(19 April 2009)
View from hotel room window.
Susan Boyle sings:
There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong
I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted
But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame
He slept a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came
And still I dream he’ll come to me
That we will live the years together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I’m living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.
(Day of Valor)
The taciturn Bengali asked me what “Baguio” meant and I couldn’t answer so I asked the gentleman that served our food. I hid my ignorance by being ”pa-cute” and said aloud that my history teachers would kill me, and sure enough, everyone in the table laughed.
In another occasion, the pretty Burmese girl asked me about the Bataan Death March during World War II and again, I couldn’t give a satisfactory answer. I was so disappointed with myself, I didn’t bother making pa-cute.
I recently visited a beautiful, rich country, whose citizens are simply brimming with pride over their heritage. I got a sense of how much they loved their country by how much they knew of its history. I felt guilt, perhaps, shame, too, because I now realize that I might have taken my country, my beloved Philippines, for granted.
It’s true what some people say, only when in distant shores would one truly appreciate one’s country. The beatiful, rich country would have been perfect were it not for the hotel concierge that had uttered a racist remark against me (another post, perhaps). The episode got me thinking — the beautiful, rich country had beautiful warm people, but really, there is no place like home.
(Manila, Manila, I will keep coming back to you, my Manila…)
Aherm…
And so I promised myself, when I get back, I’ll love my beloved Philippines more (I’ll discover what that means as I go along).
But for starters, I’ll try to read up on the Bataan Death March and honor the prisoners of war, Filipinos and non-Filipinos, who perished.
In April 1942, the US-Filipino forces surrendered the Bataan Peninsula to the Japanese. On April 9, around 75,000 Filipino and American POWs were forced to walk around 90 kilometers from Mariveles, Bataan to San Fernando, Pampanga, and were then transported by train to Camp O’ Donnell in Capas, Tarlac. Only around 55,000 survived. The rest either escaped or died on the way due to dehydration, starvation, disease, abuse and other manner of atrocities committed by the then enemy.
(For more: http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/55717/Bataan-Death-March)
Soon, i hope. Then, I’d be back in business, thinking of the stuff that used to preoccupy me; living today thinking of tomorrow instead of last year’s (winternovember).
I’ve been greatly inconvenienced already — spent precious peso, in this time of crisis, on beloved books, essential movies, sovereign food. But, most unforgivable, wonderful sleep is reduced to a measly half of what I used to have. Work has felt like work since; wanderlust seems about to kick in.
broken body part, are you truly?
do you ever mend, really?
take me away. take me along.
but, please, to a place happy, body parts healthy. and i hope, i hope, it would be a bright bright beautiful day.
One of my oldest friends took a sacred vow last week. Most of those who witnessed the profession were fighting back tears when the rites started and she, together with four other ladies, publicly answered The Call and said, “Here I am.”
Three and a half years have passed since we sent her off to her journey of faith and her commitment remains unwavering. (I, on the other hand, have had countless conversations with myself on the question, “Should I stay or should I go?” Or more accurately, “Where do I go?”) No amount of jokes (with subliminal messages?) would make her change her mind. (A friend told her, “The leaves that you rake in the morning would be your salad for dinner!” – or some such jokes.)
Still, she inspires me. (Although, I have to admit, her profession is not for me. Or, I, am not for her profession. I’m quite certain I would be kicked out on grounds of ‘disobedience’. At any rate, among other things, her community would most likely not accept me due to ‘conflict of interest’… )
It was all family and friends and good food and general good cheer after the rites. I hope that all the good vibes had rubbed off on me.
At night, Sr. A–’s two best friends and I and her spiritual confessor went to the mall to watch a movie. Unfortunately, the movie we wanted to see was not showing. We stuffed ourselves with seafood instead, checked out model condo units (don’t ask), and had our fortunes told (except Spiritual Confessor, who does not believe and is strong. 
That was fun.
The Government and I did not see eye to eye, as usual. Or more accurately, counsel from the government and I did not. He casually said “dismissed” and “(weak) evidence” and I worried that the ‘clients’ would lose heart. Apparently (and uncharacteristically), my worry (lost heart?) showed, and was immediately sensed by the ‘clients’.
Our jeep crawling through the highway of unforgiving sun, I was jolted from my confused thoughts of dry statutory provisions by a word from “Commissioner” –
“Huwag kang mag-alalala, gracevill, kaming mga katutubo ay hindi papatalo sa iisang papel.” (Don’t worry, gracevill, we, indigenous peoples will not be defeated by a mere scrap of paper.”)
Shortly thereafter, the jeep-ful of cheerful old men and two strong ladies, dropped me off at a gas station, where this girl took the bus to Manila. The orange sun, to my left, was blazing and low on the horizon. Tomorrow, it shall be on the right again, rising.
Yes, breathing in and breathing out. Starting this post with a positive word. Filling days and nights with thoughts of work. Composing pleadings inside my head. Attempting to come up with brilliant arguments. Reading novels again. Writing for a reader of one. Surfing the net, as usual. Trying to plug this continental gap within with thoughts of things I should be grateful for and happy about.
May there be an end (to this), and once again, life!!!
take me on an exciting journey to a place joyful, beautiful, and glorious.
p.s., i can read maps.
My rating. (What? Only 87% expert?!?!) :D
“You scored 100% Beginner, 100% Intermediate, 100% Advanced, and 87% Expert!
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My first ever day of school in kindergarten, my grandmother forgot to fetch me. My mama had to go to her own class and my papa was in Riyadh.
In my new uniform, I sat by the school gate for what seemed like hours until it was just Mr. M– (our school’s security guard) and I who were left. I didn’t panic, however. Or feel that I was abandoned. In my 6-year old mind, I had somehow known that I would be forgotten.
And so before the sun set, and before Mr. M– and other school personnel became even more worried, I stood up from my corner and asked the school janitor, Mang… Roderick (I think, his name was), if he could accompany me home. I knew exactly where our house was though not its address (up the street near the town market a ‘haunted house’ stood and on that street, a passageway led to the compound where home was.)
Before my lola could finish cooking dinner, there I was sitting by the dining table, asking for merienda. Ay! my lola cried. But, no crying, no fuss from me. I simply asked for a glass of water and some soup. Ok, perhaps for a doughnut, too. And everything was just as it was and as it should be.
More than 20 years later and I’m wishing I’m still that 6 year old kid.
Forgotten?
I’d stand up from the corner where I waited, dust myself off, and head for home, where someone who surely loved me awaited for my return. Then, as in dreams, there’d be no crying, and hardly any fuss. Ok, perhaps a lot of fuss. But only the good kind.
 | jordandale on “One Winged Angels… |
