An Ode to that Arab-Looking Guy

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“Angas ng dating nung lalaking yun. Pa-bida pa. Sa gitna umupo, e late naman siya. Mukhang arabo pa.” I told Val, my seatmate and BS Math friend, on the opening day of our Educ 100 class. It was a freakishly hot summer afternoon in UP and the mere thought of going into class is just dragging. Well, had it been my way, I would have stayed home, watched all day and tired myself in doing nothing. But when you’re in “purgatory”, i.e., non-major status and needed to shift badly, you have no choice but to sacrifice your ultra elusive precious vacation.

Obviously, I was in my usual self then, being a brat, throwing grand tantrums, dishing out people and all. Well, blame it on the weather; or in my “hanging” academic status; or in my unstable, stressful “love life”; or in the fact that my batch mates are graduating and here I am sitting in this boring room instead of practicing my graduation march. There are obviously a lot of things going on in my life then and I was about to throw in the towel and quit. But I wouldn’t mind spending that one last chance of getting back at people I hate. And so this Arab-looking guy, a complete stranger, my first “potential” prey, had to experience my wrath of nastiness. Or so I thought.

Fast forward, almost a year has passed and here I am, practicum-shy of my long-delayed graduation (finally!), completing a degree in education (who would have thought?) and single yet contended (but that’s another issue!). And for that Arab-looking guy? He dropped out of the course because of “extreme emotional violence and trepidation” from a classmate. Haha!

Seriously, that guy is one of my best buddies in UP. We were reporting group mates in that class (di ko pa din na-gets yung game mo!), thus, became seat/activity/”bash” mates plus share a couple of friends and a professor. Also, we were shifting into Educ, thus spending much time chasing the notorious, ever powerful Ate Glo. Good thing, we were both accepted in Educ or else the story ended right there and then. And now, we are torturing ourselves in a Physics (his major and my minor) class.

In such a short time, I gained a friend worthy of two. (Oo, Lawi, dinelete ko sila. Haha). Enrolment pal, “Bash” mate, taxi friend, ka-alaskahan, Starbucks buddy (lugi na ko dahil nauubos allowance ko sa almusal natin). Haha!

Well, he may not fully experienced my wrath but I always make sure he gets a dose of it every once in a while.

Thanks, Andrell Adik, humanda ka sa Tuesday. Inuna ko pa tong pinapagawa mo kesa sa probset natin. Kokopya na lang ako sayo. Haha!

P.S. Di ko pwedeng apihin si he-who-must-not-be –named. Kawawa naman yung tao. Haha! Di naman siguro siya nang-aagaw ng friends e.

Sh*t Happens

I don't know where to begin, how to begin, what to do, why do it and what the f@ck am I writing?

Sh*t happens. Yeah! And if that sh*t happens to be your ex-lover showing up with your batch mate, then shut the f*ck up and don't be bitter about it. Well, remind yourself you are so much better after breaking up. Really.

Sh*t happens. And if that means you are my age and you got grounded, deal with it. You have no choice. You do what you have to do. Respect.

Sh*t happens. And if some of your batch mates failed to show up in your batch bonding, then at least enjoy the night with those who came. They have their reasons. Some are valid. And others? Cut the crap. I ain't gonna be nice anyways.

Sh*t happens. So what? You're gonna make it through anyways. I've been through the roughest and I'm not backing down.

So bring it on bitches! Die you suckers! Sh*t happens and so is luck!

An Open Letter to Her

It’s been weeks since I last talked to you. The last I remembered was a chat on Facebook I was supposed to ignore. Or is it weeks? Months, more so, I guess. It’s amazing to note that such span of time, when we can’t forge a day without talking to each other when we were so much together. But what the heck, everything’s done and so are we.

Well, for a guy who thinks he has something to say to everything, I was mute about our supposedly “break-up”. Yeah, I had talked to a bunch of people about my sentiments yet I haven’t issued any press release or official statement about all of the drama that is “us”. But don’t worry; I will not bother talking about details of our “break-up” here. I just want to reconnect with you through this.

In the 11th, I’ll turn 21, a year older, and/or wiser. Remember how excited we were to plan your 18th and my 21st birthday? I was ecstatic then since we get to spend our debut both in the same year. But things have changed and the course of our relationship turned into a dead end.

I am turning 21 and yet I am acting as if I am a brat- not talking to you, nor even looking at you. I am trying my hardest to ignore you and convince myself that you’re just an entity there of whom I should not be concerned. Sigh. I guess, we both knew how painful it is to do so.
Well, what the heck. I am lost for words right now. How will I say this? You hurt me. You hurt me so much that I am doing this to you. You hurt me so much that I acted bitter and resentful. I was so hurt that I had to reassess myself and see my worth as a man. You hurt me. But I may have hurt you too.

I decided to end our relationship then just because I thought I am fed up with you and your immaturity. I was immature, too, you see? I was more concerned of myself then that I never listened to your explanations. Had I been more open-minded, I could have forgiven you. But, shockingly, I must admit I never regret making that decision. All of the things I’ve seen and heard I decided that it was better to salvage the respect and friendship left between us.
I would like to be believe that what we had was love. But we can’t live on love alone. You know that well enough, too. But why am I even writing this letter?

I missed those texts and the concern and all. I am thankful for that. But I am not going to beg for those once more. It’s time you give that to him. I heard you’re doing fine with him, steady and ready. I am happy for you, seriously. Oita. Ala mu.

I Call My Kids Special

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“I Call My Kids Special”

I.

They call my kid stupid

for he cannot write nor read

but I know he is intelligent

and to teach him, just be patient

Still they call my kid abnormal

I call him just as special.

II.

They call my kid unruly,

for he loves running around actively,

he may not seem to care,

but everyone deserves a pair.

They may call him abnormal,

but I call him very special.

III.

They call my kid useless

for he always needs to rest,

he may never be get to dance,

but he still had his chance.

they still call my kid abnormal

I call him just as special.

IV.

They call my kid weird,

for he never wanted to be jeered,

he may be too messy and bossy,

but he also learns very quickly.

And they call my kid abnormal,

I call him just as special.

V.

They call my kid futile,

when he cannot react he'll just smile,

though he may not hear a single sound,

I know his abilities are completely unbound.

Still they call him abnormal,

I call him just as special.

VI.

They call my child miserable,

for he cannot behave proper and able,

he resists changes and shows distress,

so guide him and love him no less,

Still they call my child abnormal,

I call him just as special.

VII.

They call my kid worthless,

for his behavior is a mess,

he never conforms and he always lied,

but we should understand, there was never a guide.

Still they call him abnormal,

but to me he is special.

VIII.

They call my kid unfortunate,

for he cannot see what's in his fate,

though darkness may surround his whole hind,

I know he shed some light in his mind.

But they still call him abnormal,

to me he will always be special.

Music by: Kenny Logins' House at the Pooh Corner

Delayed

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Delayed

That proud naked man, spreading his well-sculpted arms, standing tall and proud as ever in a platform of solid gray stones! He never ceases to impress me every time I pass by him. You see, it is so noble of him to stand unclothed, offer himself to the world, and signify relevant importance to this struggling country. Ah! The wonders of the oblation – such honor and dignity!

While passing by the University Avenue one burning summer day, I noticed something strange about the oblation. So, I took some time to stop and observe him. For some weird reasons, I felt something wrong while my eyes wandered his full nakedness. I felt something strong while observing his head help high and his arms widely spread. He was holding on to something – something of great importance for some but a source of grudge for mine. The feeling was just overpowering that water started filling up my eyes. While the hot summer wind blew over my face, shivers delivered the coldness I wasn’t expecting. That moment, I felt my knees trembling and my heart crushing into a million piercing pieces. Though I felt the blinding sunlight burn my skin, everything else around me turned black. Except for one; and I stood there, face to face with the oblation, still yet damaged, firm yet fading. I turned my back from him and silently walked away to the acad oval.

After that compelling day, I tried everything just to avoid passing by his statue. My usual jeepney ride from Quezon Ave. to Palma Hall became so excruciating that I willingly spent some extra cash to take taxi rides and traverse CP Garcia to KNL to Benitez Hall. When I thought I am spending too much money on taxis, I decided to stick to riding jeeps but I would take off by the check-point and take an Ikot ride. Paying extra to avoid the oblation, I thought, would be good for me then. I am really sure if I could see him and not feel bad and act as nonchalantly as always. I’m not as sure though if I could control myself and hide my tears. I told myself, I have to avoid him in every way possible. So I stuck through these painful routines for days.

But avoidance couldn’t help me either. I was not getting better. For in every time I would open my Facebook account, I would see my batch mates upload their graduation pictures, proudly wearing their togas and sablays. I tried masking my emotions by saying my congratulations to those graduates, as if I am extremely happy and fine about their graduation, as if it’s not a big deal for me to be delayed for my own graduation. Deep inside, I am envious, frustrated, angry, bitter and disappointed.

I am envious because my friends already got what I have been wanting the most – a college diploma. I am frustrated because I should have graduated with those people but I failed. I failed myself in doing so. I am angry, more at my own department, for they could have been more considerate about my case and they should have let me finish my degree with them but they just don’t have the heart to give me that chance. I am bitter because I could have marched with them, wore my sablay and walked the stage and get my hard-earned diploma. I am extremely disappointed at myself, especially when I saw my mom discreetly wept a tear and my dad stared blankly outside the house upon learning that I would not graduate on time. I let down once more, I did it again. I am disappointed more because my high school graduation picture will still hang on our wall for a little longer, along with my sisters’ black toga college pictures, with my mom’s graduation picture, and my dad’s military graduation picture. I felt bad for my dad because he had to postpone his retirement just for me to finish my studies. And I couldn’t forgive myself for doing so. I cried for days. I cried whenever I am alone. I cried as if I’m going to drown this whole world. I cried until I could not produce a tear anymore.

Tears are just strange for me. I can’t even remember shedding a tear for any of my graduation rites. I managed to be as composed and firm as I always do even when I graduated at the top of my batch both in elementary and high school. I delivered heartfelt speeches on both occasions and left some of my teachers teary-eyed. I got the most number of medals than any of my batch mates and my parents proudly hang them in my neck. But I never cried on all of these moments. Not even the thought of my friends’ leaving me and all those cheesy stuffs could not make me cry. Not until this year, my supposedly graduation year. I never cried this much in my life to think that it’s not even my graduation I am crying about. It’s just that the moments will never be the same again. No medals, no speeches, no top honors, nothing. Call me dense and lame, but my graduation would be empty and gibberish, I guess. But as always, I have to move on and forge ahead.

When I grow old, look back and reflect on how my life has been, I would list down my fondest memories I would like to remember. And my stay in UP would not be in my favorites, nor even a logical choice. But somehow, my experiences in this university would definitely one of my most memorable ones. I learned a lot of valuable life lessons I need in my life. The experiences brought me to a lot of realizations I could not infer had I not been on a helpless situation. They made me stronger and shaped me to be better, mentally and emotionally. I learned to not give up and fight ‘til the end. I learned to stand up with dignity after a terrible tumble. As they say, when you’re down, there’s no way but up.

Now, you may see me inside this class, wearing a smile and being perky and all. But I am still in the process of accepting my fate and moving on. I guess, I am a good faker for pretending to be fine when I am not. But I’ll get through this, in one way or another. Besides, being delayed in UP is not that a big issue. What matters is that you graduate, earn a degree and fulfill your dreams, right?

It’s not the first time I saw the oblation holding a sablay in his arms. It’s not the first time I saw the sunflowers bloomed along the university either. Hopefully, it would not be my last. I know I will be in that platform, taking my UP diploma. May it be next year or so, I am preparing myself for it. I guess I just have to wait for my turn. I’ll wait for that moment when I’ll get to wear a sablay and sunflowers bloom for my graduation. Life goes on. For now, I’ll just pass by the oblation and adore his utmost honor and excellence, with no bitter feelings, whatsoever.

Generation XYZ

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Generation XYZ

“First we are children to our parents, then parents to our children, then parents to our parents, then children to our children.”

~Milton Greenblatt

One fine day, while I’m surfing the net, devotedly playing Happy Aquarium in Facebook, my mom called my name out to help her sort the stuffs she bought from the supermarket. But since I’m so busy feeding and training my beloved fishes (they are about 200, of different kinds and sorts), I told her to wait and let me finish my “noble” work. After five minutes, he called my name once more, this time, louder and firmer, but I just can’t leave my fishes hungry and sick so again, I told her to wait for me. After I finished playing, I got out of the room and saw every grocery bag was already in their place and every grocery item was on their cabinet. And that meant only one thing for me – trouble!

Trouble inside our house generally meant my mom being upset and would get frustrated on us, her children and nag about how irresponsible we are getting. She would tell us how lazy we are and that we really don’t care if she gets tired doing chores inside the house. She would nag about how different her life was when she was still a child and now that she had four overly tiring kids. She would tell us how she would ask herself at night what she had done wrong to be punished with such predicaments. She would talk and talk and talk - a lot. But that’s only when she gets really, really upset.

That moment when she caught me playing Happy Aquarium instead of helping her was a traumatic one for me. That night, she told my dad how disappointed she was on me because her favorite son doesn’t care about her anymore. She told me that since I started attending UP, I became an overly-proud and arrogant son who doesn’t care about his parents. My dad, being the quiet and reserved one, would tell me that I should do something about it. If not, he would cut my allowance, send me in a remote island and then abandon me there. Though I thought it was just a joke, my dad managed to put up a straight face, meaning he really meant that. Oops, I went.

I didn’t realize that playing Happy Aquarium would be such a dreadful act. So I reasoned out that I was just doing my assignment and I’m going to pass it as soon as possible. But of course, it was just a lame excuse. My mom saw me playing with those fishes so she simply talked more and more. She told me how dumb of me to play such fish game when I myself couldn’t manage my own aquarium at home. I had one before, and it didn’t last for long when my fish died. She told me why could I just go outside and fish somewhere so that I can become more active and all. Fishing in Pampanga? How serious could she get, I told myself! She saw that puzzled look in my face so she talked once more. She told me how could I even manage such fishes when I don’t eat seafood (I’m allergic to seafood!) and I don’t even know how do these fishes differ. I couldn’t argue with her since I really hate fishes and seafood and I would fail in identifying which fish is which. She then proceeded to her favorite part – recalling her past. She told me when she was still a child, my grandparents would accompany the market and teach them which stuffs are better and all. Of course, my mom grew up in Ilocos Sur so I would not be surprised if she knew probinsiya stuffs. My dad grew up in Zambales so he would recall more probinsiya stuffs. And the series continued until they noticed that I’m no longer listening.

Basically, that’s what happens whenever I’m in trouble. My mom would compare her generation with mine and tell me, how lucky she was to grow up in the province and experience everything she had experienced. I secretly envied her sometimes, when she would tell how laidback their life used to be and how she would enjoy climbing trees and taking dips in a nearby river. I envied her when she told me about the quiet life she had then, stress-free, happy and contented. She would tell me about how strict her parents were but they were very helpful and generous to their children. She would tell me about how respectful she was then because she feared her parents. She would tell me how religious they were; attending mass with her lolas dressed in Filipiniana with their Rosario in their hands. I envied her childhood stories that somehow I wished I was born in their generation

It doesn’t mean that I really hate our generation. But with all the stress and problems I had gone through, I felt a little bummed up. As if I couldn’t handle anything anymore, as if I’m giving up on everything I wanted to achieve. Basta, our generation now is not as delightful, enjoyable as our parents may had. They enjoyed their childhood more; they ran freely in the streets without their parents worrying much; they had contentment all around them. And I just couldn’t feel it with our generation. Perhaps maybe, I am just an old-soul who got trapped in a body living this generation, just an old-soul who thinks simplicity and peace is everything, an old-soul who prefers the quiet sound of the barrio than the hustle and bustle of the city. Perhaps, I am just an old-soul who lived together with my mom and my dad in the province, reincarnated to be their son.