buds. Blame it to my order of, almost always, medium size mug that sufficiently fills the longing, sufficiently stimulates the wit and sufficiently awakens inactive senses.

But it is more than just sipping mocha coffee. Cottonwood bar is the place to locating hard-to-find friends for quick chit-chats. Or to make new friends. It is where students convene for an inexpensive coffee treat whilst assignments are answered and discussed. In some instances, a sip offers surprises from all-too-loud conversing loyalists leisurely exposing their secrets over cups of coffee. There were secrets on a love lost and found, new business started or family squabble. A group of loyalists in one corner talks about other loyalists in the other corner. Every sip offers a story wonderfully told.

I need not go to sophisticated coffee chain stores like Starbucks. I do not judge a coffee shop by its brand name but by the fast service, friendly people and, most especially, the quality of its mocha coffee, or whatever coffee concoction you like. If I can have the best of both worlds: good coffee plus great service, absolutely, caffeine, here I come.

Understanding Aristotle’s Politics

2008-08-24T18:22:00.000-07:00

The state is the highest form of community and aims at the highest good. How it differs from other communities will appear if we examine the parts of which it is composed. It consists of villages which consist of households. The household is founded upon the two relations of male and female, of master and slave; it exists to satisfies man's daily needs. The village, a wider community, satisfies a wider range of needs. The state aims at satisfying all the needs of men. Men form states to secure a bare subsistence; but the ultimate object of the state is the good life. The naturalness of the state is proved by the faculty of speech in man. In the order of nature the state precedes the household and the individual. It is founded on a natural impulse, that towards political association.

The slave is a piece of property which is animate, and useful for action rather than for production.

Slavery is natural; in every department of the natural universe we find the relation of ruler and subject. There are human beings who, without possessing reason, understand it. These are natural slaves.

But we find persons in slavery who are not natural slaves. Hence slavery itself is condemned by some; but they are wrong. The natural slave benefits by subjection to a master.

The art of ruling slaves differs from that of ruling free men but calls for detailed description; any one who is a natural master can acquire it for himself.

As to property and the modes of acquiring it, this subject concerns us in so far as property is an indispensable substratum to the household.

But we do not need that form of finance which accumulates wealth for its own sake. This is unnatural finance. It has been made possible by the invention of coined money. It accumulates money by means of exchange. Natural and unnatural finance are often treated as though they were the same, but differ in their aims.

Also in their subject-matter; for natural finance is only concerned with the fruits of the earth and animals.

Natural finance is necessary to the householder; he must therefore know about live stock, agriculture, possibly about the exchange of the products of the earth, such as wood and minerals, for money. Special treatises on finance exist, and the subject should be specially studied by statesmen.

Lastly, we must discuss and distinguish the relations of husband to wife, of father to child. In household management persons call for more attention than things; free persons for more than slaves. Slaves are only capable of an inferior kind of virtue. Socrates was wrong in denying that there are several kinds of virtue. Still the slave must be trained in virtue. The education of the free man will be subsequently discussed.

EVERY STATE is a community of some kind, and every community is established with a view to some good; for mankind always act in order to obtain that which they think good. But, if all communities aim at some good, the state or political community, which is the highest of all, and which embraces all the rest, aims at good in a greater degree than any other, and at the highest good.

Some people think that the qualifications of a statesman, king, householder, and master are the same, and that they differ, not in kind, but only in the number of their subjects. For example, the ruler over a few is called a master; over more, the manager of a household; over a still larger number, a statesman or king, as if there were no difference between a great household and a small state. The distinction which is made between the king and the statesman is as follows: When the government is personal, the ruler is a king; when, according to the rules of the political science, the citizens rule and are ruled in turn, then he is called a statesman.
But all this is a mistake; for governments differ in kind, as will be evident to any one who considers the matter according to the method which has hitherto guided us. As in other departments of science, so in politics, the compound should always be resolved into the simple elements or least parts of the whole. We must therefore look at the elements of which the state is composed, in order that we may see in what the different kinds of rule differ from one another, and whether any scientific result can be attained about each one of them.

Colorful details of living in Brookings as a blogger

2008-08-14T12:35:00.001-07:00

Serendipity. I sensed a speculative something in the horizon, with which from the blackish sky backdrop looked like the 11th plague of Egypt. Gazing up toward the murky heavens, they portrayed the heavy dust particles that were about to pound an unarmed enemy. I looked at them intently and realized that they were in fact as yellow as the three-quarter-shaped moon that shone that magical Friday night.

I am referring to the leaves of trees blown heavily by the western wind. On my way to the office for a late night of work, I stared at the heavens to watch these pseudo imago butterflies fluttering their spiritless, no-cuticle wings in pure ataraxia. While few enjoyed the slow descent to a temporary kibbutz, others contented themselves with a steady-state, non-flitting aerodynamic lifts. Like butterflies, leaves falling made my eyes narrow with a half-stunned, half-euphoric, semilunar, open-lipped semblance. At one point I stopped and wondered at this wonderful site to behold that nobody around even cared a fig.

Fall has started to manifest its grandeur in every whisk of the breeze and in the clutter of leaves on ground, enough for a lick and a promise. Last year I wrote how the leaves fell on a couple spending time under the shade of a pale green tree; and how it sprinkled the man's kiss attempts and witnessed the girl's giggles of anticipation. Today, the leaves inspired me not just to write about them again but opened my eyes to few realizations.

Loving each colorful detail of fall, oddments of the past couple of weeks flickered at the environs of my eyelids. I thought at how I missed to appreciate life in this city of Brookings: those little pinches of beauty that I used to love about the place (squirrels, crickets, flower gardens, halva, jackrabbits, tacos, SDSU ice cream, vast fields and gracious people), of which I promised myself to only see, feel, taste, experience. It was a realization that happened when I was on the verge of breaking loose from an experience that only the infuriated ego of an antagonistic contraband in a totalitarian society could appreciate. Even George Orwell's "Nineteen Eighty-Four" would have paled in comparison with my blog entry about Brookings that carried the anger of The Bride, a.k.a. Beatrix Kiddo of Kill Bill and was supposed to be posted last week had my friends not interfered and advised me to cancel its posting. Their efforts were greatly appreciated. Had I pursued the posting, I would have wallowed in dire regrets.

Now, having schooled my thoughts into full comprehension of the likely precipitates of my writings and the touch they may have to my readers, I slithered into my old praxis again. The self who wrote the feel-good posts "Fuchsia in South Dakota," "Falling for a brown-haired American girl at The Union" and the likes, would be evident again. Of course, the squirrels of Brookings and the leaves, thanks to them, would play their roles once more as they proved to be efficient means of self-approbation.

Please allow me to sweet-talk myself that, as a blogger, I am an unbiased, sometimes fruity individual with appetite for absurd beauty, mantic attitude, perverted wit, and cockamamie details. It is strange though that I haven't killed anyone yet (laugh out loud). Perhaps because I don't think about violent stuff on people in those moments of unfriendly howls of vehemence, in those times when my opinions differ from the zeitgeist. Rather, I think of my pen, of survival and all the nice details there is to life in Brookings and the society in general. Perhaps because there is more to life than entertaining anger. Perhaps because there are more colors to appreciate if I just have to look around. Perhaps because I simply do not want to miss the small wonders in living whenever I am transformed into a new self.

From now on, I would be whisking the colors and the sapid taste of Brookings while I stare at the butterflies, I mean the leaves!

Mom really knew what she was talking about after all

2008-08-05T22:14:00.000-07:00

Numbers and complex solutions fuel me. I crave mind-boggling formulas and mathematical theories. I go where Pythagoras, Des Cartes and Pascal abound. These are the reasons I love the engineering profession.

I never liked the teaching profession. When mom advised me to get a degree in education and be a teacher, I retorted in complete disagreement, "Send me to an engineering school, and I'd make you proud!"

In my country, pursuing a degree in education is the cheapest and the easiest in town. Borderline students or even those below the intellectually deficient category, most often than not, would go for the degree. Only a few would take up engineering or medical courses.

From the start, my ideas were never parallel to a teacher's. Thoughts of piles of unchecked papers and overnight stays in the office to finish a class grade and lesson planning scare the heavens out of me. Moreover, I never liked the idea of being with students.

But I could never blame mom for pushing me to become a teacher. She used to be in the profession and was head over heels in love with it for more than 30 years. Lend your ears to her passionate rants in a career symposium, and you'd go out of the hall lured by her, believing that teaching is the only immediate course in town. Her plans for me included pursuing a master's degree, taking up a doctorate in education and ultimately landing a good supervisory task in the central school.

Mom was heavy-hearted when her drive of getting me into her own career path failed. I ended up enrolling in the engineering course. You should have seen Dad's expression - he was with me, he was laughing up his sleeve.

Years later, I earned an engineering degree with flying colors, as I promised Mom. I worked for a short time in a construction company. Feeling so unsatisfied, I transferred from one company to another, like a bee discontented from a single sip.

Then, here comes the changing of horses in midstream. The dean of the private school where I graduated from asked me to become a part-time member of the engineering faculty. He probably saw my credentials and the potentials befitting as a teacher.

It raised my eyebrow. Why me, of all people? I deemed I should never try something I have never, ever loved. However, before I knew it, I was eating my own words. Devil may care, I got hired to teach mathematics and tried what Mama kept bugging me about for years.

What's interesting in the teaching career? Is it the students questioning the strange and far-off? Is it the gifted minority showing signs that they are more knowledgeable than you are? Or is it the students tending to underestimate your competence and skills? What about young, beautiful girls giving you an enticing look, asking for a private tutorial?

Fascinating and challenging, indeed. In a matter of months, I was loving the career-playing field I got myself into. All's well that ends well. What kept me firm every single day was the thought of Mom's perseverance and love for her work. Now that I am in the U.S. and pursuing another career, I am beginning to miss the teaching days.

In my country, the teaching profession is taken too lightly. Most people say that teachers do not earn much. It is an understatement. I do not care at all if others would say that only average people venture into teaching - I can always prove them wrong. Teaching is for everyone who has the conviction of sharing one's life and values, knowledge and information. Teaching is for someone who believes in sweeter rewards after a sacrifice of patience. It is for anyone whose idea of sharing is not necessarily losing something.

Quality education is vital to getting better opportunities and leading better lives

2008-08-04T13:40:00.001-07:00

The efforts of the Department of Education in the Philippines are nothing but little in comparison to the major bottlenecks facing the nation’s education system today.

I share the same thoughts with those who desire that the education in my country be given much bigger priority with regards to government attention and annual budget. You would agree with me that everyone has the right to quality education. It is the sure key to breaking the cycle of poverty and providing every youth better opportunities and venues to lead better lives. The quality of life for the future Filipino generations depends on the augmentation of the knowledge and skills through good education.

But where is good education in a country such as ours? In my pursuit for a redesigned system of education, I write and send forth this letter to all students, not only in the Philippines, but to all poverty-stricken third-world countries with diminishing school standards and forever hoping for a first-rate education framework to come.

Dear students:

Send your thank yous to the people who have sacrificed themselves for your education. Without these very extraordinary beings in your lives, you would be fundamentally nothing. Thank your parents for pointing you to the right direction and teaching you the value of education.

Your moment is now. Every moment is a reality. Every day marks your rite of passage to another step in life. The lessons you learn in the classrooms and lecture halls should create the concrete foundation you need to surmount major hurdles along the way.

Think of greater challenges to come and the many future steps ahead of you. Education would lead you to it. The French revolutionary Danto said, "After bread, education." Danto reminds us that education is the next essential necessity after food, clothing, and shelter. Education pulls out the people out of the state of poverty.

Look forward to a good education ahead. Anticipate that the government would continue to advance the teaching of English in schools to every nook and cranny of the nation. The skill to communicate in English has always been the strongest selling point everywhere, and you don't want to take that for granted. Literacy in English must not be allowed to deteriorate through time.

Expect that the government would continue to press forward math and science teaching in the basic education curriculum. Intensified learning hours for mathematics and laboratory hours for science has to be done, whatever it takes.
Expect a deep inculcation of moral, social and cultural values in all levels of education. According to the Philippine President, “Knowledge without character is not acceptable. Critical thinkers are better citizens.”
Above all, remember to be people with big hopes. Expectations and hopes bring all citizens closer to the dream of a strong republic and a nation empowered by good and quality education.

Finally, no dream is too big and no step is too small to achieve these expectations. Just place your talents to work. Spread your knowledge and you will surely be rewarded one-hundred fold. Or maybe even more.

Life has to go on amidst insurmountable terrains

2008-08-04T13:37:00.000-07:00

If you have nothing to do in life, don’t kill yourself, please.

Strange thing, this surprising thirst for invisibility. For the past weeks, in those bouts of endless displeasures, a cloud hovered over this lonely head and sprinkled it with drops of desire to be part of the unseen, to be the mysterious guy that humanity couldn’t see or feel. Amongst pickets of work and subject requirements, and everlasting streams of tasks to surmount, this eerie sense to dissolve like wheezing smoke is ever-seething akin to tireless ambers in the euphoria of rage.

To be unremembered like old yellowed greeting cards. To greet the daybreak with absolute blankness of friends’ names and humane sensations. To walk along Brookings alleys and not observe replicas of my sequestered abyss. To skim through sunup and sunset, masked, unspoken; nothing but worthless imaginings and giggles boomeranging inside of me like aimless sparrows in grandpa’s serene fields of dozy corns. Many a times, I craved for invisibility so as to shake off lonely instances.

As an international student, so far away from home, life would, in unexpected situations, usher more gloomy moments than much-needed breathes of comforts. If you had gone through what I mentioned above, here is a piece of advice: when lonesome times pester you, run and spread your arms in the middle of cornfields, raise your head to the heavens and reflect of invisibility; only then you can be free of anything. Only then you would triumph in the cruel encounter of remoteness.

Never declare a ceasefire. Don’t quit. When trapped in the binding curse of a lifeless day, try to square the why, the how and then wage war against the adversary even if sometimes the situation looks so dim and hopeless. In times that I am affected and my faith flickers to some extent, I fight back. Human as I am, I admit, disenchantment could hurl inscrutable terrains direct to my heart. But then again, I fight back and keep my pecker up.

Next, don’t even blink or show a sign of such distinctive gesture. Instead, hold a solid gaze and never permit yourself to lose. Loneliness is the fly you whacked on the table. Loneliness is the lady bug you flattened on your way out of the house. Just picture all those and bask in your cute triumphs. The eye of loneliness, I tell you, can be pierced by a no.2 HB pencil and you’d never ever feel sorry killing it.

When you wake up each morning and you feel like crying, cry. Even great warriors could get wounded in the fight and they also drop their swords and cry for just a while. So dedicate a 5-minute crying session if need be. However, always remember that optimism about life must dwell in your every morning.

Fact is, it is hard to be miles away from home. Yet, life teaches you and me how to love our subdued spaces, how to soothe all the hasty blizzards in our torn hearts, how to appreciate today, the coming days and all the events in between, wherever we may be.

There is never a rose without the prick. Most importantly, life is so beautiful, so don’t ever, ever waste it, please.

Note: My deepest condolences to the bereaved families of the international graduate student who died last week in one of the student houses.

There is no distance too far for people in love

2008-08-04T13:34:00.000-07:00

It is not just a plain story of one being out of town. Or not seen for a week. Maricel is in the Philippines. Peter is in a place hundreds of miles away. They haven’t seen each other for over a year now.

I have always questioned the efficiency and value of a long-distance relationship. Even before I experienced it myself way back, I knew, with sorts of things that could almost certainly play inside your mind, it would never work. Think of the pain that it might create in you and your partner in all variety of ways. Communication is the essential ingredient in the love concoction and being a great distance apart could injure the bond.

However, there are few stories that defy the belief that long-distance love won’t work. The partners hang to the thought that love drives in a mystifying route and whenever confronted with situations like lonesomeness or flashing doubts or impatience, all there is to do is to trust. If there is truth to the principle that absence makes the heart grow fonder, then it could greatly help make long-distance relationship last.

How to survive lonely days? I compiled a no-expert to-do list.
1. Keep busy! Read online news or start a daily blog.
2. When was the last time you sent a letter through the post office? I recommend you write letters via snail mail. The anticipation of when it will reach its destination and land safely on the hand of the recipient is sufficient to make you alive.
3. Share woes through emails and phone calls. Recognize that you are hurt as much as he/she is.
4. Get yourself a dose of humor especially when calling him/her. Laugh together. At the sound of your partner’s voice, do not break down like you will never see each other anymore.
5. It might be a little too much, but, smell the scent of his/her cologne or touch anything he/she has left behind.
6. Try to make contact with his/her friends and ask them to do little favors for you, like, to leave a sweet and simple note on his/her bed saying “I Love You”. However, do not do this often - to avoid possible suspicion. Your lover might infer you are up to his/her friend.
7. If you can afford it, give a surprise visit. It is costly but the other person will appreciate the effort.
8. When given a one-day-a-year chance to meet up, make that day extremely magical.
9. Write a song, sing in the shower. Write a love poem, memorize it.
10. It is not easy, but be tough. Always keep friends and family around you.
11. If you are employed, focus on your job. If you are unemployed, find a job. Do not put your life on hold just because your partner is not around.
12. Do not let depression get into you. Stay active. Go the gym. Jog with your friends!
13. Chat with a web cam.
14. Call your dog or cat or whatever pet you have by his/her name. This is to make sure you will never forget your partner’s name after 10 years of being apart.
15. Find a resting hole, e.g. mountaintop, park, beach, isolated coffee shop where you could be at peace with yourself.
16. Build a website for both of you! If, by any twist of bad luck, you will not end up together, there is always a delete button.
17. Remind each other how much you love one another.
18. If you live near a beach, send a message in the bottle. Fate can sometimes work on your side. No, lakes won’t work.
19. Pray. Pray genuinely.
20. Finally, end every conversation with hopes and desires for what you have at present and what the future may joyfully bring!

As they say, love conquers things. Hence, be positive about the relationship. Being far away from each other could be a very stressful business, but what you might endure today would make the future so much more priceless for both of you. God bless you both.

Love and commitment, key components for life-long relationship

2008-08-02T22:21:00.000-07:00

Love must withstand the strongest of winds. Whatever it takes, hold on to it.

Let me detail the story of my Dutch friend Jacque; hers is a poster family for divorce. She was five when her mom discovered that her dad was having an affair with another woman. The discovery sparked series of unhealthy events between her parents, which eventually ended up in a divorce. For a while, Jacque and her younger sister bounced around between their parents before their grandparents had the custodial responsibilities. The custody issue confused her as much as the reason why her mom did not even attempt to acquire the rights to keep them both. Her mom frequented the night bars and so did her dad.

In her heart, she carried hatred for everything-for her hardhearted parents and for a life wretched and unfulfilled. She lived in fear of being sent away, as most defenseless days of her existence, her grandparents threatened of sending her to either her mom or dad if she not would oblige on things they wanted her to do.

Her sister ended up in a group of criminally inclined friends, who, at one point, stole a large amount of money from a store. She was into drugs and other illegal maneuvers. Later, she was brought to a psychiatrist, and the reason of her strayed life was blamed to a broken family.

I am certain that by now Jacque is already done with her college degree. She told me she had no plans of inviting her parents to her graduation day. Nor did she want to see them. She hated her childhood and teenage life as much as she hated her parents, who she judged as irresponsible and thoughtless.

This is but a tragic story of a broken family. The story of life in anguish. From a child so sweet, Jacque grew up into someone very hard to smile, as I noticed. Moreover, she doubted everything.

Who can blame her to question the context and sanctity of marriage for years of not being able to feel it from her own family? Who will care to convince her that marriage is not just a piece of paper, eagerly signed by two human beings before God and men, and yet to be windswept at a slightest pinch? Who is she to render love to the uncertainty of the sacrament-ending up living separate lives again? These were exactly the sentiments of Jacque who had experienced what it was like to live in a family ripped apart. For her, who had been so close to giving up, marriage was a waste of time!

However, we know it is not. Marriage is not like changing clothes, that once we don't like it anymore, we can just toss it to a corner and look for something dazzling and new. It is an exceptional gift from God and a pledge for life. When couples promise to live together till death, it is also a rejection of their own selves, conquering their self-longings and accepting one another completely. Marriage is not changing a person but becoming accustomed to whatever he/she is and will be. It is learning to blend. It is surviving the unexpected insurmountable and getting it done till the end.

What if marriage will not really work for good? Then why enter marriage in the first place if we can't put up with its aftereffects? The decision of marrying the one you love serves as a warning for all the consequences you could possibly think of once you are into it. Getting hooked up to, someone for eternity is giving your whole trust and somehow believing you would get the same trust in return.

We are weak; human as we are. But if both parties will work hand-in-hand and with God's guidance, with plenty of prayers and with selflessness, marriage will work. Marriage will prosper!

We don't need to hear another story like Jacque's in this world where marriage is sometimes, if not oftentimes, reduced to trial and error. Is the scene of a child in anger and in pain a sight to behold? Many parents may not agree with me, but divorce must not be a medicine to cure. In my opinion, it is not a solution to healing emotional wounds. However, if you are a divorcee parent reading this and managed to raise your children to a normal, happy life, my congratulations to you.

I am still into the definition of a family - a mother, a father and a child under one roof. I am still into getting the right plans and working it right, believing things will work at the right place and in God's divine hands. I do not want a situation where anybody can just remarry anyone at any time. It defeats marriage vows. Marriage for me is sacred and to go on with the relationship through thick and thin has its divine rewards.

Finally, love is a stunning thing to pledge ourselves to, though painful at times. But it is where we grow and mature in all things. Love should be the cure to heal and to motivate us again.

A place in the blogosphere

2008-08-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

With the existence of online technology, who isn’t into blogging? Many of those who are spending hours in the web are most likely maintaining online sites where they write anything they do, from protesting on the streets to commenting on the recent calamities to crying from heartbreak to sharing hobbies and shopping list, to even the daily weather condition.

A quick googling will reveal that a blog is the newest form of journalism with a reverse chronology, unfiltered content, comments, links, a relaxed attitude, and appropriated text. It is a short cut for a web log, a place where you can cover your own event and present it in an informal tone you want. A blog is your rants in a journal that is made public and readers post comments online.

I would have wanted a journal under lock and key much like the one I made when I was a toddler. I do not have any recollection as to where my highly confidential journal has been clandestinely resting now. Suspicion points though to one of the brown boxes mama piled for documents left untouched for years.

Mama is a hand that rocks the cradle with a magical prowess to discover hidden things, especially if they are of great concern – like love affairs or heartbreaks. The old journal contained all that, not to mention the day I lied about the big mirror I broke, or the money I unwearyingly saved for a trip to the city.

Before blogging became popular, I maintained a blue-covered journal that had every sweet and ghastly moment in it. The first page started with a warning “Please do not read” in big bold letters and in every page thereafter before every daily entry. This is to somehow scare infiltrators, e.g. housemates and friends, from breaking into my privacy and disclosing innermost thoughts not even my own shadow would like to recognize.

For many years, in all my travels in and out of the country, I scripted everything like a detailed story from a book.

It worked for months against all prying eyes. In some nights, I escaped from mom’s math and science tutorials so that I could spend time with my journal – writing equations of the heart and decoding the complex science of love.

I wrote, “My high school English teacher embarrassed me today. He said how could I be in the honor list when I cannot even correctly spell CREATE. I missed the last E just to be the first student to finish the essay.” I pondered deeply that night. Mom and Dad did not know. My journal did.

For years I haven’t asked mom of my journal’s whereabouts. I recalled I had the journal concealed under the bed covers before I left for college. No journal was found from then on. For weeks mom grinned like she had deciphered a code to Yamashita’s treasure. Each look was as mysterious as ever and I never asked.

In the advent of blogging, I feel I’d change my impression of journal writing. There is beauty in letting everyone know your private anticipations and imaginings! What excitement there can be to have your friends snigger at the running account of events happening in, on, to you! The good thing is, they can even be part of the tale you want to recoup, or moments you want to relive. How wonderful, isn’t it?

When the first posting showed online a year ago, I thought it was the beginning of revelations to come. Unlike the journal I had, my Composed Gentleman blog needs no warning or hiding from anyone. I comment about politics, careers, entertainment, books and even post interesting facts. Nobody tells me what to post, as I always believe, candor would be the best guide.

Which is better - Prime Minister or President?

2008-07-31T22:23:00.000-07:00

Cha-cha has come out in the news again. Charter change, that is. Opposing Philippine politicians are in a brawl once more, debating the need to shift from a presidential, bicameral system to a unicameral, parliamentary form of government.

So, which is preferable? Should the Filipino people retain this current presidential form of government or should we try the parliamentary system? Here is my viewpoint on the issue, which the press people, either print or TV, have been feasting on for so long now.

Changing the present form of government into parliamentary is not beneficial at all. It cannot be denied though that most of the countries in Southeast Asia, if not all of Asia, are into the parliamentary system. Except the Philippines. If one listens to the elected government officials in the administration camp, they'd spiel that the proposed system is better than what the Filipinos have at present. Would we swallow their words if these public officials say that all progressive countries employ the parliamentary form of government, with the USA as an exemption? Truth be told, in that regard, they are correct.

However, I still object to the change. It happened once, at the time of the late dictator, President Ferdinand Marcos, when parliamentary form was introduced. My generation had not been born yet that time. But history records never lie. The result of the shifting was harsh and beyond moronic. As expected, it resulted in a dictatorial government.

The argument that parliamentary form works in any country is a cock-and-bull story, a lie, a simple maneuver to get the people's trust. It worked in Thailand and other countries; therefore, it must work as well in the Philippines. Wrong logic! Basic concept of logic says that for two statements to be logically equivalent, they must always have the same truth-value. In this case, they do not.

Countries with parliamentary forms of government possess a strong historical foundation. They had good bedrock to which they base their system upon. Unfortunately, no matter how deep we go to search for that strong foundation in my country, we just do not have it.

One factor that may hinder the changing is the fact that we Filipinos behave differently. We change minds at every tick of the clock. We are readily persuaded to a point of surrendering our very own will. Putting a Prime Minister (PM) in a parliamentary form of government is based upon the 'vote of confidence'. If we do not like the PM, we could easily take him out of office. Aren't we Filipinos afraid we might be changing leaders ever so often because of our attitude toward public office? We have done that even in our current presidential form!

Changing the form of government is not de rigueur for the country's rise to development. If these cha-cha fanatics won't stop bugging (or begging) then they must do what they can to disseminate proper information and let the people, especially the masses, fully grasp and accept whatever advantage points the parliamentary form of government has. Many would oppose if they don't understand.

As for now, I go for the status quo. There is no need to revise or amend the Philippine Constitution because, as I see it, it has become a divisive move to the detriment of the country.

A mother’s sacrifice reflects heroic patience and love

2008-07-30T13:48:00.000-07:00

Mama told me not to build castles in the air, but of bricks. She was the one who constantly pushed me forward and stirred me to strive to be the best that I can. In the countless times that things went south and continued to fall apart, there she was, a wonder woman standing by my side swift to shield every unwilling part of me from the falling debris. She was there in each tear that was about to trickle or a smile that was about to break into laughter. She was there where superman failed to show and when any other superhero fell short to save.

Unlike Papa whose character could be likened to a silent harp, Mama harps her subterranean emotions out. The day when she defended my older brother from a wrongdoing and said how much she loves both of us and shed a tear afterwards, I cried with her.

Mama is full of love and the abundance of that gift is what I see in her. When I gaze at my mom, I see strength only the strongest person could be blessed. When I gaze at my mom, I see tears that will unselfishly shed wherever, whenever, on my behalf. I am convinced that what a mother cannot do is to abandon her child in grief.

Mothers are awe-inspiring individuals. If God has to dispel all His blessings from heaven, I would ask Him to hand over the lion’s share to the mothers. That is one of the best ways to pay them for their sacrifices.

Take this example. Janice, a colleague, often turned sentimental in the small talks we have had about her son, Johann.

The sacrifices of Janice to making her first child enjoys a normal childhood, is both lightening and heartbreaking. That day when she accepted the truth and knew full well that her son hasn’t been growing the way she hopes for him to be, I felt the pain inside her. At the age of two, Johann would have passed the crawling stage and started walking, or somehow attempted to walk. He would have been responding to noise and the call of his name. He would have been the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed little boy in the house. But, sad to know, he is the complete opposite.

Janice agonizes in the silence of her heart. Her desires for Johann to grow big and run, is far from truth. She wants him to meet her with a smile when she gets home from work. She wishes him to say ‘Mama, I love you’. She yearns for him to feel how dearly she loves him. She wants to experience the delight of hearing his ‘first word’, longs for him to hug her when she says “Come Johann” and wants him to hear what she talks about. Because she talks of love, of patience, of so much love, so much patience!

Patience is what Janice needs and Johann needs it most. It might be a battle to fight to the finish, but every battle can be won. This is no basket case, as far as I know, many have survived and ended with big happy stories to tell. Janice’s comforts now lie on the dream that in the fullness of time her son will become someone great – someone she would be so proud of.

Yet, Johann doesn’t have to be someone for Janice to love. As long as Janice is there and Johann needs her, she would continue to explore avenues, talk about love and communicate with patience What Janice, a sacrificing mother cannot do, is to desert Johann in grief. God bless the mothers!

Foreign students seeking graduate degree stems American Ph.D. crisis

2008-07-27T22:16:00.000-07:00

I was browsing for some graduate study links online and found an interesting post from The Chronicle about the declining number of American Ph.D. degree holders. What is the trend? The U.S. is luring foreigners into taking graduate studies. You most likely notice it in action with all the foreign students eagerly wanting to get their graduate degrees in SDSU. But why the decline? Why would a young American hate science and brush aside the big opportunity of having a Ph.D. degree?

The answer is simple: it does not pay! Here are some statistics between 1993 and 2001 as gathered by E. Rubenstein, a financial analyst, economics journalist and consultant:

• The number of U.S. citizens enrolled in graduate science and engineering programs fell 10 percent

• The number of foreign citizens enrolled in graduate science and engineering programs rose 26 percent

• The number of engineering Ph.D.s awarded to U.S. citizens rose from 1,887 in 1987 to 3,516 in 1996. But in 2002, only 1,890 engineering Ph.D.s were awarded to U.S. citizens

• Non-citizens received 32 percent of all science Ph.D.s awarded in 2002, up from 24 percent in 1987

• Non-citizens received 61 percent of engineering Ph.D.s awarded in 2002, up from 55 percent in 1987

The current data suggests that the new predictions may fare no better than earlier ones.

I could see clearly the real reason why Americans hesitate to study science and engineering - pursuing an advanced degree is a bad investment! A Ph.D. for instance: their wage premium while pursuing graduate study is not high enough to compensate for the five years of foregoing an industry salary.

According to Daniel S. Greenberg, an author and writer at The Washington Post, the failure of more Americans to pursue science studies can in part be attributed to poor high school and college programs for nurturing scientific talent. But the much-lamented turn away from science also reflects sound economic calculation. The post-college route to a science Ph.D. usually takes five to seven years. Postdoctoral fellowships, now a commonplace requirement for most academic and many industrial jobs, run for two to three years. Postdoctoral wages only average around $35,000 a year, without benefits. With this remuneration in mind, for Americans, pursuing a doctorate in science or engineering could initiate a net lifetime financial damage.

For foreigners, on the other hand, an American science or engineering degree remains attractive, relative to their options at home. Ask any scientifically talented foreign student from a developing country, and you would get an answer that a career obtained in the United States is a wondrously tempting opportunity. This is why foreign students come in droves and prefer to make their careers in the United States.

However, the U.S. may not have to worry too much in this so-called crisis, as those foreign citizens who received their Ph.D.s' are more likely to stay in the U.S., according to the National Science Foundation report. Therefore, they still play a major role in the American science and technology development.

There may be a decline or shortage of American Ph.D.s, but the U.S. research or scientific enterprise is still flourishing as seen in the eyes of the foreign nationals. I think Americans should be glad of this mixture of foreign and homegrown talents on their lands. The crisis may not sound good, but at least you make the future of these foreign students from third-world countries brighter. Just think of that.

Worlds apart - Hometown Musing

2008-07-26T22:18:00.000-07:00

I am a Filipino. I was born in Argao. The place has yet to be swayed by civilization and advancement or exploitation perhaps.

In that southern part of Cebu, Philippines, houses are situated beneath green slopes, mostly concealed under a lush shade that seems to have existed long before my great-grandfathers. My own home lies up the field, a kilometer or so away from the town proper and across meadows.

So what's worthy of reminiscing about a hometown with no street shops filled with popular goods or karaoke bars or KTVs to spend the night away in? Sizzling disco houses are still big dreams for the place even. No neon lights that light up the streets at night. No coffee shops that clone the coffee mocha at Cottonwood.

Huge bats circle the trees at night. Unpaved roads are traversed on barefoot. Trisikads (three-tire motor vehicles) roam the place in great numbers. Horses gallop in unison. And where can you find five people clinging to just one motorcycle, holding their breath as it dashes along a rocky trail? Dozens of these motorcycles convey commuters from the lowlands to our version of the Himalayas.

The town folks beat the sunrise, feed their hogs and chickens, tend the farms and wash clothes in the nearby riverside spring. They don't worry about the water supply being cut off due to an unpaid bill. Most people live very simple lives - with only kerosene-operated lights flickering on rather hushed dark nights.

They cross roads, minus the fear of parting with a hard-earned bill for jaywalking. Anyone is free to paint the town red, without fear of catching respiratory diseases from smoke-belching vehicles. Oh, if one happens to be along the shore on early mornings, he may give fishermen a hand and go home with pounds of fish, free of charge.

Many years ago, I left for the city to earn a degree, as my avenue of escape, and to unload a 16-year-old boredom with my hometown. I wanted to make a difference in my life, to make a hit at my dreams. It's a different thing seeing Terminator or Rambo kicking big on the big screen, going shopping till you drop or at least, checking out the latest craze in town. I longed for the pleasure the city had to offer.

But one day, I went hiking with a couple of friends in one of the exploited mountains in the metropolis. Terrible it was. The royal blue sky hovering over the city was partly covered with dark fumes. The city below and its wonders - towers and skylines, crowded streets and entertainment centers - seemed to be compressed into a small space.

In the vicinity were trees that offered no shade. Birds could not sing. Butterflies hungered for flowers. The silence could wake the dead. At that very instant, I was reminded of home.

I recalled my first trek to Cansuje, one of the mountainous barangays in Argao. I passed through a lot of quilt scenery: Mount Lantoy, famous for its "Maria de Cacao" myth (Maria is believed to be the lady who lived in a cave and sailed the rivers with her huge ark), the rivers and the currents and the thick woods all profoundly green. The cold morning breeze benumbed me. Like what I saw in jungle movies, monkeys used vines everywhere like a trapeze. Along the way, I saw people fetch drinking water from a nearby spring. Everything thrilled me into pieces.

I used to climb our chico tree with my brother Noel each time I was home for a vacation, without rhyme or reason. Who could ever forget Tiririt? She was the cute, little bird we restored to her nest. The chico tree is still there, with the birds that fly in summer skies, mountains that never fail to give a hush-hush morning greeting and water in abundance.

I now live in the Brookings where snow falls even in spring time, where things are run by technology and advancement. Argao and Brookings are worlds apart, and in moments of melancholy, I always think of the former.

Last night, I emptied myself into the luxurious city and then came to love a place I should have always loved. Home.

Ora et Labora (Prayer and Work)

2008-07-25T22:12:00.000-07:00

Fr. Paul mentions something about people who seem to be so attached with work that they forget and set aside God.

I wrote something about this before.

Ora et Labora (translated as Prayer and Work) are ancient monastic values. The values are for busy people who, because of their tight schedules, have sporadically affected their time of silence and prayer.

For many of us, labour has become our existence. People see us on our feet frequently moving, or more appropriately running, like there is someone catching us up from behind. We become more of pursuers than just plain dreamers. More often than not, we were reminded by friends to take an hour off on a Sunday afternoon to chill out from a tough week of pure working.

Nonetheless we never learn. We often do this and that, this and that again and juggle time like the world would end any moment. From the Mystery of the Ordinary, the writer wits: "To stop and rest is to trust that the world will go on in an orderly fashion without my help for a few minutes or a few hours." In the defence of the workaholics, we just cannot tolerate chances. Tragedies happen when we begin to take chances. To us it seems the world would come to a halt if we do not make our moves count. Work shapes us. We love work and we abhor the idea of stopping.

“Pray and work” is the summation of the Benedictine Rule. If someone wishes to attain a dwelling place in His kingdom, he shall not reach it unless he does his share of good deeds. Prayer and work must go together. Somehow the same meaning is conveyed by the words preachers often quip: “Do your best and God will do the rest”. Time and again, we are reminded of the reality that working too much is never enough, prayer must have its share for God to emancipate His power of fulfilling the rest of the tasks.

Yet why have we in one way or another lost the grace to rest and just be still? How heavy-loaded are we exactly to hardly find a way for God to tune in perfectly the stations of our Christian lives? Not long before, observing holy days set a variety of picks: go to this prayer meeting, attend this Pastor’s talk, be on this healing mass, enjoy the worship concerts (or we even picked all) – lately, too busy we are.

When I was still in the Philippines, a close friend of mine gave me a book “The Purpose Driven Life”. It is a book so many are slowly being touched I think. Students read it on jeepney rides and businessmen browse the pages inside café houses. I turned to the page that carries the question “What makes God smile?” The author enumerates few things. I want to focus on the last two.

First: God smiles when we praise and thank him personally. God loves it when praises and adoration are expressed for Him. We know very well that prayer is a way of praising and adoring God. Prayer is the way to His heart. Prayer, spoken or unspoken, brings miracles. Second: God smiles when we use our abilities. God wants us all to be the designed humans He made us to be – make love with your husbands and wives, plant crops and eat, watch this TV program, read books, go for a walk, play basketball. As the author puts it, “God said that it is time to get on with life”. Stated differently, do what is humane and wholesome.

Now we pondered how God has viewed our being individuals whose moment of stillness has not been so apparently fulfilled. The line “Be still, and know that I am God” really means, in its complete contemporary biblical setting, “Cease, relax, Shut Up! Spare time for me and know that I am God”. To bring this moment to perfection is in fact Saint Benedict’s perpetual prayer.

We characterize our lives with the words: doctor, computer programmer, professor, engineer, manager, designer, architect, accountant – all presuppose that accomplishment means doing. God smiles when we work. God smiles when we use the gifts of talents He conferred to us. As much as He wants us to laugh, to be ourselves and benefit from all His other creations, to enjoy every fraction of our existence in a sacramental manner, He also wants us to rest and pray.

Then we laze around in joy at what we have done, how we have prayed. This, we know, we believe, would make Him smile even more.

Brookings warrior children makes God smile even more

2008-07-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

I pondered on how God has viewed our being individuals whose moment of stillness has not been so apparently fulfilled. The line in the bible that says “Be still, and know that I am God” really means, in its complete contemporary biblical setting, “Cease, relax, and shut up! Spare time for me and know that I am God”. In one of Fr. Paul’s homilies last holy week, the same verse came out and I was taken back to the time when I devotedly listened to God in the stillness of my heart.

Knowing that I haven’t read anything religious printed in the Collegian since I started writing late last year, I thought that this will be the start of something different. Few days ago, someone close to me asked, “Are you not reluctant to write about God in your column?” “With what God has done for me all these years, writing won’t even be enough”, I answered without reservations.

Few years ago, a dear friend gave me a book called “The Purpose Driven Life”. I heard that it was a bestseller – students read it during bouts of silence in bus rides and even successful businessmen browsed the pages inside café houses. Curious, I turned to the page that carries the question “What makes God smile?”

It says that God smiles when people praise and thank him personally. God loves it when praises and adoration are expressed for Him. Prayer is the way to His heart. Prayer, spoken or unspoken, brings miracles.

Lines from the book struck me hard. They reminded me to wake up from the existing state of hallucination to God’s wonderful state of reality. To be in that reality, is to pray. God commands everyone to pray.

In this lifetime, many a times I find myself trying to square circles with only God's armor to cling to. With a firm foundation in Him, those times would equate to believing and claiming what He has promised that I could move mountains and that when legions of principalities turn up my way, I could never be taken apart.

Look around. There are a lot of spiritual warriors in SDSU. Visit the Pius XII Newman Center or the many Christian churches around Brookings and notice that the majority of the church goers are students. That doesn’t happen in other Christian countries, believe me.

When I was in the Netherlands and lived there for two years, only the elderly attended services. Most horribly, there were only a handful in the church; I could even count them with my fingers. Here though, I was left open-mouthed and overly astounded on my first attendance as college students flocked the church.

In a liberated country like the U.S., my idea of a church service is no more than what I experienced in Europe. That only few American teenagers still believe in God's great promises. I was proven wrong though at the sight of an army of God – students earnestly praying, standing ready with truth as the belt, righteousness as the breastplate, and as shoes the readiness to announce the Good News. Young men and women that I first thought know no place but a night pub were present.

These students in church, I call them the warrior children. They, who dropped their swords, ran towards God and took refuge in His quiet place of rest, even for just one day in a week. Amen, for each student and every living soul inside the church. Amen, for all the desires of their hearts, which I am certain, will be answered in God’s precious time.

In Brookings, most students, if not all, are companions on the journey. They are the warrior children, who together laze around in joy at what they have done with their lives, how they have prayed. This, they all know, would make God smile even more.

Old photos and memories from times long gone

2008-07-17T22:31:00.000-07:00

Do you know the stories behind your old photos? I just looked at mine and, yes, I do.

There's one good reason why this week I metamorphosed into an archaic-photo enthusiast.

A short meeting with a fellow Filipino in Brookings weeks ago got me into thinking to scan my old pictures and salvage them from further wear and tear. Each photo in her stack of albums, she insisted, carries brilliant stories of long ago that should not be expunged simply through waning and yellowing. In as much as she wanted the photos to be reinstated to their original grandeur, there was nothing so much she could do but to clean them from lizards' debris, having been concealed in the filing cabinet for quite a time.

Hours later, inside my room, I brushed and scraped. There is this box I brought along from the Philippines that is full of old photos of me and my family. It has been in my drawer for over a year already and, today, it grinds its teeth and spews eruptive magma of displeasure saying, "lazy dude, clean me!"

While meticulously unfolding and smoothing the furrows for hours, I also spent appreciating how little I have changed all these years in terms of looks. Even perhaps the not-so-close friends could effortlessly spot me from the rest of my look-alike clan associates. They probably would be quick to cop out on certain facial features that are very evident-the round eyes, uniquely-shaped eyebrows, flushed cheeks and the shipshape boy-cut hair I always have been sporting. "You still have the same big eyes and cute flat nose," I could imagine them asserting. Oh well, I could only give a very consenting nod when that happens.

As the scuffing continued, I chanced upon a black and white photo,which fully monopolized my interest, of me and my cousins. It was the main reason why I became too enthusiastic like a budding photographer for this article. Apart from the photo's more than 20-year value, the faces of my cousins were equally appealing. I imagined how the years made each one of us the persons that we are at present.

The old photo did not only paint thousands of words or imaginings but created the untold stories that I never knew happened before; as told by Mama-in the past-when I asked her why there were giant pigs in front of us that almost hid my small, young frame; she giggly told me how she panicked when the neighbor's pigs cut loose from their enclosure and headed towards the 'little' league members who were all smiling for the long-anticipated picture-taking. She said that she had run crazily, mightily after the pigs to shoo them away with just a twig in her hand and tongue-lashed our neighbor thereafter for putting my life at risk.

Photos bring back memories of yesteryears. Good or bad, they are sources of forgotten sagas of life. I want to re-live the past many years from now. That is why I have been collecting loads of photos from different events in and out of the SDSU campus-from paid student events, to free plays at the auditorium, to important inaugurations and parties, to even conferences and small gatherings in Brookings.

Great impressions are scarce, not to mention precious, and I want to catch them while I can. As Rutger Hauer's character of Roy Batty in Blade Runner said before he died: "All these moments will be lost in time. Like tears in the rain…" So, join me. Get those cameras clicking and enjoy the Kodak moments.

Charter Change does no good to a developing country

2008-07-14T13:43:00.000-07:00

Cha-cha has come out in the news again. Charter change, that is. Opposing Philippine politicians are in a brawl once more, debating the need to shift from a presidential, bicameral system to a unicameral, parliamentary form of government.

So which is preferable? Should the Filipino people retain this current presidential form of government or should we try the parliamentary system? Here is my viewpoint on the issue, which the press people, either prints or TV, have been feasting on for so long now.

Changing the present form of government into parliamentary is not beneficial at all. It cannot be denied though that most of the countries in Southeast Asia, if not all of Asia, are into the parliamentary system. Except the Philippines. If one listens to the elected government officials in the administration camp, they'd spiel that the proposed system is better than what the Filipinos have at present. Would we swallow their words if these public officials say that all progressive countries employ the parliamentary form of government, with the USA as an exemption? Truth be told, in that regard, they are correct.

However, I object to the changing still. It happened once, at the time of the late dictator Pres. Ferdinand Marcos, when parliamentary form was introduced. My generation has not been born yet that time. But history records never lie. The result of the shifting was harsh and beyond moronic. As expected, it resulted into a dictatorial government.

The argument that parliamentary form works in any country is a cock-and-bull story, a lie, a simple maneuver to get the people's trust. It worked in Thailand and other countries; therefore, it must work as well in the Philippines. Wrong logic! Basic concept of logic says that for two statements to be logically equivalent, they must always have the same truth value. In this case, they don't.

Countries with parliamentary forms of government possess a strong historical foundation. They had good bedrock to which they base their system upon. Unfortunately, even how deeper we go to search for that strong foundation in my country, we just don't have it.

One factor that may hinder the changing is the fact that we Filipinos behave differently. We change minds at every tick of the clock. We are readily persuaded to a point of surrendering our very own will. Putting a Prime Minister (PM) in a parliamentary form of government is based upon the "vote of confidence". If we do not like the PM, we could easily take him out of office. Aren't we Filipinos afraid we might be changing leaders ever so often because of our attitude toward public office? We have done that even in our current presidential form!

Changing the form of government is not de rigueur for the country’s rise to development. If these cha-cha fanatics won't stop bugging (or begging) then they must do what they can to disseminate proper information and let the people, especially the masses, fully grasp and accept whatever advantage points the parliamentary form of government has. Many would oppose if they don't understand.

As of now, I go for the status quo. There is no need to revise or amend the Philippine Constitution because, as I see it, it has become a divisive move to the detriment of the country.

Death compels one to deal with the profoundness of life

2008-07-10T13:40:00.000-07:00

I thought it would be timely to write about death. A lot of crying has been covered lately on TV and prints for the death of over thirty students at Virginia Tech. In the Philippines, the list of journalists being killed is growing and leaving pictures of families left behind wailing in grief. There was this news about an innocent 2-year old child that was hit by a stray bullet while sleeping in the comfort of his room. Yes, in this column, I will be detailing a chronicle of death. Unless you are not afraid of the word, stop reading.

Few years ago, the surprising death of my young professor in law school made my classmates and I realized our own vulnerabilities. He was just as strong as anyone else the day before he died, laughing and throwing his daily punch lines in class and even joked about health. Little did we know that he’d die the next day. His passing confirmed the verity of how susceptible anyone is to death.

Having already experienced the death of my grandpa’s sister, who happened to be my closest ninang (godmother), I had gone through a deeper way of investigating, feeling through, and attempting to formulate sense of just what passing away means. As a youngster that time, it was never a straightforward thing to believe and to accept, nor, it was something that I could uncover all of the answers for my minor questions.

Mama Tintay, my ninang, after being diagnosed with cancer of the breast, was given just as much as needed time to get her dealings organized, to cry her goodbyes to her families and to spend what little value time she had remaining, struggling to convey all of the words and thoughts of wisdom and care that most parents have a lifetime to convey to their children. She did this with so much love and seemliness. Though very hard for her, she opted to somehow spend the little “life” she had left with her nearest and dearest, that being her family. When she finally left us, something was confirmed: it is not the person who passes away that has to suffer with death but those who stay behind. How very true. Everyone cried, even my sister cried for days.

The death of Mama made a difference in the mind of a high-schooler that was me. Her leaving compels me to deal with the profoundness of life. Never before had I thought of the reverse side of living to be significant as when faced with her death, especially when I think of her being embraced by the all-encompassing hands of God, free of pain. In memory of Mama, I might have paid attention on the loss. But having known and loved her, I realized I have only gained. Her love continues to stay alive and provide me and all in the family with the might to do what we can with our lives. The last time I visited her grave, I reflected at the hyphen located between the dates on the tombstone and thought of all the wonderful things that lie in between.

Mama Tintay had lived. She had fun, laughed and cried, felt love and loved so genuinely, for many million things. Since I believe things happen for a reason, the dying of Mama or my law professor for that matter was never a loss. Well, I can only picture Mama in heaven having a grand old time. She is home.

Lastly, I share the thought of President Chicoine for all those who have lost their loved-ones in the Virginia Tech tragedy – may we all pray for healing and wholeness of life to come.

Live life happily

2008-07-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

How to live life happily? Most often, I’d get suggestions like: make a contribution by working hard in a work you love; be in the know and intelligent; gather a surplus; love your family above your friends, your cellphone, your dog, your career; and progress in the firm and gain high title and salary, stock options, benefits. Everyone I know agrees: this is life’s joy.

However, happiness is not at all about being paid, or living in luxury, or getting wealthy, or having a blue-collar job and finding a partner. I am more convinced that happiness goes beyond any human reason.

Convincing took place in a more unanticipated way. Years ago, I met Carmen, a German national who came to Cebu to complete a study on the city’s garbage condition. Visiting garbage dumpsites almost everyday on her three-month stay, the research goal was just as noble as her. She is a dainty lady whom I thought had already been endowed with a life so uncomplicated and painless in her home country in Europe, yet in Cebu, chose to work in a place we locals detest to be in.

Carmen wanted to give a little part of her. Residents in the dumpsite loved her gradually. As she developed in herself a love for the children scavengers, the desire to help grew more. She spent significant time nourishing them, taking them to leisure parks whenever she had the chance. Even during holidays, she was with the children.

After 3 months, Carmen went back to Germany. She promised to be back and become a full-time volunteer.

Nico was another German national I had met, whose big heart went for the needy. He was extending a helping hand to the child prostitutes in Cebu who were rescued from the dangerous, exploitive bars in the city. Housed in a private Center – its maintenance rested mainly on donations from kind hearts – Nico attempted every effort to keep the children away from the job they were forced to do.

With positive insights, Nico constantly lifted the broken spirits of these children through openness and realization that there is more to life than just the short-time shifts they got from the streets. With him and a couple of caretakers, they were able to generate additional meager source of revenue by selling homemade pastries. This, they have to do to at least send the children to school. At the moment, their finances could only provide for the schooling of three children.

I had visited the Center myself and saw society naked in truth. I had the chance as well to meet Tanya, one of the founders of the Center. When she started it with another German volunteer, she encountered so many impossibilities, like sustenance! She said she had to gather donations (in thousands Euro) for the yearly provisions. Further, she told me that she would never stop supporting the Center.

True, the Center needs aid in every way to go on with this praiseworthy goal.

A gift to see people. That is what Carmen, Nico and Tanya have. They are generous givers living with an eternal perspective and experiencing completely every joy there is in giving. For them it does not feel like a burden but a pleasure. Unconcerned with how much they own, they favor giving over getting. The driving motivation: not self-concern but love for others!

I was touched by their persistence and desire.

In this moment in time when I often see on TV hungry people – children hunting food in garbage stacks, teens making money selling their reputation – it is not true, what others declare, that as an individual, we cannot help them. There are a number of ways a would-be giver can do. Most of the time, it only takes the first step to start the ball rolling.

In finality, giving is not merely a ritual or a habit we should do out of pity but an act made up of sincere love. Albeit it is hard to change current motivation overnight, hence we hope and pray for courage to unlearn it and keep a new, inspiring one in place. Then we would add it to our list of life’s joys.

If Carmen, Nico, Tanya and the rest of the kind-hearted volunteers from Germany, Austria and France enjoyed it, there is no reason for us not to see the joy in sharing and to develop the grace to perform a worthy purpose.

Is it enough not to do evil?

2008-06-27T13:35:00.000-07:00

November formally lands boiling over with questions on faith in God. Since I had written a couple of religious stuff in the previous issues of this paper, I rummaged through one of the products of my early glorious moments at writing and thought of publishing a non-sequitur-like entry such as this.

Action without faith, is it enough? To do good and not evil; is it a guarantee of getting a place up there in the vast kingdom of God?

They say it is easy to be among the millions who are rejoicing in the heavens. They say that a place has already been set for us - a place surrounded by God’s infinite goodness. But can the grace be granted to those who are unprepared and undeserving individuals?

There is a moral foundation of the universe that in every effect there is always a cause. In every action there is always a counterpart reaction. It equally applies to human beings. I presume in every religion you’ll hear that “as ye sow, shall ye reap.” We get what we deserve.

We see it around. People do charity works and devote their time and service for the less fortunate others. Few make sure to live their lives in an upright and blameless way. What returns are rightly due for these be worthy of honor individuals? Read: he who plants melons, reap melons; he who does good, begets good.

I am sure that God is happy for these people. On the other hand, I am also sure that He is happier for those who recognize and acknowledge His presence. True, there are those who do generous deeds but very poor in spirit. Will God open His arms for them in acceptance? No doubt, he will. His mercy is incomparable and beyond measure.

A national magazine in my country once ran a very miraculous story of a lady who was sick of sclerosis (a hardening of a body part or tissue), was wearing a full body brace and had to be physically transported to places. Doctors had given up hope on her and that she almost died a couple of times already. But alas, she outlived it, survived the doctor’s death sentence and bears no trace of having the disease at all. How did she do it? Did she spend all her days healing her body?

The lady is a deeply spiritual person. For years she has prayed religiously, despite her own helpless state, not just for her own sake but for others too who needed most of her prayers. Her heart goes out beyond her own needs. Today, she has recovered and enjoyed sharing meaningful services to everybody else. With the miraculous event that happened in her life, she did not forget to thank the one responsible for it. She believes that by doing good and at the same time experiencing God’s power; it will create a happiness that no one could ever, ever give and achieve. She was healed because she qualified for it. Not only had she became a true disciple of God but also a true servant to all.

The law is so simple and just. No one can easily inherit the kingdom. The good thing is, the deserving had already been reserved.

We claim that if the sun shines on both the sinner and the saint, how come that most of the time the good suffers while the immoral and the corrupt turn out well and prosper. This is just an illusion. Continuously, life keeps books and records on all of us. If we have our own tally sheets so does life. In there, can be found all our liabilities and holdings. In there, can be revealed all our strengths and weaknesses, triumphs and defeats, failures and accomplishments. After all, we are the sum total of all our actions.

When we serve humanity and be of service to Him, then we may be worthy and entitled of God's assistance and rewards, which come in various forms and many folds including a place set in heaven.

Finally, to reserve a space up above, we aim for good and not evil. Also note that God wishes to let Himself shine in our midst. Hence, let us ask ourselves what we can do to serve the Supreme Best and His flock. May we not wait to be trapped in a hopeless situation, to be gasping for breath, just to know God’s mercy and love.

Is it enough not to do evil? Yes, but when we couple it with faith and trust, praise and thanksgiving to the one and only source of all good things to come, God will smile even more. Only then we can draw our rewards when we have saved enough.

When brown is mixed with white – finding your true identity

2008-06-23T13:29:00.000-07:00

Brown-colored skin. That’s what I have. No trace of yellowish or white tints in me. Only pure brown, like I was baked to perfection, so to speak. With both parents having the lineage of the locally-bred mature generation, the product is a no more than a similar-looking life form. To translate it into percentage of blood, I am 100% Filipino. Although grandparents claim to acquire a certain fraction of blood from the Spanish conquistadores, there is no trace of that declaration evident on me. If there was indeed truth to that, I am inclined to believe that huge mosquitoes that linger in the Philippine forests had already sucked what insignificant amount of foreign blood I had.

The pureness in me makes me ponder at how life would look or feel like had I been a son of a foreign national, say American national. In my country, there is some sort of partiality towards mixed blood individuals because they look much better than the normal, local-looking Indios. Lighter complexion, lighter hair color, sharper nose tip, curved eyelashes, thinner lips, reddish checks, well-defined chin, taller than average, pleasant foreign accent – these and maybe hundreds more set the foreign breeds apart from us.

We call them mestizo (men) or mestiza (women). They are the manifestation of what a visible beauty looks like. The mixture of skin color is no doubt bringing a delightful combination of good-looking Filipinos. They are there when forced circumstances need them. See them winning beauty pageants, enjoying showbiz spotlights – and also, singing when they can’t even sing, acting when they can’t even shed a tear. However, the point of this article is neither to jeer at them nor to look at their limitations. Their presence in my country is what I am glad about. Their acknowledgement of being Filipinos by heart is what I am proud of. They maybe half of one and half of another, nevertheless, tuyo (dried fish), bagoong (salted fish), balot (boiled duck egg with 15-day chick), lechon (roasted pig), and rice are no less than their accustomed burger or fries or mashed potato meals.

In more than a year of being abroad, I have already met many young second-generation or third generation Filipinos, Filipino-Americans who have never forgotten their roots. Salute to the parents of these children! Though they may sound different, but they think like us, eat the food we eat, like true-blooded locals. The Filipino family values are intact. Filipinos pride themselves of having close-knit families and keeping Christian morals amidst the all-too liberated American culture. Minae, my Japanese/American/Filipino friend calls me Kuya (a term use to address an older brother), even if we are not blood related – this because of the fact that Filipinos have high respect for elders.

Here in the United States, where individualism is priority and children tend to demand their rights as individuals, Filipino parents always have solutions to patch up the differences, compromising on certain behaviors or practices, without completely sacrificing the Filipino beliefs and traditions. Filipino families’ desires for their children are to grow up humble, considerate, hardworking and courteous individuals.

These Filipino-slash-whatever-other-culture new generations may be forced to live in two worlds but they have found their Filipino identity. That is important. For it is neither about the color of the hair nor the color of the skin. It is accepting who you truly are and where you come from. As what the Filipino/Spanish Hollywood movie actress Tia Carrere said, “It's a shame to leave behind your Filipino heritage.”

SMS spamming abused by mobile service providers

2008-06-20T13:28:00.000-07:00

"You are qualified to win the daily lotto, to join please text back......"

I suspect that the number of text messages sent daily is growing very rapidly anywhere around the world. As per estimate, the sent rate is hundreds of billions per annum. With its wide coverage, text messaging has been the target of spammers, and text spamming is becoming a bigger problem than e-mail-based spam.

For over a year of owning a phone in the U.S., there were only few instances that I received text spams from the network provider. This is in contrast to what David Lazarus said in his article for the San Francisco Chronicle that millions of SMS spams are circulating already in the U.S., of which younger cell phone users who send the most text messages are usually targeted. What's more, many cell phone subscribers face the double whammy of having to pay 10 cents for every text message received, whether read or unread, solicited or unsolicited.

I see this problem as worldwide and certainly not unique to U.S. mobile users only. If the U.S. sees this as a problem for their nearly 10 billion text messages sent every month, how much more for the much smaller country Philippines, tagged as the “SMS capital of the world”, which sends an average of 400 million text messages a day or approximately 142 billion text messages a year, according to a report late last year from the country's telecom regulator, the National Telecommunications Commission (NTC). Every subscriber in the Philippines sends about 15-20 texts daily. That is more than all the SMS volumes of European countries, China and India. When you visit my country, do not be surprised if you see people texting while crossing a busy intersection, or eating in fine restaurants, or texting while eating, or even dancing. Texting can be done simultaneously with every task Filipinos do. Didn’t I tell you that most Filipinos text without looking at the keypad?

At the end of 2007, the four main mobile-phone service providers in the country reported there were 43 million cellphone subscribers in the Philippines, up from 35 million a year earlier. It is expected that the trend will continue as providers continue to compete by providing low and affordable service offerings (only PHP 1.00 or USD 0.019 per text as compared to the USD 0.15 in the U.S.) and many promotional gimmicks. One of the famous services is the unlimited texting, regardless of the day and time, which subscribers truly buy. One more thing, only the sender is charged for the text!

While in the U.S. communication officials are acknowledging the emerging serious problem on spamming and are taking steps to make sure it doesn't become more widespread, in the Philippines, the NTC may lift the moratorium on commercial text messages being broadcast over cellular phone networks. The agency may introduce a revised moratorium circular on deceptive "text spam" that must be complied by mobile phone companies and their content providers. However, this revised circular simply regulates spamming (maybe blocking few messages). Not totally scrapping it off.
When I left the Philippines, mobile phone subscribers were sending thousands of complaints to NTC about their service providers billing them for receiving unsolicited text messages and annoying broadcasts.

Frankly, I am not seeing a rapid solution for text spams. With the millions of text messages sent a day, service providers will continue to look for ways to tap this frontier for easy profit and revenue. Spams will continue coming to each and every mobile phone!

Should I be glad that I am in the U.S.?

Poverty and corruption will not change national pride

2008-06-17T22:27:00.000-07:00

I write about national issues and also about touching lives. This is about two of my Filipino friends, Sharon and Mimi.

The oil-rich Saudi Arabia became Sharon's home right after her college graduation. As an entertainer in a foreign land, money fills her purse with no trouble at all when she belts out her songs like no other could. Today, she is as rich as the country she is working in.

Mimi's talent has brought her to a far away place. I knew it the first time I saw her twist her waist gracefully in a local dance competition. Precisely so, she boogied herself to Japan. For money and family, she dances with pride.

Sharon and Mimi dislike the Philippines for not having much to offer in regards to good jobs and compensation because of the apparently unending problems in the government. Abroad, surviving life may be hard for both; nevertheless, the price of aloneness is a long-lasting abundance.

So why would I continue loving and enduring a country where friends think poverty, corruption and politicking have become a way of life? Why would I remain loyal to the flag when corruption clings like a malignant tumor obstructing political stability and hindering foreign investments? Why, when my family has been pushing me to stick to Uncle Sam? They wondered on my forever-national allegiance.

Mimi wasn't wrong when she decided to take a chance and danced her way for the Japanese audience. Neither was Sharon sinful when she preferred the applause of the Arabs. Theirs were decisions forced by existing circumstances.

I admit I do now resemble dream-wise like Sharon and Mimi, though not completely. Even if I am physically absent in the Philippines, I still think about the welfare of my homeland.

While everyone is rushing to leave the country for greener pastures abroad and forgetting their roots altogether, I keep my contacts. I keep on writing for all the hopeless Filipinos, just like back home.

I write to somehow touch the hearts of government leaders so they'd run our institutions with competence and proficiency, minus the greed in power and wealth. I write to somehow encourage public servants to dislodge the wrong values and instead develop honesty and integrity in public office. I write so proper statutes on the evil creature of corruption be situated. I write this for the millions of my countrymen whose hopes are shattered and who have been waiting for the advent of a happier life.

This life of mostly discontentment, I write for a country fastened to a poisonous weed of bribery and theft, a country deserted by my friends Sharon and Mimi upon seeing their hopes lost in the society's twisting wind of uncertainties.

I write because mine is a voice so little for the over 80 million Filipinos, yet can become loud through every article of: Hope, to see Filipino dreams finally found; Encouragement, to use our art and culture for touching lives; Anticipation, to change our attitude and love the country more and more; Realizations, to make use of our skills and talents in molding our future; and Desire, to someday see Sharon singing and Mimi dancing on Philippine soil while the Filipino audience, including me, claps in awe.

Execution by "firing squad" on day set aside for friendship

2008-06-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

Who wants a date on Valentine’s Day? No, I do not want one. No need to beat around the bush, I abhor the day. When St. Valentine sent the first ‘Valentine’ greeting ‘From your Valentine’ during the third century, I have this idea he wasn’t after for an intimate love. Go google it. The greeting was for the daughter of a prison guard who constantly visited him in his prison cell after he was caught for not obeying or supporting the Emperor’s law on marriages. On the day he was sentenced to death, he left the note thanking the girl for friendship and loyalty.

The note was about friendship. Valentine was a good priest and I deem he cannot allow himself to fall in love with a girl and abandon his holy vows. He was after for friendship alone.

I ask, why do some people have to wear red or anything of that shade to attract potential partners on February 14th, when during this day of Valentine’s death he simply conveyed the message of appreciating our friends? I do not understand. The lack of a girlfriend or a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day seems to be a curse in this day and age. I do not know how it works here in the United States, but in the Philippines, if you do not have a ‘date’ on the 14th, you are a sure target of the ‘firing squad’.

To those deficient in English, firing squad is a method of execution where several soldiers agreeably fire to members of the condemned, typically restrained and hooded, common during the war era. In short, it is a supreme punishment of torture.

Firing squad interpreted in the light of Valentine’s Day means people (who happened to find their special someone in time for heart’s day) persecute the unfortunate loveless for sharing with Valentine’s feelings and believing that it is a day of friendship. Afraid (or tired could be the superlative word) to answer queries why they are still single and alone, the loveless take cover behind their office cubicles and pretend they have workloads to do. This way they evade irritating torments from happy-to-be-attached officemates who obviously need a lecture about the history of Valentine’s Day.

When I had this discussion on my blog, readers had different reactions about my perception. One said that the original meaning of Valentine's Day may have been different. But what it has become, either due to tradition or commercialism, is something that each and every one should respect. Another said that, it has become a day for celebration of love - mostly romantic love. Even if you don't have a special someone, it is just nice to know that a day has been reserved for lovers. It has been that for years and its positive impact in strengthening bonds and adding spice to every relationship can never be understated.

I am not against people who see it as a tradition of expressing love to someone dearest and therefore are obliged to follow, just to make my point clear. What I don't like is the thought of doing it only on the 14th of February, when people could equally execute the same for the rest of the 365 days. Further, having no one special to celebrate it with is not frightful at all. I want everyone to know that Valentine's Day is for you and me and for every other single soul attached or unattached - and the day could still become perfect even if you are alone.

Lastly, if you are alone [thesaurus: unattached, uncommitted, single, unmarried] on Valentine’s Day, don’t fret. Dial an unattached, uncommitted, single, unmarried friend and explain to him/her what exactly the day is all about. Odd maybe, but your friend will believe you. Besides, he/she is in the same situation as yours. So, for those who are unattached, there is still something good to look forward to on this day.

Falling for a brown-haired American girl at The Union

2008-06-10T13:23:00.000-07:00

What's wrong with him? What's with that slight cacophony in the way he moves nowadays? Every day, he senses a lovey-dovey cadence of delight he only felt in the comfort of a swing in the backyard back home.

He is the composed gentleman. He is acutely aware that he is, at this moment, engaging in a world he never existed in so well. As you are about to read, he is on his way to dipping his toes into the relationship puddle after a significant bout of solitude.

It's all because of Miss Eve. His heart has been lying dead for the past months. He could describe it as an organ that had lost its joie de vivre, the strength to possess that capacity to love. Yet, here comes Eve, pricks it with her smile and intoxicating giggles and a hip that sways to a rhythm she alone can create, and, without further elucidation, his heart realizes that there is life after death.

Therefore, as he sees it, it began for both of them. Him and Eve, the girl he secretly admires (or maybe salivates over is the right phrase) at the Student Union during lunchtime. In between the eating and the sipping is her face, beautifully carved at the forefront of his imagination whenever he fails to see her. But the times she is in, his world suddenly stops revolving and he thinks of a zillion what-ifs and how-tos. Her long, dark-brownish hair tempts him. Her round, stunningly-pretty eyes speak "come to me." Every exquisite moment that goes by further consolidates her conquest over him.

He never made any authentic plan of finding her since he considers himself one of those individuals who finds pleasure living alone. Aloneness allows his artistic self to transpire. He is one guy who loves the fruit and the liberty of having no one to attend to in his life. However, there are flashing moments when the stillness and the breathing space that he wants could not just be purely his.

He never thought Eve could become his sweet Helen, who could push him to launch his thousand ideals to the extremities of nowhere. Eve is making him slowly surrender the sugary and harmless comfort of existing alone.

She is the reason of the engaging smile he wears and the benevolent mood he has each day. Honestly, it is hardly his doing to ask American girls for a date because he always falls short of the height requirement. Moreover, he isn't a veteran when it comes to extracurricular rendezvous. Eve, though, makes him think otherwise.

The last time he saw her at the Student Union, she was with a guy. The incident left the composed gentleman standing motionless for some time. It was as if she just served him a whack full in the face. Oh yeah, so supersonic was the blow, so extreme, he heard the echo of it ping at the back of his head. But, as his heart strongly dictates, that would not stop him from falling for her.

He is not certain when or where their roads will finally, truly, entangle. He is very assured, though, Eve is going to arrive at a moment when she will feel her heart jumping purposely, crazily, to let him in.

Fuchsia in South Dakota

2008-06-03T13:20:00.000-07:00

It has been four days and everything looks a little beyond ordinary. Few books on my desk. The bag in a corner with one of its slings about to disintegrate after hours of clinging to a loose thread. Beddings arranged one on top of the other. The slick Vanguard tripod I brought hasn't been moved - its legs somewhat dusty. Some old pictures taped on the mirror and a couple of postcards posted on the wall. Two lonely chairs, the black metallic floor and the slightly opened door...

Nothing is moving as if my Wecota Annex room is devoid of the slightest breath. In the flash of stillness, or the impassivity of almost everything, I play a different music in my mind of believing and not to. Believing that somehow a thing hidden somewhere in this room is not controlled by the momentary placidity. Not believing that nothing is moving. Believing that the bed lamp, glowing in its 60 watts bulb, providing a rather dim yellowish or could be golden light, being squared by a wooden two-deck bed and circled by my own imaginings, is imaginarily breathing.

Even “War Trash” and “The Sea” are breathing, so I thought. Only two out of the hundred fiction and non-fiction books are with me after friends asked for a few and my sister pledged to keep the rest for herself.

Coming here in South Dakota from the Philippines, I carted with me six colored papers, all for the reason of satisfying a hobby I usually do - painting. However, only three of the six are left after I accidentally dropped a meat sauce over one while having a little selfish childish merrymaking one fine rainy morning. One paper just disappeared, like there was magic sprinkled in the room while I was away. Another one just shrunk by itself you'd feel a scary sensation when you touch it -- rough, you know, that little all-too-familiar roughness you get on your fingertips after a long stay in the shower. Colored papers -- red, blue and violet (or maybe fuchsia, I always find it hard to differentiate the two) -- are left on my desk with little smileys printed on them and with matching linear accents of red, blue and violet (or maybe fuchsia).

This feeling of aloneness inside my room is nothing but a portion of my mind that is fascinated at the seemingly endless complexities of thoughts stillness amazingly creates. Loving it every second, I prefer to bury the feelings not. Not now. Moments like this, however intermittently disturbed by a running car outside, make me take a glance at good life. I could easily watch myself do sprightly escapes, skyrocket through the clouds in bright blue colors and run through the green fields chasing grasshoppers, or dragonflies, or butterflies.

I am alone, but not totally lonely. I saw a small crack on the wall only I could see. I do not want to know everything about stillness now. I want this feeling to repeat. When it happens again, I’d make sure to leap much higher to see more, observe deeper to know more and notice the different colors only stillness could give -- not only red, blue and violet (or maybe again it's fuchsia).

Morals of Public Servants from the Eyes of an Alarmed Citizen

2008-05-25T13:14:00.000-07:00

Online newspapers keep me updated with everything that is happening in the Philippines. As usual, there’s the unstoppable, never-dying politicking and, not to mention, the unethical behavior at all levels of the government. As a citizen, I would have wanted to interfere. However, mine is a voice so little for the over 80 million Filipinos. But on a positive note, I have the firm belief that my voice could become loud through my every article.

Before coming here, I was about to finish my Doctoral degree in Public Administration. Since it was so far-off from my engineering profession, people never failed to ask me if I would run for public office and what I would do if ever elected.

In a bat of an eye, I was quick to retort that I would make sure good values are inculcated into the minds of every public servant. This conviction that ethics plays a role in the formation of a strong personal discipline just would not retire from my head. So my thinking is simple: go back to the roots and introduce to the people the baseline of their morality.

It is this notion that each one strives to be good. That every soul only needs to be awakened to the truth that harmony is attainable by way of bridging the moral baseline values to the corresponding actions.

This is a no-picnic task. However, the Philippines is a Christian country and Filipinos have this super colossal faith in God. Please do not tell me it is an old song, but people have to put God above their actions. From books, ethics is based on religion and the understanding of the Higher Supreme. Religion is where morality started.

God as the center of every public official's life creates humility and honesty in day-to-day dealings. God becomes the boss. Imagine a triangle where God occupies the topmost corner. The one bottom corner is for you. The last corner is for "other people". This triangular scheme portrays that you and the society are of the same altitude. You interact with the community – fairly and never above them. No one is above anyone. Only God is.

If each person would only have a strong faith in God, the society becomes stronger as well. In God, people mold values. With values molded in the context of faith, people practice truth, compassion, humility, fairness, responsibility, freedom, reverence for life, self-respect and other virtues essential for the establishment of a moral society – a society that aims for the national vision and strong personal discipline.

But faith must come hand in hand with actions. Faith without actions, for me, is useless. A moral value without service is good-for-nothing. That is also true the other way around. I wrote an article about this many years ago. It mentioned about how people must couple faith and service so they could draw their rewards in heaven. Rewards don't come in handy when people haven't saved enough in their lifetime. Saving is through service.

In finality, if only all public officials would develop in themselves the true "spirit", real fear and obedience in God, then the Philippines, or any nation for that matter, would have been a society of transparency. Isn't transparency a lead factor to good governance?

Isn’t the basic law of the land, the constitution, derived from morality? Public officials must go down the roots and check the foundation of the laws which placed them into office in the first place.

Native hero steals birthday light but inspires beyond grave

2008-05-20T13:12:00.000-07:00

November 30 is the day I turn a year older. It is the best time for reminiscing about sweet memories of the year before, musing on all things that have been left undone, reflecting on friends who, in all my years of existence, have remained faithful and never changed and, most importantly, a time of facing a new chapter of my life.

In the Philippines, November 30 is a red-letter day. It commemorates the birthday of a brave, noble and distinct Filipino, Andres Bonifacio. He roamed the land a century ago, fought for our independence and became one of the country's heroes. His dreams and aspirations of one day seeing and living a cheerful dawn of freedom and national unity came true. Had he not shed sweat and blood and led an uprising, along with other revolutionaries, against the Spanish government, I would have been deprived of the feeling a century of freedom could give.

I was supposed to be named Eric Andres or Ariel Andres, in honor of the hero. But as to why I was baptized Eric Ariel instead, Mom couldn't recall. Some friends call me Andres, which never embarrassed me though.

A red day means a holiday for all. No work, no class. In most years, I had my birthday celebrated in my hometown. Mom prepared my favorite roasted chicken, plus the ever-present Chinese pansit for a family get-together later in the evening. The night was never complete without the karaoke blaring out music from yesteryears. Oh yeah, a night of multiplex CDs and minus-ones, of grandpa's and grandma's singing voices, of the Salas' family talents, of giggles and joys-all are meant as a thanksgiving for an added year.

Aside from going to mass, I was only out of the house when an important errand called for it. Few close friends, those who are too observant on birthdays, gave me surprise visits at home. Others dedicated their greetings in advance. The remaining few, perhaps because it is Andres' day, failed to remember my special day.

I studied how Andres grew up as a kid. He rallied round to help sustain daily needs by selling paper fans and rattan canes. He even sacrificed his future for the benefit of his siblings. That was how he lived his life: diligent, persevering and steadfast.

Andres had a share of notable talents and skills, his inclinations quite similar to mine. Inclined to writing, he wrote short stories about anything that inspired him. He was also fond of reading books, mostly about uprisings in foreign lands. Brought up with good values, strengthened by determination and courage, braced with the idea of peace and liberation, he led a revolt against the Spanish conquistadores.

Andres died more than a century ago, yet he handed down a heritage that I can truly be proud of. Every time I see a photo of him, I am reminded of the challenge I and the rest of the Filipino race must take up.

Andres would have turned 143 years old this November and I would be in my happy years. There would be no celebration here in Brookings for an added year. No fun and festivity. Nevertheless, I would still be very satisfied, not just because I was born on a hero's day, but for what Andres taught me: I don't have to shed blood to prove that I can be a hero. Heroism dwells in the heart of one who dreams.

Sex education creates mixed reactions in Philippine society

2008-05-17T13:11:00.000-07:00

In a third-world country where people breed like rabbits causing the population to grow to tens of thousands each year, anyone who knows the facts and figures must worry about the future state of the Philippines.

The Department of Education attempted, at the start of classes last year, to bring forward to the whole country the program on "sex education". Such program was seen as a positive step by the United Nations Fund for Population Activities. It was supposedly be integrated to the general curriculum, beginning in the 5th grade, via subjects like Health, Filipino, Science, and Livelihood education. This way, schools could help bottle up the issue of overpopulation and educate students on the dangers of pre-marital sex, including “unwanted pregnancies”. However, everything went down the drain.

Early on the program's trial run, the Philippine government scrapped sex education off due to the strong defiance by the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines. The CBCP believes that such program when incorporated into the public schools would persuade teenagers to undertake premarital sex rather than remain abstinent, and emphasizes that sex education is the parents’ responsibility and not the government’s.

The problem is that, the government cannot go against the church. In the Philippines, whatever the church says, the clergy who look up to it will follow. It happened during the great revolution in 1986 when the late dictator President Marcos' regime was overthrown by people power revolt, after an all-out support from the church. With about 85% percent Catholics, the setting would look like this: If you plan to be re-elected in the office, never go against what the church considers right, otherwise you would lose majority of the masses’ votes.

While others quote article 2 section 6 of the Philippine Constitution regarding the provision of the separation of powers between the church and the state, many others proclaim that the church must play a role, being the advocate of morality. It is indeed a very complicated situation with all the clashing ideas from two big social entities.

I am a devout Christian myself but I am for sex education. Sex education in itself is not evil nor is it the enemy here. I am for it for as long as it is properly taught in schools and not "sugar-coated". The Department of Education must come up with the right curriculum or an educational program with the right amount of sensitivity that will really hit the issue bulls-eye! Most importantly, teachers must also be capable to impart it to the young minds. Isn’t it high time to make everyone face the facts about sex and sexuality?

Sex education is not only about controlling population. It also educates the people on the consequences of pre-marital sex. I agree to what one of my friends’ comment, “What will a conservative country do when it's in the brink of economic disaster due to overpopulation and other things that go with it?” Sex education must not be equated to a “Kama Sutra” because it isn’t about learning the techniques of making love. Nor it is about reaching the perfect orgasm. Not at all.

If only the government and the church could join hands for once – the former through implementing the social welfare policies and the latter by continuing its feeding and housing programs for the poor – then, hopefully in the end, a better solution could be reached that would be fair for both sides. It must be a solution that’s beneficial for all.

So, is the government right in scrapping sex education off the education system? The answer could be felt when there would be no enough resources for every Filipino anywhere in the country anymore.

Squirrels and a map guide traveller to a Wal-Mart meal

2008-05-14T13:10:00.000-07:00

The squirrel has finally sniffed a treasure in the middle of the field. Unmindful of me observing only a few yards away, not even signaling an expression of dim surprise, it took something from the ground. Whether or not it was food, I didn’t know. It meant so much for the squirrel I could see how the nibbling went on for minutes.

This event took place – no, was seen – no, was experienced, that’s the right word, near the bell tower along Medary avenue, on a cold, drizzling Saturday morning on my way to Wal-Mart to shop something for lunch.

Unlike the squirrel needing no single lesson in mapping to track down food, I had to focus my memory’s eye to a map I tagged along. Careful not to soak it with rain, I, ever so often, stopped beneath shades and checked parallel avenues I wandered upon.

Fourth avenue, that was. Another squirrel crossed my path. Feeling cold, my ears were about to split, for numbness perhaps. I then realized how the squirrel might have laughed at my current whole kit and caboodle, when in some twist of urge, I looked back and there it was, staring at me with the semblance of an annoying mimicry.

Past the 14th avenue and in every vehicle that came my way, I pretended to be lost. In this not-so-perfect game plan, I thought an innocent look plus a map in my hand plus the gesture of spinning my head in all possible vane directions plus the fact that I was alone in a kilometer radius, would bait drivers to pull over and give me a lift. Such strategy obviously proved worthless. Nobody even cared to slow down. Only the squirrel paid attention.

After being trapped in a roadway construction, I finally found Wal-Mart. The store is never an impressive structure with its box-like frame; it pails in comparison with the huge five-storey malls in my small city back home.

Shopping went easy, like a child’s play. Eric, take a look above you and in big bold letters you’d see which section you should be. I grabbed a box of rice, a sliced wheat bread, a half a gallon of milk, a thin cut of meat and, in between those, I silently eagle-eyed the frequent shoppers. They were the ones who led me to the best inexpensive cookies and bread spreads and noodles and canned goods. Then I proceeded to buy few cooking utensils, paid everything in cash and, after an hour, off I went home.

Trailing back, however, I took the path less traveled. I crossed some greens parallel to the avenues. Sure, squirrels were there too. This time, I boastfully walked sans a map in my hand.

You see, this isn’t a tale about squirrels after all. Rather, it’s about a boy who was ushered by squirrels to Wal-Mart so he could have a good lunch of rice and meat!

Zigzagging thoughts of the other side of Brookings

2008-05-10T18:27:00.000-07:00

Living isn’t fair.

The past ten months in Brookings had been a continual tussle of having faith and not having faith – a fluctuation that, in most instances, opted to stop on the former. Lately, however, my psyche had settled for the latter. The infinitesimal linear membranes of my reasoning that support the conformity of arguments warp into a complex ball-like silhouette that any lawyer’s rebuttal wits may only go about in circles, or, just as worse, end up on dangling ends. In a state of skepticism, there are just few things that may successfully penetrate the core of the ball and rouse me to believing that a coin can be flipped to reveal another side. Show me some love. Show me some actions. Only then, I would have a change of heart.

My ego feels like a point – that which has no part – as stated by one of my professors. It senses but obeys no feeling anymore. It knows something but refuses to fathom. It adores nothing but itself. All were consequences of the gigantic disbelief that people around me put on view. The distantness of the people in Brookings towards an alien like me is a clear example, if you ask me to illustrate the point.

Perhaps, Brookings residents possess an equivalent alter ego – that which adores no one and nothing but itself. Perhaps, their egos lies at the center of a black hole, that point called singularity, where the laws of fellowship no longer make sense. Perhaps, their egos are their priced Earths; Martians are warned for a cosmic blast even for a slight feel of evasion. Perhaps, their egos tell them to beware of the unfamiliar, brown-looking guy who says hello to them on the streets. Perhaps, they are tired of just about anyone paradisiacally conforming to what is virtuous, to what is fit.

To see [and to feel], is to believe. Humane judgment directs that I shouldn’t muse over it because there are much more serious things in Brookings’ life that demand the front page of my attention (studies for instance) - but I am beyond wrecked. This has to come out; else, it would forever ricochet in my head.

Discount the feeling of being inside a safe-deposit vault for a safe environment and police visibility day in and day out. Ignore the lush trees that sprinkled the parks all over town. Forget the idea that Brookings is all too beautiful. In the eyes of a stranger, Brookings could offer every tale a Cinderella ending.

All that glitters is not gold. Believe it. Six out of ten people in Brookings are unresponsive to foreigners. No ANOVA is necessary to derive the statistics. Constant walks along streets; meetings inside bars, coffee shops, offices, groceries, cinemas and even churches – coupled with the basic counting skills – could very well establish the shocking revelation. In point of fact, it won’t take a whiz kid to feel the indifference of being treated like a dirty dog. A woman clutched her handbag tightly to her belly upon seeing that I was next to her. An old lady hid her purse when I sat beside her in church. A couple looked at me from head to foot, like I had just killed their whole clan, when I said hello. A saleslady refused to attend to my request and opted to entertain the next “white” male. A group of guys shouted and laughed at my expense while biking for home and a lot more…

The way I see these, bad has triumphed over the good. Good memories were short-lived. The heart that supposedly envisages a great faith for the people is becoming a virus-corrupted organ with negatively charge vibes creeping through the system and disabling my every source of highbrow appreciation.

This is why I begin to dispute, to question, to look at things in an antagonistic demeanor. I want to cast the diablo out from this “six out of ten” people to restore my faith to the remaining minority. But then again I am helpless and at wits end, because the diablo has already cloaked itself with an illusory façade of truth, with an ego that adores no one but itself.

Unless the monster breaks out into bits of love, acceptance and pleasant actions, unless the zigging before the zagging stops, the wound would never be healed and would always show me the meaning of the detrimental side of Brookings.

Student life in the four corners of SDSU - WECOTA hall

2008-05-06T16:07:00.000-07:00

You have to read between the lines: "I dwell in SDSU. Life is WECOTA building”. My life as a student and as a research assistant in SDSU is dyed-in-the-wool to seeing the building daily, to marvelling its rooms and, most appropriately, to exploring the grace of the first floor and the basement (or the dungeon, as we fondly call it).

So what's worthy of musing over a building - apart from the seeing, marvelling and exploring - with a massive pair of columns at the entrance and a lone window at the basement room that would not even open? Well, as a matter of fact, there are a million and one reasons to reminisce about. Allow me to highlight a few.

1. The insert-your-dollar vending machines. It serves coca-cola products, potato chips, M&Ms, and all other candy and bubble gum varieties. The MSG-filled junk foods are right there waiting to delight you in on idle moments, when you can’t think of anything but crisps and sweets. The not-so-intelligent machines don't accept all sorts of paper bills except when they are finely ironed. It is the place of hellos, do-you-haves, little chitchats and where most sleepy heads normally convene during break time.

2. Brew me a coffee. The coffee room is right along the main hall. It offers an assortment of free stuff, aside from coffee of course, to tea, to chocolate powders, to even muffin or doughnut leftovers. Being near the sunroom, it is strategically placed so as to cater a 10-minute break between class sessions. More so, it is the best place for quick note-scanning, tutorials, and meeting others halfway.

3. The relief room. I could only speak for the men’s room though; the area intended for comfort, most of the times, creates a putrid atmosphere when twilight comes. With the automatic flushing mechanism often failing to do its work, expect to see scary bits and pieces, and all that jazz in array of sizes, floating like crazy. You know what I mean.

4. Visit the secretary’s desk. For any clarification or inquiry or to simply bellyache just about anything, this is the exact place to be. Madam JoAnn has a room for every diminutive moan you have however bizarre-sounding sometimes it may be.

5. Swipe before entering. The card-operated room 100 or better known as the sunroom, houses most of our excitements [read: learnings]. For the scholarly students, this is the place next to home. The room is useful in many ways than one. You can be there tens of minutes before the 3-hour evening class starts to mingle with classmates, discuss assignments, or just to feel a little comfy with few yawns at the back seats.

6. Hang-out till 2AM. For the hardworking and cannot-put-the-work-until-tomorrow students, the building offers the best place to get projects done or to laugh with peers till wee hours.

7. Blank. You have already read my “daily” life inside WECOTA and in SDSU in general. I would reserve this last one for you to discover something that makes life in SDSU precious of coming back every day.

I saw and would continue seeing, I marveled and would go on marveling, and I explored and surely would not stop exploring!

Musing over "How are yous" and daily greetings

2008-05-04T13:09:00.000-07:00

I counted the number of "HOW ARE YOUs" I received today. Nine. This doesn't count the other "how are yous" I heard from students at the Union, the pathways, hallways and other possible places where people meet accidentally or intentionally.

I told a friend about this kooky feeling I am having against the greeting. "How are you" could easily qualify as the most overused word next to "hi" and "hello" in this part of the world.

Here is a personal rationale. When someone says "hi" or "hello", the addressee is anticipated to either smile or wave or answer back with the same word. Example: Maria meets Peter. Maria says, "Hi, Peter." Peter answers, "Hi, Maria." Simple and quick communication. Conversation ends. Single words that when said demand a simple and snappy comeback.

However, when someone asks "how are you", since it is an open-ended question, the addressee is expected to answer in a form of a phrase or a sentence. Example: Maria meets Peter. Maria says, "How are you, Peter?" Peter replies, "I feel great, Maria. Thanks." This greeting also invites a cross-examination. Since the addressor seems concerned of the addressee, the latter might want to show a little interest and throw the concern back to know how the addressor feels at the moment, by asking something like "How about you?". The addressee [who becomes the addressor this time], anticipates for an answer, sure. So the process is a bit longer when the "how are you" is used. Unless, of course, the addressee wouldn’t want to know how the addressor feels and would just quickly answer and run away. But that is being so ill-mannered.

There really isn't bad about the greeting. In fact, I luxuriate in it very much when someone inquires about how I am. It feels good to know that someone cares. These days though, I digested that the greeting is already losing its real sense. That it has become so ordinary, like a cliché, that anyone could say it to anybody at any time minus the care or concern that the greeting supposedly carries and implies.

Imagine this experience: Someone said "how are you" to me, one fine day. If you have read what I wrote above, the conversation followed that process. Then again, after a couple of hours, I met the same person in a different place and, for the second time, he pried into the same words "how are you". And "if you have read what I wrote above, the conversation followed the same process." Ridiculous, if you have to think of it, it could become a cycle of "how are yous" and "I feel greats” ad infinitum.

It isn't funny at all, is it? There is not just one person who would throw those words at you in a day, but countless of them. Think of how much volume of saliva you have wasted for the "how are yous" that are all kind of insincere.

I see culture as the root. The American culture of saying "how are yous" is the reason, as it is their rearing to say the greeting everyday. Just like, we, Asians, use the "hi" and "hello", it is their way of life and I, awkwardly, just have to bear with it.

I still wish my friends would only say "how are you" once a day. Not two times a day. Not thrice. But one sincere "how are you" a day. That will be more than enough for me. If they really couldn't control uttering the greeting, well, I might just think of other ways to acknowledge it…to somehow break the cycle.

Uncle Sam experience gives rise to apathy, change in perspective

2008-05-01T16:04:00.000-07:00

Dreaming is my constant companion. It has caused countless unexpected things to come my way, including my being a US neophyte and appreciating the scores of stuff most of my countrymen love about Uncle Sam.

Traffic, for instance. Traffic jams are virtually unknown in this place. There are lanes for bicycles – even for pets! No officer on sidewalks watching undisciplined pedestrians cross where crossing is prohibited.

I have yet to see an indigent child begging for food. More so, I have always felt this place as deception-free that a nightly walk along unlighted pathways is safe for this Filipino wanderer. No more worries that someone pops out from somewhere armed with an icepick to rob me of my valuables – money, phone, jewelries, shoes or even clothes. Rejoice! I am in a developed nation.

I love the Philippines, like how Americans love America. My dad opened my eyes to the principles of the Boy Scout movement, to love God and country. I was a scoutmaster, trained to be loyal, to sail close to the wind and ready to defend human rights. Being a top officer of the Citizens Army Training corps, performing civic duties was a big undertaking. You see, I dedicated my life to public service at a young age.

Yet, what has become of me now? I do not care a fig anymore when the rampant corruption is pulling every Filipino’s leg down while the red tape in the government and mud-slinging are never-ending. I tend to dismiss with indifference, questions about the performance of Madam President and her Cabinet, as well as their negative approval ratings. Like a good actor, I convinced myself that the past election results were not tampered, that the recent vigilante forms of killings were merely coincidental in nature and no high-ranking officials were involved, masterminding in some hush-hush underground movement. In fact, I hardly bother to think about the severity of these events nowadays.

Uncle Sam has offered something attractive to desire for and the system looks to be adequately functioning. President Bush, even in the midst of his unpopularity, seems to assure me that he is still in total control. What I am anxious about, however, is when I go back home to my daily grind, the same seamy side of things that I would find – poverty level reaching extremities, government officials not fulfilling campaign promises to pave roads in far-flung towns and ignoring the demands of workers for pay increases. I would be bothered once more of the economic instability, massive street protests against alleged government abuses, the educational system continuing to deteriorate, the non-stop power struggle to amend the constitution, and the innocent lives lost in the war-torn Islamic south.

As a great ally, Uncle Sam has been supporting the Philippine government all the way. I must thank you, Uncle Sam, for sending 5,700 of your Marines and military personnel to help strengthen our defense units against local and international terror acts and the billions of pesos of financial aids.

Things could not change overnight. I sigh for the many more years the Filipinos have to wait for better lives. Right now, my wish is for the few remaining decent politicians to perform what are mandated of them, slowly but surely. Slowly, so that nobody would be trampled upon and hurt; and surely, so long as promises made are ultimately fulfilled. I dream big for better days that when I return home, the Filipinos would be one and united in the effort to build a better nation for all.

Looking at politics in the light of Evanescence's Immortal

2008-04-29T15:59:00.000-07:00

This May, millions of my countrymen will once again troop the polling stations to cast their votes for the legislative and local elections. In a country where elections are often smeared by fraud and money politics, I cannot help but worry of another disorderly and full of political drama election day. Even as of this writing, the drama has already begun.

The last time I voted, I chose the lesser evil. Frankly speaking, I saw no one capable of running the government. I never believed the campaign vows, from one aspirant who promised to readily uplift the lives of the Filipino people; to another who said that every child would enjoy good education. The administration party boasted a well-developed social welfare programs. The opposition claimed the best pro-poor agenda. Okay, leave me alone!

“I'm so tired of being here. Suppressed by all my childish fears. And if you have to leave I wish that you would just leave. 'Cause your presence still lingers here. And it won't leave me alone.”

I am so tired of my country’s constant politicking. I am dog-tired of reading tales of mockery that no one ever loses in a Philippine election – because either one won the election or was cheated. Most of the times, I aspire that the scalawags would just all leave their offices and surrender the posts to whoever are deserving of the people’s trust. Their lingering presence makes me puke.

“These wounds won't seem to heal. This pain is just too real. There's just too much that time cannot erase.”

A number of these politicians have already wreaked havoc to the country’s stability and therefore must stop. Why would they continue to fool and play mischief with the poverty-stricken, uneducated majority? Quick thought: they have vested interests. The wounds inflected are awfully painful (declining education quality, millions of jobless citizens, etc.) that time cannot erase.

You used to captivate me by your resonating life.

These hungry-of-votes office seekers captivate the masses through the facade of a genius who has rounded up enough academic achievements and previous political posts. However, beneath the mask they wear in public are false hopes and broken pledges.

Now I'm bound by the life you've left behind. Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams.

Thus, what kind of life will you be ahead for the Filipinos? With the campaign now in full force for the coming voting, it scares the heavens out me to see the same faces continually propagating a massive deception. While their faces smile in assurance of a sweet victory, the hungry faces to the contrary could only hope for food provision on their tables and the fulfillment of the promises of rescue.

Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me.

As the campaign now taps the popular video-sharing YouTube, their mouths cackles in perpetuity like perfectly memorizing a hundred-page oration. I never liked the sound of their voice – they sound like irritating chipmunks. This type of flesh pressers are definitely making me insane to the max. Sigh deepest. Unless these politicians will lose in the May election, the Philippines and its people will forever be in between Scylla and Charybdis or between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Falling of the leaves reflect challenges of change

2008-04-27T15:53:00.000-07:00

“Each second, the leaves shiver at every passing breeze, a little too afraid that they might shake off from their tight cling. Every day is a decision for them to either stay on top or to let go. Every falling is not dying; it’s a sweet touch of God.”

She said “I love you” and hung up the phone. A little girl ran towards her asking “Is daddy at work?” She nodded and gave the child a tight hug – a profound love that very instant, I saw.

I was glancing at them, a photo-perfect mother-daughter pair under the shade of a pale green tree. Leaves were falling on them and sprinkling her every kiss attempt and the girl’s every giggle of anticipation.

Only the leaves could render a clear testimony of the sugar-coated whispers they, at that time, both exchanged, like music to their ears.

The trees inspired me to write. There was a day I accounted the number of leaves that have actually fallen. Hundreds. No, thousands of them did bid the branches farewell.

While I am trying to follow their daily fate and relish their myriad colors before they would finally succumb to the winds, I am also led to think that the trees are merely taking a new stage, changing the old to something unsullied, akin to snakes changing skins. As part and parcel of their changing, trees have to undergo the essential phase so as to relieve themselves from dealing with old stuff and create a new atmosphere and a new beginning.

Oh how could I possibly evolve like a tree, ever willing to change and bloom anew? It is difficult to go out of situations I have tied myself upon for so many years and to shape into something new outside the quarters I have already firmly established. Here in my new environment in Brookings, I think of home, of family bonds and friendships, of things familiar that I need to momentarily kiss goodbye.

The honest truth: it is difficult to forgo. It requires me to unfasten the old corroded screws and replace it with, yet untried, silvery beaming ones. I need to let go of the attachments, otherwise, I might be faced someday with a situation that I would regret for the rest of my life.

Vincent and Mark and the rest of my new friends are making me see things beyond the dusky skies. That every cloud indeed has a silver lining. It may take a few more days, when the sun is out and the clouds are clear for me to fully appreciate the purpose of leaving friends and family behind. For certain, it isn’t only for personal satisfaction but to looking beyond self, towards real promise, towards reality, de facto.

For the time being, I have to pull myself up by my bootstraps and hold on to the belief that sweeter rewards await in every sacrifice of patience.

Just like daddy who missed a day with her child at the park in order to bring a brighter future for his family.

Just like the falling of the leaves - trees sacrifice in order to see youthful covers and to shape new horizons.

Brule Performs Sounds of Home

2008-04-24T15:28:00.000-07:00

Among the popular theories of the origin of the term HOBO, I chose the contraction of HOmeward BOund. There is only one reason for opting that. This article is about Brule. About home.

Watching and listening to Brule and the AIRO band on the night of Friday the 13th, established a thought that home is where the real music is. Paul LaRoche (stage name: Brule) through his distinct Native American music, inspired the audience with his family life – how tensions became triumphs, how identity and reconciliation fulfilled a dream and how his love for his family and culture sent a message of hope to all those who continually love his music.

It was a blissful feeling. I felt a stirring touch of tranquility in every strum of the guitar from his son, Shane, hum of the flute from her daughter, Nicole and beat of the drum from the talented Moses. I admit, never in my entire life had I experienced this genre of music, not ever. The long existence of Western music in my country has much to say on my tendencies of becoming a true R&B aficionado rather than a classical fellow.

I grew up in a family whose life revolves around music, learned “Delilah” at an early age and sang in public when I was about 9 years old. Mom was the professional singer. In one article I described her beautiful high-pitched voice as one that could cause a light bulb to explode and a house lizard to slip from its stronghold.

Ok, it's hereditary. My older brother started singing on platforms at age six. All through his college days, he became the guitarist and vocalist of a local band. Younger sister faced a roaring crowd in her first grade, sang the piece so well and got a good pat from her classroom adviser and a good grade on top of that.

The youngest, Jeffrey, is the Rhythm and Blues prince. Owning the lion’s share of mom's vocal dexterity, no wonder he indisputably succeeded her to the throne. At age 10, he conquered the airwaves by becoming an undefeated champion in most contests he was in. His extraordinary talent brought him instant TV stardom, even up to now.

Voice training was hard when I was young. I’m still curious up to now if the strategy of submerging myself neck-deep in the sea on early mornings and singing at the top of my lungs, really worked good for my voice. I can vividly recall I had to bear the dawn's coldness and give up the early morning dreams in bed.

I am writing this piece because I, to a certain extent, after listening to Brule, miss singing at home. Unlike in my quiescent town, where only birds, and cicadas, and lizards are my competitors, here I can only vocalize as quietly as possible, or moan melodically, or sporadically chirp like a dying bird. Here, no do-re-mis blaring out from every living room window. In this cold State, needless to say, the singing blood running through my veins is momentarily frozen.

Home is where my love for music started. Just as Brule had turned tensions into triumphs, so must I adjust every life’s valley into peaks. Brule obviously has more of what little I have about survival. However, I have a family that is so supportive all along.
Music loves me. I may have cut a dream of becoming a singing superstar, in my heart, nevertheless, I have my own tribal rhythm to chant and a song to constantly sing. Brule said to hold on to the dream. Thanks to Brule, so I go on. In fondness of music I shall go on…living…loving it.
Enjoy the rest of the Hobo Day week everyone!

Finding and sharing your own miracles this Holy week

2008-03-15T13:33:00.000-07:00

Life’s miracles often appear in diverse packages. A bunch of them take place in a flashing instant when you wish for them, others occur over a life span, and few more others occur when you are not even anticipating them. Regardless of the type, it cannot be denied that a miracle brings in us a wonder and an admiration at something unfathomable. A miracle that defines a wonderful accomplishment is what we all fancy to happen for ourselves. But what truly aids a miracle to come to life, in my opinion, are: first, faith in God and second, goodwill.

For years I have taken note on little and rather enormous miracles in my life and in the lives of people I have personally known or stumbled upon day after day. Since I started writing, I have been broadcasting life stories that depict miracles as I recognize them to countless souls through magazines and dailies. The stories were unequivocally spirit-uplifting. They were the sorts that offered a smile to a frowning face or inspiration to the heartbroken. Stories from everyday miracles. Inspirations from everyday stories.

One inspiring story that has etched a mark in me was about the miracles of the “flyday” night. I narrated the moments when most of the members of a Christian organization “fly”. No, they did not transform into horrible-winged-sci-fi creatures. Called Flyday night, the night when darkness quivered at the slight sight of light, and good triumphed over evil. Flyday night refers to a gathering of students, teachers and communities adoring Christ on a Friday night that knows no mercy for all legions of demons and the likes. That particular night I was invited brought so many miracles to so many devotees.

The life of Doods was the first miracle I heard. He was an unwanted child. His mother never planned for his coming and irrefutably attempted to abort him. He grew up without anything to call his own. Love was deprived of him just as happiness was insufficient to make his life as normal as the other kids around him. He could never forget how he silently rebelled for what he had gotten in a life he described as entirely miserable. Pain all to himself, he searched for satisfaction and found it among friends hooked on spending free time in school sniffing “powder”. If schooling was the reason he was sent by relatives miles away from home, for him it wasn’t so. He thought, with bitterness engulfing him, he was born to have fun with drugs and alcohol and no one has the power to stop him from having it all. No one was there to tell him he was moving fast towards a sure dead end.

Yet, there is, on occasion, an unutterable lose twirl to a tight spot that the human brain cannot comprehend even. What came next was Doods’ twist – the greatest and sudden miracle he could never forget, never dreamed of or wished for. He was tagged by a stranger to attend a healing seminar one flyday night. For someone who had been through a lot of pain, a cloud of doubt hovered over him. Prayer was not found in his vocabulary. Worst, he constantly questioned the existence of God. But that night became a perfect moment for one living soul. Standing in the midst of the assembly, he cried like a baby and asked for God’s forgiveness. He came out of church with an assured comfort and peace inside! No one and nothing stood stronger against God’s strength that night. It proved to him that real happiness laze not on entertainment and other creature comforts, but to God.

He found a sanctuary, no ground in nature, no place and dwelling of man could ever give. Years later, he entered the seminary and started a new life, taking his own flight to what he believes now is reality.

I have been a spectator to a number of God’s miracles in the past and almost always I feel the pulse to share them with people through my articles. I have been longing to articulate every opportunity that takes place in my life and hoping the articles will help inspire another. Each piece that I write I always hope to be a miracle at work.

It might be a little leap for a big hope. But if every leap, insignificant it may seem, will help others find in their lives their own share of God’s wonders, then doing so is worth the while. There is no coincidence. A miracle is a performance of God who chooses to stay anonymous.

Believe and share your miracles this coming Holy Week. Have a blessed break.

Counting every writer’s blessing with a prayer

2007-12-11T13:31:00.000-08:00

In less than two weeks time, it will be Christmas day. While I contemplate the birth of Jesus, I am also enormously grateful to God for bestowing a precious gift - a writing ability that I continue to hone to this day. I would like to close this year’s column with a prayer.

Father our thou that art in heavens
I was thinking for a theme to write and was, instead, led to make a compilation of my articles that fortunately saw light for publication in few local and national magazines and dailies. One at a time, I placed each one in chronological order, cautious not to mistakenly skip a piece nor mistakenly put one before or after the other.

Be thy name hallowed
Praise to Him! There were almost a hundred of them, a hundred pieces of short stories, which when taken as a whole, would definitely weave a charming yet heartrending masterpiece only my life story could convey. When you read between the lines of each story, you read the fine points of my existence.

Come thy kingdom
Prayers worked! The very first published article was in a weekend magazine in the Philippines, way back in 1997. I still have vivid recollections of how I yelled 'Thank you Lord!' at a mall when I got hold of a copy. The piece narrated the life of a sabungero's son. The manner I wrote it made so obvious how my father could not stay home on Sunday afternoons and how he rather opted to be in the company of "fighting-rooster-passionate" squad for his no-miss "Sunday school". Apparently, it was the story of a father who tried to tag along his son in every cock derby, so his son would think sharp and strong like his fighting cocks trained for sharpness and strength.

Be done thy will
One after the other, more articles followed. The second one got so much fuss from readers. Entitled "For the Love of Singing", it undervalued my own singing capability, so they say. They constantly thought I inherited no less than a quarter of my mom's vocal dexterity. Nevertheless, it was merely an article to complete a family picture that all of us siblings could certainly carry a tune. I wrote quite a number of articles about faith and God's love, about how one could survive life's adversities. Most of them were inspired by brothers and sisters in my Catholic community.

On earth as in heavens
It looks to me now that my articles transpired when I was either at my lowest point or at the cradle of seventh heaven. For instance I wrote about El Nino, when the country was suffering the ever-scourging heat of nature. Heaven years in every foreign travel were also put into writing – detailing the four seasons particularly. The most emotive of all is when I tried to spell out my ambitions, failed and achieved, into a two-page piece of writing. From childish hopes to being what I am now, I kept on asking myself where all my other dreams have gone.

Our daily bread give us today
As of this writing, I have a compilation of my life that speaks about twists and turns. Rummaging around for a title, I ran across the word "Flicker". Hence, I named it "Flicker" -- for the sparks of ideas, the flashes of thoughts, and for the words that continue to connect and stimulate other stretches of words. Flicker is the word given to a compilation of hope, of love, of faith and of prayer.

And forgive us our sins as we forgive those who have sinned against us
Not all was a bed of roses. As an amateur writer in this very competitive world, many a times I felt almost close to giving up, letting go of this untamed dream and maybe venture into something else. Countless times I felt cheerless when editors rejected valuable pieces. The white flag was almost hoisted.

And not lead thou us into temptation
In spite of all, somehow, somewhere, as I looked at my "Flicker", there is a place for me in this spacious circle of words, this enduring dream God-knows-what better things would bring and where probably might lead me. Only God knows.

But deliver us from evil. Truly.
Lord, thank you for giving me a precious gift – this writing craft. As I continue to write for the Collegian, provide me the grace to love my work, treasure the moment, and show appreciation to the people who have given me the chance to share stories, inspire readers and to use this talent for your greater glory. Amen.

Only the brown-haired girl can make my Christmas much happier

2007-12-04T13:26:00.000-08:00

It seems it will be a lonely Christmas in Brookings. No ever-vibrant carolers and their songs. No aesthetically pleasing decors appealingly hang in each household. No huge, I mean HUGE, colorful lanterns lined-up on busy sidewalks. No effulgent blinking series lights that mimic the enchanting twinkle of the midnight stars. Nothing special (not even the lights at the downtown area) is telling me to cruise to the nearest post office and have my most valuable cards sent with Yuletide greetings and good cheers to my family back home. Sigh.

Even though I saw Eve this weekend (the girl I secretly admire at the Student Union) and even talked to her, the holidays would still be lacking with lustrous. By the way, she looked extra super-doper gorgeous and I just melted like a candle, however, a million times faster. Maybe she already knew that the previous article I wrote was for her.

Though barely felt, the holiday season is here. I am wishing that Eve could do magic and trick the never-ending flame of the holidays burning in my heart that would leave a stinging sensation I would remember year after year. Truth is, I do not want my Christmas this year to be lonesome.

Before you start bashing me of my negativity on how I see Christmas in Brookings, let me explicate few things first. You see, Christmas in the Philippines starts when the month starts with “ber”, that is September. It ends at the day of the three kings, around mid of January. A Christian country, with a devout population, no surprise, it holds the title as the nation with the longest Christmas celebration.

As early as September, I would already see a different glow on the faces of young children – something so wonderful that could only spring from eternally clinging to every hope in life. I am referring to children from less fortunate families. Christmas for them is a complete joy, for it is when horrible nightmares in their sleep along dreadful sidewalks become sweet, enchanted dreams on a soft, mushy bed. Christmas is a wish of being adopted by rich families even for a day and be out from their wretched, cartoon-made shanties that are easily blown by a muted passing breeze. Christmas is a big dream of having to taste the sweetness of Notche Buena and the all-time favorite keso de bola.

Few weeks before the D-day, I would expect godchildren to drop by my house and search beneath the Christmas tree gifts I have reserved for them – a dress, shirt, pair of shoes, and a pack of groceries. Their smiles are more than enough to make me see and understand how the season could be so rewarding through sharing any little I have.

‘Tis the season to be jolly! Four of us, siblings, would often decide to go on a caroling patrol, usually past midnight, after the “Silver Bells” rang on the last open door of our neighbor’s house. We normally meet other carolers along the way and, chances are, we group together for a big bang of “Jingle Bell Rock” and “Silent Night”, two songs we have nonetheless mastered with time.

In a matter of days, there will be festivities in most homes in Brookings. Most likely it’d be different from what I experienced back home. My sole wish for all of us is that, wherever we are, we may reflect on the condition of the starving and war-torn regions and pray for our destitute brothers around the world. Let us furnish them what they have less and share God’s blessings to those in need.
Isn’t that the essence of Christmas?

I do not want my Christmas this year to be lonesome. If, at some point, it gets boring, Eve and I will head to a pile of snow, lie on there for a moment, sing Christmas carols and join the trees of Brookings clap their hands in celebration and hear the wind resound with a mighty roar, while the heavens rejoice and the earth is glad!