Bullying explained

A REACTION PAPER ON A STUDY ENTITLED

Attachment Quality and Bullying Behavior in School-Aged Youth

By Laura M. Walden and Tanya N. Beran

Written by

Marcial I. Enginco

Submitted to

Grace Koo, PhD

Professor, EDFD 210

Human Development and Learning

University of the Philippines Diliman

College of Education

SUMMARY

The study entitled “Attachment Quality and Bullying Behavior in School-aged Youth” was conducted by Laura M. Walden and Tanya N. Beran to determine the relationship between students’ quality of attachment to their primary caregivers and the frequency with which they bully others and are the victims of bullying.  It covered 105 student respondents from Grade 4, Grade 6 and Grade 8 from a Canadian middle school located in the suburbs.  The respondents were required to submit a consent form signed by their parent or guardian before they were made to accomplish an Inventory of Parent and Peer Attachment (IPPA) questionnaire, which is a self-report instrument designed to measure students’ perceptions of the degree of mutual trust, quality of communication, and the extent of anger and alienation in their current relationships.

The study established that students who reported high-quality attachment with their caregivers are less likely to bully others or be bullied.  Students who reported an insecure relationship with their caregivers have shown the tendency to bully others, particularly those students who have experienced a high level of alienation from their caregivers.

NEW LEARNINGS

Bullying is nothing new.  It has been around since the Pharaohs of Egypt learned to throw their weight around unsuspecting, docile subjects, and stretches even far longer into written and oral history.  In fact, one of the earliest stories in the Bible is about bullying gone bad when Cain, Adam and Eve’s eldest son, bullied and eventually murdered his younger brother Abel, who was the first couple’s favorite.  Bullying, according to psychologists, may escalate into murderous tendencies if not addressed properly.

But as a new graduate student taking Educational Psychology and a former advertising professional with little or no knowledge about facts behind bullying behavior I have to admit that it is my first time to read, or is compelled to read, a research that attempts to explain its relational cause – Attachment Quality. 

Although the scope of the study is localized to a certain demographic sample in suburban Canada, I believe that its core finding carries a universal truth, and that certain results and implications arising from the said study may be applied, in varying degrees and permutations, to different cultures and demography such as ours – a developing nation with its own sets of dynamics in attachment qualities and caregiving conditions.

The study’s chief finding that poor attachment quality may lead a child to become either a bully or the bully victim or, in my case -- both -- is personally compelling and revealing.  While I did look up to my mother as my family’s pillar of strength, she was neither emotionally warm nor physically and verbally demonstrative of her feelings for her children (insecure attachment).  My father, on the other hand, was more demonstrative and vocal but, being an alcoholic, was not someone who engendered trust in a developing child (alienation).  So while I had a semblance of a strong attachment with my mother, the overall quality of my attachment with both my parents can be considered poor, leading me to be what the study suggests: Prone to either being a Bully or the Bullied.

When I was in elementary and high school, classmates who were physically smaller and mentally inferior tended to shy away from me for I was mischievous and habitually pulled off pranks and traps that would put them in either an embarrassing situation, in trouble, or at the butt of further jokes. I pulled away chairs when classmates were about to sit, tugged at the straps of girls’ trainer bras, rigged fights between unsuspecting protagonists, and accomplished many stunts that made victims more wary of my presence, and theirs.  But perhaps the worst form of bullying I did was letting a slow member of our class know how slow she really was.  Once, during a particularly tense class recitation where she was called to perform, I whispered to her a wrong and utterly inane answer that she was reduced to near tears after the class burst out in loud laughter when she finished repeating my misfeed.  She became more timid after that humiliating experience.   However, this did not stop me from doing more of the same to her and other “lesser” classmates.  I am aware that I scarred her for life because I did not see or hear from her after high school.  The only thing I know about her now is that she legally changed her name and moved out of the country, perhaps to start a new life away from the image that I helped mold for her.

But as the Bully Totem Pole goes, I was not on top of the pecking order for outside of my classroom was a physical bully – Julius Yago – who constantly threatened me with mayhem when I was in grade school.  I don’t recall how I became a favorite subject of his menace except that I remember making him look bad in a game of basketball where I was, in my school, considered a star.

He was not able to inflict actual physical harm on me but I do remember the terror I felt when he would loiter outside my classroom and make motions at me to come out as his henchboys tried to look their gangster best – crackling their knuckles and doing some strange stretching exercises as if they were preparing for some brisk action.  I was terrified for my life and I remember experiencing fear-induced fever, numbness and some sleepless nights.  I could not understand nor explain why someone I have no grudge against or ill-feelings for would like to beat me up good, as much as I did not understand and could not explain why I would try with gusto to embarrass and put in ridiculous situations classmates who had done me no wrong.  Belatedly, this study which zeroes in on early child-parent relationship quality partly explains why I, and perhaps Julius Yago, behaved the way we did when we were much younger.

STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES

With a sample size of 105 culled from a school that has basically a homogenous student population, this study can hardly be called extensive or exhaustive.  But what it lacks in breadth it makes up for in depth of purpose, which is to establish a link between the quality of a child’s early relationships with his parents vis-à-vis being a bully or a bully victim. 

I also believe that this study has successfully outlined a general truth that bullying behavior and being its victim is not a phenomenon that begins and ends in school but rather is a foundational flaw in the home that, unfortunately, regularly rears its ugly self in a school environment.

I think the rather small sample size and its homogeneity where respondents are predominantly white and, I suppose, coming from the same social bracket prevents  the results, conclusions, implications and recommendations arising  from the study to be generally applicable in situations where geographic, economic and social demographics vary, e.g. multi-ethnicity environment such as in International Schools, or in an urban locale where population is either dominated by white or black or any given race, as I would like to assume that while the tendency to bully may be inherent in a certain child because of his poor quality attachment values, the opportunity to act on it may be mitigated by other circumstances such as if he finds himself in the minority where  the budding bully may not be able to act on his impulses just as easily if he was in a more superior position, say in a majority.

And while I support the findings that there is a relationship between bullying or being a bully victim with the quality of attachment to primary caregivers, I believe that the Consent Form that the respondents’ parents/caregivers were made to sign to formalize the subjects’ inclusion to the study has somewhat weakened the intensity of the established link.  I think that it is in the nature and interest of a detached and/or uncaring parent/caregiver not to sign the Consent Form especially if it is made clear to him that the quality of his relationship with his child is going to be subject of a study.  Hence, I suspect that there is a greater number of parents/caregivers with poor relationships with their child who did not sign the consent form than those that actually did, thereby diluting the result.  If it was legally and ethically acceptable for the students to respond to the questionnaire mandatorily then I believe that the real score can be obtained.

IMPLICATIONS

For as long as children learn the push and pull, and the zig and zag of the dynamics of human relationships in the microcosm of school, solving the bullying menace is, I think, impossible as it is in the natural process of human development that such situations will inevitably arise when there is prolonged and sustained interaction between individuals of varying degrees of intelligence, strength, physical attributes and economic and social backgrounds.  What this study accomplishes however is that it points school administrators and psychologists in the right direction in better understanding and finding intervention programs that would mitigate the development of behavioral tendencies to bully or to be bullied, and up to a certain degree, limit its occurrence and prevalence in the educational system.

Programs that educate parents of the effects of poorly established relationships at home would be a good starting point, and so is establishing appropriate monitoring and guidance mechanisms for students who have been assessed to have bullying tendencies.  Likewise, teachers and school officials and staff may be instructed to pay more attention to students who have been victims of bullying so that they may be able to reestablish a certain degree of connection and trust with adults that would help them recover their self-esteem and make them less susceptible to bullying tactics.

Closer to home, it is interesting to find out how the results of this study apply to the realities of the Philippines where many families have either one or both parents working abroad; often leaving the caregiving responsibilities to relatives (grandparents, uncles, aunts) who may not be viewed by the child as an authoritative figure but merely as a guardian, or to the eldest child who despite being wanting in quality attachment himself,  takes on the mantle of a father and/or mother figure to younger siblings, or in some cases to househelp who neither have the influence nor the parental sensitivity to provide a secure and warm family environment to the youth.

I wonder then, is this present reality breeding an army of bullies and victims that would inevitably cross paths in the school, creating a situation that is alarming and constantly escalating?  If so, our schools might have some of the highest prevalence of bullying in the world.  Or is the proverbial ability of the Filipino to adapt and find a measure of normalcy under difficult circumstances limiting the incidence to manageable levels?  If so, I would like to imagine that extended families which include neighbors, ninongs and ninangs, alternative support systems such as parents of friends, and the ability of the Filipinos to utilize communication technology such as Facebook, Facetime and mobile phones to establish a de facto attachment with absentee parents all contribute to providing a child sources of emotional and psychological stability that would temper bullying tendencies or enhancing self-esteem that wards off bullying attempts.


This is my first graduate school paper.  Technical writing is not my forte but I'm working on it.

Serafin the Cat and Makmak the Aspiring Trapo

I don’t intend to blog tonight, except that two recent developments are bugging me. First, Serafin, the black and white cat that adapted our family was found dead, apparently a victim of hit and run.

Second, my bus ride home from Manila was littered by a new eyesore: Makmak Luancing, a political neophyte behaving like an old school trapo, plastering his silly grin all over Lipa while urging unregistered citizens to register NOW!  Well, the bus ride was just the final straw because even my drive and bike rides around Lipa have been disturbed by his mug shot.

Now I’m at a loss how to make a story out of two unrelated developments.

Serafin (a name that I just coined out of nowhere because the cat had none) was an expert rat hunter, and a sly thief of roastingMaliputo.  Nobody knew where he came from.  He just came to be; loitering around our yard until my Nanay began feeding him.

And that was it.  He found a home.

I was not really fond of him, at least not enough to call him my pet, but it still bothers me that a creature that once shared your home is gone, not just gone hiding, or looking for wayward felines out for a noisy lay, but gone – as in no longer breathing.  He must have been hit so badly that all his 9 lives were snuffed out simultaneously.  Which makes me sad even more, knowing how violent his death was.

Before passing away, Serafin has found a mate – probably his soul mate as she came in spots of black over white, like he did.  And he sired a litter, 3 little Serafins.

And I am sadder even more.  Serafin’s squeeze, let’s just call her Aida, is nowhere to be found.  And so are their kittens.  Aida must have moved them away because Serafin has moved on.  I want to move on as well.

Which brings me to Makmak Luancing, who is way ahead of his contemporaries in as far as showing signs of being a trapo is concerned.  I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt that he really wants to serve.  But that benefit is slim, to say the least.

I believe in the power of the youth when they do decide to serve.  After all, the youth to which Makmak belongs is the bastion of idealism.   But I also know a lot of former students who take bold initiatives to make a difference in the lives of others.  And they don’t need to call attention to themselves.  That’s leadership.

Serafin found a way to endear himself – he hunted vermins mercilessly.  And he did so without announcing his kills.  He became valuable that way.

I wonder what makes Makmak valuable?  Hopefully, that should be the foundation of his campaign.

Accidentally Jessica

Sorry, this is the best that my phone camera can do.

Nanay handed me a handwritten note on a yellow stick pad.  It said: Li Garden Sharksfin Seafood Restaurant, Macapagal Ave., near PNB.

She asked if I could drive her there the following day for her 5pm European pilgrimage briefing; the tour sponsored by my bachelor brother and resident Mr. Generous, Kuya Gary.  Though she said it as a request, it was more like an edict.  As the family’s designated “go to” guy I was expected to find the time to do as, well, requested.

So after our afternoon Wall Climbing class, my wife and I picked up Nanay at Robinsons Place Lipa.  The drive was uneventful and we arrived at Li Garden a good 30 minutes ahead of schedule.

The last time I brought Nanay to this kind of briefing was on a rainy night in November of last year for her trip to the Holy Land (told you my brother is generous). Back then the meeting was held at a Korean restaurant somewhere in Ermita.  The rain was heavy that my wife and I decided to wait out the briefing inside the venue.  Luckily, not all those who were supposed to arrive did, leaving a few vacant plates – note, free dinner – available to us.

As a consequence of arriving early at Li Garden, we wouldn’t know if the same thing would happen in at least two hours.  Honestly, I am intrigued if the restaurant would serve sharksfin as its business name boldly suggests.  I suppose World Wildlife Fund, DENR, PETA and other groups concerned with animal conservation should look into this.

Anyway, as soon as Nanay had other early birds for company we decided to leave her there for a quick hop to the Mall of Asia a few minutes away.

Every time we are in Manila we make it a point to eat at restaurants not available in Lipa, this time at Sbarro’s, my wife’s favorite.

After a satisfying slice of deep dish pizza, zitti and eggplant parmigiana washed down by iced tea and lemonade we decided to take a leisurely stroll back to the parking lot.

On the way I heard a powerful voice singing.  I thought it was just an audition for one of those billion talent shows.  It sounded a lot like Jessica Sanchez.  But no one could sound like Jessica Sanchez except for Jessica Sanchez, herself.

As we walked closer to the stage, a widescreen was showing someone who looked like Jessica Sanchez singing.  I thought “Oh well, just a recording of one of Jessica’s performances.”

But it was not.  Under the widescreen was the real Jessica singing “Stuttering” live.  It was surreal.  It was an unexpected blessing.  My wife later confided that she was on the verge of tears because of the accidental encounter.

Jessica sang another song, The Prayer.  She was brilliant.  And supremely talented.  She also looked every bit a Filipina in short shorts and what looked like 10-foot wedges.  Yes, I think she’s a Filipina regardless of what Charice Pempengco’s American manager claims.  I mean if you compare Jessica and Charice, who do you think acts and behaves like a Filipina?

Nanay’s meeting ended around 9.

On the way home, everyone was silent inside the car.  Nanay was sleeping and my wife was still probably reminiscing about the chance encounter with Jessica.  I sure was.

I was doing 90 along the STAR Tollway when I was about to overtake a six-wheeler doing about 60.  This is a routine pass, I go left, the truck stays to the right, and we should just be complete strangers whizzing by each other without actually seeing one another.

But as I was about to pass the slow truck inexplicably veered towards my lane.  I simultaneously hammered the horn and stepped on the brakes so hard that we went from 90 to 0 in one long angry ode to the truck driver’s parentage, specifically his maternal lineage. 

The horn jolted the driver to his senses and he steered the truck back to the proper lane.

Funny that as this was happening, the only thing going inside my head was that the sound effects in movies of cars breaking and wheels screeching sounded eerily similar to the real thing.  So did the videos of car accidents caught on tape.

Then we were engulfed by the smoke and burnt smell of brake pads that were worked up to its limits.  My Nanay, awakened by the sudden stop, calmly and cluelessly asked, “Bakit ka tumigil?”

As I started the car again I can see the truck pulled over to the side, the driver alit and holding his hand high in a gesture of apology.  He looked like someone suddenly awakened from sleep.  I drove on.  It was pointless to confront him.

What a night.  One moment I was humming Stuttering in my head, the next I was muttering inanities.  Oh darn, accidentally Jessica.

Of a giftless birthday and cheap happiness

Yesterday, September 22, was my birthday.  Except for a late lunch date with my wife followed by a quick stop at the grocery, I did not spend any money on this day.  I did not buy anything for myself.  And my wife also did not get me anything.  It was just like any ordinary day.

But I felt like a million because people who care for me did not get me gifts that were paid for in currency.  Rather they spent time and effort for me on my birthday.  That’s the best gift I can receive because it meant that they value me.  They did not leave me with a souvenir that would get bundled with other material things, instead they left me with moments that I can lift anytime from my memory bank should I need a quick pick-me-upper.

That’s priceless.

I appreciate the satisfaction of having the capacity to spend, and I strive hard to achieve that capacity every day.  But I thank God that I grew up not finding happiness in money and what it can buy.  My family’s lack of it as I was growing up had a lot to do with this attitude because I was forced to find alternative sources of happiness.  I found it in my imagination, in the drawings that I scrawled everywhere, in the times I spent freely on my own wandering without regard for time and hunger, in the kids and older people I spent time with, and in little things that God made such as spiders and mushrooms.

But not every day can be my birthday.

It does not make a difference however.  Not a day passes without me getting or experiencing a priceless gift.  So inspite of the problems and challenges that come my way I can say that I am lucky to be happy every day.

Let me share a quick list of what makes me smile and grateful to be alive.  Most of it is free, and if there is any form of expenditure, it’s definitely cheap.

1.        Waking up in the morning.

2.       Sinking my teeth on a perfect sunny side up seasoned with rock salt – yolk golden and oozing, melting on the tongue. Sarap ng breakfast.

3.       Wearing a shirt neatly pressed by my wife who refuses to let me out of the house looking haggard.  This is one chore she does not pass on to househelp.

4.       The sweet smell emanating from my beehives as I inspect them one by one.

5.       A tablespoon of honey I harvested myself.

6.       A random bird that visits our garden; a hummingbird once, a red breasted quail next, and an assortment of colorful ones whose names I don’t even know.

7.       Edible mushrooms after a heavy rain.

8.       Fresh fruits rambutan, durian, suha, satsuma, kalamansi, fresh vegetables and herbs malunggay, kamote tops, sili leaves, papaya, basil, mint – all from the garden.  Still waiting for the mangosteen though.

9.       Fresh tuna sashimi I prepare from a cut I bought from the market. I usually buy one fourth kilo at about 75 pesos.  This would be good for 3 servings.  Sarap.

10.   A kid placing a candy wrapper in his or her pocket: There is hope for the environment.

11.   A driver stopping at an intersection and waving me to join the traffic: Not everyone is in a hurry.

12.   Finding red notifications on FB.

13.   Reading status posted by people I care for.  If the status is about success, milestones or positive events I am happy for them because they are getting what they desire.  If it’s about heartaches, issues and problems, I am happy for them because they are growing.

14.   My 77 year old mother screaming and cheering as she watches basketball on TV: She’s enjoying herself.

15.   Hearing my nanay humming a song I don’t know: She’s happy and contented.

16.   My dog Patch jumping up and down as he welcomes me home.

17.   The tippity-tap sound that Patch’s little feet make as he goes up or down the stairs.

18.   Patch joining me on the sofa as I watch TV.

19.   Waking up in the middle of a cold night to find Patch cozily wedged between me and my wife, under our blanket.

20.   My wedding ring.

21.   My wife’s smile.

22.   Her voice as she speaks.

23.   The touch of her skin on mine.

24.   Her hands clasped with mine as we walk, sit, or lay on the bed.

25.   Hearing my wife snore in the middle of the night; I know she’s having a fitful rest.

Pride, respect and Sotto

Let's be clear.  I do not own this pic.  It's from GMATV.

Senator Tito Sotto should be the final argument why a public official should not be voted into office because of mere popularity.  Lito Lapid would have been the best argument but since it seems that the only time that he opens his mouth is when he lets out a yawn, he cannot claim party to a debate, let alone a discussion.

So Mr. Sotto comes into the RH Bill debate, fresh from treating the recently concluded Chief Justice Corona’s Impeachment Trial as a showcase for his emceeing skills culled from his decades-long experience at Eat Bulaga, and he is making his darndest best to appear and sound erudite.  The appearance part he got down pat.  He is an actor after all.  But the erudition part he failed miserably.  He is an actor after all.

Don’t get me wrong.  There are many intelligent people in show business.  But you know they are intelligent because they stay away from politics.

No one is running away from him from debates as he would like people to believe.  But it is not as if the mere mention of his name would elicit quivers from anyone who could construct an intelligible sentence.  In fact, several non-politicians are calling him out to an issue-based one, which the Senator promptly dismissed and ignored, reasoning out that it would demean the Senate as an institution if he engages in a word tussle with people that were not even elected to any public office.  But it is he who demeans the Senate because he was unfortunately elected into it.

Tito Sotto does not get it.  His passion against the RH Bill is unquestioned, at times he even comes across as sincere, even noble.  But that is beside the point because indeed he does raise some good points.

It is him.  He is the point.  Or the pointless.

Tito Sotto is a different breed, a class all his own.  He opens his mouth and out comes words that are not his.  And when he is called out, he behaves as if he is beyond censure.  Oh the sense of entitlement of this senator.  He even thinks that the word products of other people are his for the taking, or the blurting out.

I write.  And I write.  And I write.  But never have I attempted to pass off somebody’s work as mine.  It’s called pride of one’s intellect and respect for another’s.  Apparently, Sotto owns neither.

And now the latest episode: Sotto does not plagiarize another’s work – Robert Kennedy’s this time – but he translates it into the vernacular. And he laughs and derides people who again, naturally and thankfully, called him out, asserting that there is no plagiarism because he used another language to mean what Kennedy originally said in English.

Sotto is clueless.  Shameless.  Shameful.

And then he would cry that he is being cyber-bullied.  He is not.  He has shown enough obliviousness to prove that he is immune from any and all verbal attacks – be it from cyberspace or from the senate floor.

On the contrary, he is the big bully.  The “big man” who cannot be faulted for lacking originality because according to him, last he checked, plagiarism is not a crime in the Philippines.  Well, it maybe not.  But the way he shows disregard and disrespect for another’s intellectual output is criminal.  And the fact that he is a senator of the land showing the citizens of the Philippines, kids included, that being a copycat is totally acceptable is utterly despicable.  It is not only criminal.  It is heinous.

From Epal Bill to Robredo Bill

The proposed Epal bill should be amended and then passed immediately.  The amendment I want is simple but makes perfect sense.  Instead of the uninspired and rather tasteless “epal” tag, it should be called the Robredo Bill, in honor of the man who, in his time as Mayor of Naga and later Secretary for the Department of Interior and Local Government, defined what government service should be: effective but low-key;  exemplifying the type of service that called attention to the effect and not the action, benefitted constituents and not political allies, and honored the people not the self -- the antithesis of how so many politicians behave and dispose of their duties which is anything but public service.

Jesse Robredo was not Mikee Arroyo who pretended to represent security guards and janitors.  He was genuine, unpretentious and secure.

Jesse Robredo was not Camarines Governor Luis Villafuerte who blocked his confirmation as DILG Secretary because he failed to unite politics in the Bicol region which the Villafuertes have lorded over for decades, and where Luis himself is at odds with his very own son LRay.  No.  Jesse was not like him.  He did not see public service as having geographic or political boundaries.  He only saw Filipinos needing help.

I believe that Jesse Robredo was fated to die early, while there was so much left to do.  It had to happen because there are so much more that can be done if he is gone.  I believe that because of his example, more like him will follow.

Good men die in different ways.  Some die old, helping and inspiring people along the way, mostly those who are in immediate contact of the man.  But there are those like Jesse Robredo who must die leaving behind plenty of what-ifs and open-ended questions that would inspire and goad future generations to fill in the blanks and continue the work left undone.  Jose Rizal died the same way.  So did Ninoy Aquino.  Their deaths, while untimely and deeply unsettling, paved the way for upheavals that changed the course of our nation’s history.

So yes, Jesse Robredo died not a second too soon.  Change is on the way.

Through his death, stories of his dedication to his country and its people are surfacing; making more Filipinos – especially those that have become jaded and skeptical – believe that there are people in the government who genuinely have the interest of the Filipinos at heart.

Through his death, people are now realizing that he has done a lot without anyone hearing or reading about them.  That is public service, not self-service.

Pass the Robredo Bill and let’s move forward without the likes of Meynard Sabili polluting

beautiful Lipa with his heavily doctored photo every chance he gets.  This is politics at its crudest.

Pass the Robredo Bill and let’s start a new culture of politics where officials are more concerned with good governance rather than good image projection.  The latter naturally follows if the former is observed and sustained.

Pass the Robredo Bill and let’s put a face and a name to good governance.  It’s long overdue and someone just died for it.


I hope this post is read and shared until it reaches the proponents of the Epal Bill.

Jesse Robredo: 1958-2012

I don’t know Jesse Robredo.  But when someone would jump the high seas just to witness a proud moment in his child’s life – I admire him.  And for this person to work for the government, I admire him even more.

At least I know where his heart is.

If a man would not miss his child for the world then he knows his priorities, and it is certainly not his work at the government.   And this is the kind of love that everyone in the government should possess.

If a government man values his family over his life then he is motivated to give his all to his job -- and not get all from it -- knowing fully well that what he does at work will have an effect, good or bad, to those he loves.

You know where his heart is.

I don’t know him but my heart is heavy.

Secretary Jesse Robredo, may you rest in peace.  And may your life of simplicity and service be an example to every Filipino, especially those in the government who may not think that their child’s smallest victory is perhaps the most important in this world.

A bike errand and a guard just doing his job

I routinely ride my bike for errands.  This saves me time and money as it allows me to weave in and around traffic without burning gas or paying for fare. 

I needed sugar this morning, two kilos of it.  A kilo of white sugar costs 7 pesos more at the local sarisari store than at the grocery, so biking 8 kilometers to and from Robinsons Place would save me 14 pesos, and I get to earn a little exercise on the side.

I usually park my bike where motorcycle riders park theirs, near the rear entrance of the mall.  As customary, I politely ask the security guard in charge of the parking space “Sir, paiwan lang ha. Mabilis lang ako.”  Instead of the usual “Sige sir, pakitabi na lang d’yan,” the guard on duty sternly asked “Wala ka bang lock n’yan?” as he pointed to other bikes padlocked to a steel post.

“Sir, saglit lang ako,” I repeated myself.

“Dapat kasi may lock ka, eh.”

“Wala nga sir, eh.  Di ko ba puedeng iwan?”  I asked in a relaxed voice.

“San mo iiwanan? My stand ba yan?, as he pointed to a line of motorcycles that were standing on their own, indicating that they belong where they are.

“Wala rin, sir.”

“Eh, dapat may stand yan.   Kung lalabas kayo at iiwanan ang bike nyo, dapat may lock at stand.”

My patience was wearing thin and I didn’t like the tone of his voice.  “Sir, gaano ba ka-imposible ang hinihingi ko?  At huwag mo ko pagagalitan.”

“Sir,” the first time he used the word and at a lower octave, “di ko naman kayo pinagagalitan, baka lang masalisihan tayo.”

“Tignan mo nga kung gaano kalaki ako (I am 185-pound, 6’1” man)? Hindi mo kaya mapapansin kung biglang maliit na ang kukuha ng bike ko?”

He was determined not to let me park, but I was equally determined to let him see my point – that leaving my bike at his post, won’t cause him any trouble, and won’t result to a stolen bike provided that he opens his eyes.  It was as simple as that.

Perhaps realizing that I was not about to ride away, he grudgingly gestured to a corner.  It is where I normally park my bike -- within his reach and sight.

I was back to retrieve my bike after no more than 10 minutes.  Another guard was ogling it, while the guard on duty was, well, standing where I left him: a meter away from it.

On my way home, I kept on repeating the conversation I had with the guard in my head, trying to find a way to understand why he acted the way he did.  The most reasonable argument would be that he was afraid that a bike that costs perhaps several months of his salary could be stolen right under his nose.   But that doesn’t hold water.  No thief would be stupid enough to steal a bike when a guard can handcuff him even before he can mount it.  I suppose it’s possible.  But come on, even the most desperate thief would at least try to steal something that he knows he has half a chance of getting away with it.

So I came to this conclusion: The guard was just doing his job.  And that’s the problem, he was JUST doing his job.

Years ago, I was asked to come up with an Annual Report concept for Petron.  They were then trying to overhaul their service philosophy which mandated that everyone, from the gas pump attendant dealing with a customer to the big bosses making the big decision, should attend to his responsibilities with the end goal of creating an extraordinary service experience for the other party.  I encapsulated this thrust into the theme “Going the extra mile for a smile.”

The guard was just doing his job, by following a job description.  I can’t help but think that he considers his job as “merely” a source of income, nothing more, and certainly not part of something bigger.  Which is not bad really, and I cannot fault him for it.  Why should he go the extra mile when he had already given what was required?

It’s the same as the karinderia owner who refuses extra sabaw to a customer, a nurse who snubs a patient’s request to raise his bed a little because she was only there to check on the meds, or a mechanic who ignores a lose wheel nut because he was only asked to work on the brakes.

And to think the difference between a satisfied carinderia customer, a relieved hospital patient or a safe car driver is just a few seconds, and one unremarkable effort.  Really, it doesn’t take much to put a smile on somebody’s face.

Perhaps, I was just expecting too much because I believe that every person doing a job has certain predispositions or qualities that would make him effective.  I expect a guard to be alert and attentive.  Just as I expect a chef to have a keen taste for food, a teacher to be patient and knowledgeable, and a politician to be, well, good at what politicians do (supply the word).

There is always a human element to any job that requires interaction.  And this often entails a little flexibility to adjust to the push of fulfilling a job description and the pull of giving in to a reasonable, humane and helpful request. And sometimes, a little sensitivity to the situation.

When my father was in the hospital for Stage 4 cancer, he was attended to by a female physician.  She was good and always knew what to do medically under any condition and circumstance.  But by then my father was feeling pain all over his body.  In one of her rounds the good doctor found me massaging my father with coconut oil to which she snapped, “Wala namang magagawa yang langis at masahe na ‘yan.”  She didn’t get it.  But she was doing her job.

Every job becomes more than what it is when we consider what it would mean to others.  How about you, what is your job?

The RH Bill, Caesar’s lot and my priest and nun relatives

I am a part of a family that is tied to the core of the Catholic Church.  Two of my father’s male siblings – Santiago and Jose – entered the priesthood, while two of his sisters – Fe and Jesusa – became nuns.  My brothers and I all devoted a chunk of our growing up years as altar boys.   But never did we grow up thinking that we should obey everything the church says or else we would suffer eternal damnation.

From what I understand now, we were guided to tell right from wrong until we were mature enough to tell the difference between the two.  We were born into a religion, but for faith to grow there must be a choice, an alternative.  If there was none, then there is only blind obedience.

So I choose to be a Catholic.  Friends and relatives who have been enlightened and who now exclusively call themselves Christians fear for my soul because I still follow what to them are the wrong teachings.  Yet I am not the least bothered about my soul nor about the differing views that they may have about me and my faith.  In fact, I am happy for them because they found God in the way that their faith, their choice, allowed them to.

But though I remain a Catholic, I don’t feel compelled or obliged to follow everything that its leaders bid me so.  Faith can never be imposed.

The Catholic Church is very vocal about its opposition to the proposed RH Bill.  It says it is evil.  It says it is against life.  I guess Catholic priests, bishops and Cardinals who are forbidden to procreate let alone put themselves in situations, even imaginary, where they can extend their progeny have taken the message “Go all of you and multiply,” as an all encompassing go signal for everyone to sow seeds whenever possible.  Of course, preferably with a single mate.

Dolphy was a shining example of this doctrine.  But Dolphy provided well.  Hence his prodigiousness was acceptable, admirable even.  But alas, while millions of Filipino males can or are willing or wishing to do their best Dolphy impersonation when it comes to counting children, and sometimes mates, a vast majority of them could not decently provide for a few, let alone more.

Children are blessings.  I agree wholeheartedly.  But if you make making blessings an industry then this virtually puts an unfair, unsolicited and undeserved curse on its products – children who did not have a choice but to open their eyes to a life with a limited opportunity to improve their lot in life.  And you call this good? For whom?

Tito Sotto, whose brother Vic has sired children with several women, thinks so. Gloria Arroyo who is a devout Catholic, but one who follows the 10 commandments selectively, also thinks so.  So does many bishops and priests who after delivering homilies and threats of eternal damnation retire to their cloisters to pray that children, the blessings themselves, may soon have roofs over their heads, food for their stomachs, and education for their minds, and not the squalor, poverty and the hopelessness that they wake up to everyday.

And this is supposed to be promoting life? 

I wonder if Tito Sotto, or Gloria, or the priests can have the zest to say “Thank God for this blessing” if they wake up one day only to find out that their most pressing concern is where to find the next meal, and they’re not even hopeful that they’d get it?  Good life or good luck?

The RH Bill should not be a debate about good and evil because it is not.  It should not be even about faith or eternal damnation.  It should only be about choice based on one’s reality, among options that are well explained and devoid of unreasonable emotions from the pro or anti-RH Bill.

It’s about free will.  And it is not something that can be monopolized nor imposed any other way by anybody to anyone.   It’s a decision that is best left to the individual to make on the ground where it is relevant, not by someone or an institution up high in the clouds where it is nice and breezy.   If one decides to make so many blessings despite the option to effect the contrary then so be it.  But if a family decides that a few would be the ideal situation, then so be it as well.  And let no one be so judgmental as to say the other is wrong.

It is just right that the Church should exercise moral suasion to its flock and, up to a certain extent, the government.  But the separation of church and state should be observed.  Even Jesus clearly drew the line when asked what he thought about the taxes levied by the Romans on the Jews, he replied “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and give to God what is God’s.” The two can be reconciled.

If my priest uncles and nun aunts would hear what I’m saying, they won’t condemn me or think that I am a lost soul.  Instead they would smile and respect my views because they know my faith is based on free will as much as their decision to enter religious life was.

And they won’t believe that I am evil. They won't because I'm not.

Basketball for small fries and the blessing and curse of eternal innocence

This story is about my childhood friend Ping who taught me a lot of lessons in basketball, among other things. 

I learned to shoot hoop in our backyard where my Kuya shaped a cord of wire into a ring and hammered it to a stub of langka tree, with a piece of thin plywood serving as backboard.  We used those orange plastic balls that did not bounce much and were prone to being punctured, so dribbling was to be avoided as much as possible.  Instead, there was a lot of shooting, jumping and running around.

When I was about 9 I thought that I was old enough to play in the big court in our plaza, using real big balls that bounce. 

There’s a natural pecking order in the basketball world, and those like me who have just decided to play in the big court occupy the lowest post – we can only shoot the ball when the big guys (or at least those who occupy higher positions in the pecking order) playing 5 on 5, are on the opposite side of the court.  When the ball goes over our side, we are supposed to run like hell so that we don’t get stampeded.  When someone from my level fails to get out of the way on time and in his effort to get away manages to impede the play of the big boys, it would mean that the big guys will angrily tell us to stay away from the court until they are done with their play.  This would scare the heck out of us and we would meekly stay on the sidelines, sore at the kid who did not duck away in time.  In some instances, when we small fries are able to get on the side on time but fail to retrieve the ball away from the onrushing big guys, the result would be the same except that one irate big guy will heave the ball far away, followed by a stern warning and glares from the rest of the big guys.

It was usually the small guy with the weakest shooting arm who volunteers to retrieve the ball.  You see there is still a pecking order even in the basest level.  And we would all stay on the sidelines until one was brave enough to once again shoot the ball when the big guys are on the opposite court.  It was usually Ping who would do it first.  And most of the time he was the one who failed to get out or retrieve the ball on time.

He was fearless in that sense.  Ping was neither our size nor age but he was a regular at the basketball court.  He could play with the big boys except that he prefers to shoot on the side, together with us small boys.

Ping was already a teenager, taller than me and a lot stockier.  He always came to the plaza looking as if he was the most serious basketball player in the world.  He wore short shorts, knee high socks, arm bands, head band and a sando shirt that was neatly tucked in.  I didn’t know any better then but I thought he looked kind of odd.  His neck was thick, his head a bit squarish because of his buzzcut, and his face – with his button-like eyes that were rudely parted by an upturned nose – had a blank stare about it, except that his lips were always pressed into a smile, giving him that curiously happy look.

I was surprised one day to see Ping in a church sporting long hair and wearing a dress.  My mother smiled and told me it was not my friend but a girl who looks just like him.  Ping had Down Syndrome.

Ping was always at the plaza whenever I went there and he taught me my first basketball lesson.  Early on I began to realize that I could jump higher than my contemporaries, Ping noticed this too.  During one of our small fry shooting sessions when the big guys were on the opposite court, he told me “Tarlon…” when the ball went up, and I did hoping to snag the rebound.  But as I was at the height of my leap, he went under me and I fell on a heap.  Ping was laughing and I was mad at him and at myself for jumping with a mischievous tot beside me.  I never jumped high again if he was near me, and especially if he told me to do so.  By then I was discovering that my shooting hand was better than most of the small fries’, and most of the big guys’, too.  And the big guys took notice and began inviting me to join their games when they were short of a player.

I moved up the pecking order, though I have a strong shooting hand, I was still the player who retrieves the ball when it got thrown too far – new class, new rules – the youngest gets to be the goat.  Ping decided that he was to be my coach, and soon he was telling me “shoot mo borla” every time I had the ball.  I shot it when I had to, but most of the time I did other things that came with playing basketball like passing, dribbling and defending.

During summer leagues when we got to play with referees interrupting us, Ping had special instructions for me, “shoot mo trlee points” even when I was on the free throw line, shooting a free shot.  By then I have sort of established my credentials, I may be one of the youngest players but I was also one of the best so I no longer retrieved stray balls.

I graduated from high school and went to college in Manila.  I got to play ball at the plaza during school breaks and summer.  I grew to be an inch above 6 feet while Ping still shot the ball with the small fries during our big guy games.  Because of my height and athleticism Coach Ping had shifted his strategy for me from shooting threes to “dunk mo borla.”  And he would tell me this all the time, whether I was in a regular pick up game or a refereed one.  He loved to give me this special instruction when I was taking a free throw, or during a timeout huddle where he would tell my coach and my teammates to give me the ball so I can “dunk ang borla.”

I went home less often when I started working, and when I did I made it a point to visit the plaza if not to play then at least to hang around and watch the other big guys play and the small fries run to the side.  The pecking order and the unwritten rules that govern the game remain the same.  Ping no longer played though he still wore his basketball shoes, he instead shifted into the role of a referee.  His joints were no longer as supple as before.

But he was always happy to see me.  If I played, he was my referee and coach at the same time, and again I would hear “dunk mo borla.”  If I was a mere spectator he would sometimes sit beside me and we’ll do small talk and a bit of teasing.  I would ask him who his crush was and he would sheepishly look away like a 6-year old boy caught staring at a fair lady.  And he would say, “Barwal yan.”

Once when I was just on the sideline watching, Ping sat beside me and showed me a card.  It was a generic identification card that you can buy in any bookstore.  Apart from the space for the ID picture, It contained fields for the name, address and contact details which were all filled up with laborious effort, the way a 6-year old would write when faced with such adult-bound details.  Where the line says TIN, he wrote “fat” across it, because by then he has grown more pudgy compared to his small fry days.

Years have passed and my basketball play became inversely proportional with the responsibilities that came my way.  Ping, along with the simple joys that came with my childhood and growing years have been overtaken by grownup concerns.

I crossed paths with Ping again a few years ago, inside the church where I once served as an altar boy decades ago when I was just a small fry at the basketball court.  I was seated at the back of his pew and I could tell that his body has aged considerably.  He still had the same buzzcut but he had more gray and white hair than black.  He also had a wider girth though he still had not lost his touch of dressing up for the occasion.  He wore a nice long sleeved shirt tucked inside a dress pants that was a bit too wide even for his size.  He was aware of this that he was constantly rearranging his tucked shirt and pulling up his pants.  He was with his father, a former military officer. He was a big man who has retained his rigid military posture.

When it was time to say “Peace be with you,” Ping turned around after kissing his father and when he saw me, flashed a big smile and gave me a firm handshake.  My heart literally leaped with joy and I was overcome by emotion.  I did not expect that my friend still recognized me.  After the mass and on the way out, I again exchanged handshake with him as I introduced him to my wife.  I could tell that he found her pretty as he gazed down like a shy 6-year old.  I asked him if he has a girlfriend, and he put one short finger across his lips and whispered…”barwal” as he motioned to his father.  As a parting shot I asked Ping to meet me at the plaza to shoot a basketball, to which he said “magagarlit” while pointing at his father with his thumb hidden behind his body.

I met Ping again several times at Sunday church.  He was with his father all the time whom he obviously looked up to and who obviously loved and considered him as his little boy.  At times, they were with Ping’s mother who was very frail.  Ping was beside his father all the time.

Though those afflicted with Down Syndrome maintain the innocence and understanding of a young child, their body however age and deteriorate faster than those of normal people.  In most cases, when they reach a certain age – like the age Ping is now – they tend to lose their mental faculties as well.  Ping looks old but thankfully he has retained his mental well-being.

I have longed to write about Ping ever since I rekindled my friendship with him but I didn’t know how to approach such story.  At the back of my mind, I would like to keep my connection with him as my exclusive gateway to happy childhood memories, one that I could access every time I see him.

It is only now that I found the angle from which I can frame his story, and it is tainted with cowardice.  A week ago, Ping’s father died.  And I have to admit, I cannot muster the courage to visit his wake not because I stay away from the dead, but because I cannot bear to see Ping grieve for the only man who stood by him all his living years. 

Children as they say are the most resistant to the pain of a loss because they have a long life ahead of them to make them forget.  Innocence, as they say, is bliss.  But Ping who thinks like a child is no longer one, and will not have a long life ahead of him.  It breaks my heart to think that he would ask what happened to his father, and what will happen to him and find no answers that he could understand, or would soothe his pain.

I hope and pray that in the complexity of it all, Ping will find the simplicity to conclude that life is like a basketball game for small fries.  Sometimes, you just have to have the courage to shoot the ball when the big guys tell you to step aside.

A Hummingbird paid me a visit

The best moments are the least expected.  And these can just as easily pass us by unnoticed because we refuse to acknowledge that there are gifts that can uplift the spirit if we always keep an open eye, and a wandering lust for beauty.

Tonight as I was opening the gate to our house after a 5-hour bike ride, my eye caught a blur.  It was whirring so fast that in the fading light of dusk it seemed like a fuzzy shadow moving about the little orange flowers from one of the varieties of plants that teem in our garden.

I first dismissed it as a wasp.  But no wasp stays out so late.  And besides no wasp likes that flower (same variety as that of the photo), not even my bees go near those little, beautiful but nasty-smelling flowers.

I leaned forward and squinted so I could focus on this fleet-winged creature – it was a hummingbird, a tiny beautiful creature that is no bigger than a wasp.  It had a tiny beak that slips into the tiny holes of the tiny flowers to sip a tiny amount of nectar.  And its wings buzzed so rapidly that I could see nothing but a translucent sliver of vibrating light.

I was mesmerized.  It was the first time that I saw a real hummingbird and it was such a delightful experience, something that I thanked the Lord for for giving me an opportunity to behold such a magical performance.

Today is the 9^th death anniversary of my Tatay.  I visited his grave on my bike.  I told him I miss him so much.  I’d like to think he paid me a visit, on his little wings.

Of funerals, Dolphy's passing, National Artist award, and the state of Philippine comedy

I’ve been to two wakes just the other day; one wake me and my wife intentionally visited, the other we just chanced upon as we got out of the funeral chapel with clear glass panels and innocently gazed inside another to find a familiar face in a very forlorn state– she lost her father who was a few days short from celebrating his 50^th birthday.

I could have gone to a third because another friend and former colleague lost his father, this time to violent circumstances, except that I have lost my taste for funeral food on the first stop.  There’s only so much grief one can expose himself to in a day before he succumbs to cadaver-viewing fatigue.

Then the news of another death came; one that is expected for months but is just as saddening as any other deaths that come suddenly:  Dolphy, the King of Philippine Comedy, is gone.

From all accounts Dolphy, Rodolfo Quizon in real life, was a well-loved, and deeply respected man who touched countless lives not only through his more than 200 movies and sitcoms stretched over more than a half century of local entertainment history, but also through his warm and genuine persona outside of the showbiz spotlight .  It is ironic then that the man who made so many people laugh has now made so many cry and ponder.

Dolphy is proof that one imperfect man can impact on the lives of so many without resorting to hogging the spotlight or making a fanfare out of his gifts and talents. Many less gifted and less talented have created more hoopla out of their meager accomplishments.  But I guess they have to do that, otherwise they can’t convince even themselves that they are worth even half the fame that they are getting – Ehem-ehemirevillame!  Ehem-ehemice Ganda!  Ehem-ehemoey De Leon!

It is rather funny and at the same time sad that Dolphy is being touted as the next National Artist when he has -- aside from tribute shows for him and the occasional guest appearances in TV shows and obligatory talk show interviews – practically done nothing to enrich local show business or the arts since 2009, the last time he was nominated but surprisingly turned down for the said honor.  Majority, if not all of his rather impressive and extensive bodies of work occurred prior to that year, when he was still able to withstand the rigors of acting before the camera, not after when he was already battling old age and the illnesses that betray his suffering body.

So what’s the difference now and before his first nomination?  Nothing.  Except that he is now  dead and can’t hear the applause, bask in the accolade and retire in the knowledge that he is being honored while he is still alive.  Not that he needed it anyway.  Dolphy was not a man who would insist that he be given such an honor.  He was much too proud, too humble to do that.

Art, as they say, is subjective.  Hence, the distinguished panel of the National Commission for Culture and Arts of 2009 bestowed the National Artist title to Carlo J. Caparas, the comics novelist, the billion-peso writer, producer and director of PCSO teleseryes that nobody watched and remembered, and the famed director of massacre movies of the 1990s featuring the very versatile acting of Kris Aquino whose go-to acting technique of the woman with the wide-eyes, crunched-brows and pursed lips sufficed to convey all sorts of emotions that a poor lass being raped, slashed, stabbed, frightened and/or threatened will go through.

Oh, how that worked.  Brilliant!  And who could forget Caparas’ favorite cinematic effect – the slow motion, shot from several angles, with the blood-curdling scream of the victim slowed down as well to match the impeccable camera work.  That is what you call contribution to national artistry.

Now poor us.  Dolphy is gone.  He stopped doing movies a long time ago.  There was a plan to shoot a sitcom for TV5, but his poor health prevented this from ever materializing.  

The King of Comedy is gone but Philippine comedy is alive and kicking.  There is Joey De Leon – another old but proud remnant of comedies past who refuse to be overtaken by time.  In fact, he still sticks to his gay slapstick tricks that portray homosexuals as screaming faggots that deserve to be laughed at and scorned.  He still treats ordinary people with condescending ire every time they participate in Eat Bulaga’s inane game shows and fail to answer what he thinks are information that everyone should know: Pambihira naman ito, para (right answer) di mo pa alam?

And we have Vice Ganda who, in his daily noon time show, makes people laugh by pointing out the weaknesses, ugliness, and frailties of unwary people regardless if he is a studio contestant or a hapless part of the audience who happens to attract Vice Ganda’s probing eyes and acerbic tongue.

And we have Willie Revillame who, in an effort to show a bleeding heart for the common people, refuses to show common decency and respect to his inattentive, or inept (in his view) dancers, staff or crew.  He has Pinoys laughing while his contestants and studio audience swallow pride and human dignity to make fools of themselves on national TV, to get a handful of cash and at times a dressing down from Willie.

Dolphy portrayed gay characters in his movies and TV shows.  But he showed the human person, not the caricature that others like Joey so often play for a quick laugh.  Yes, he also made fun of imperfections, but mostly of his own.  Yes, he too had a generous heart; one that was not paired with a vocal mouth.

Dolphy is gone but Philippine comedy is still alive.  And that is sad. 

Sisigan sa Talisay: A most unlikely foodie destination

Sisigan sa Talisay is not even its official or marketed name, and I don’t know if it even has one.  A friend who brought me there only called it as such because sisig is what he and his friends eat there all the time.  All I know is that I was pleasantly and deliciously surprised by my first visit to this place.

The oft repeated adage “don’t judge the book by its cover” is relevant but not exactly applicable to this story simply because the place, from 2pm to before 5pm, does not even look like a restaurant, or even a store that you would vaguely suspect as a turo-turo.  In fact, if you don’t know someone who knows the place, and if you don’t ask locals for its location then you can pass by it over and over and you can’t be faulted for not finding it at all.

Sammy, my friend has been boasting of this place for some time already.  Because he is known to find anything that he can eat delicious, I did not really have high expectations about the food.  I was more looking forward to sharing a bike ride with him, a newbie.

Sammy and I arrived there a good 30 minutes before 5pm.  As I said there’s not much visual cues to give you an inkling that the place is a highly recommended food stop.  It resembles more an abandoned concrete house with a small frontage that is lined by concrete tables paired with concrete benches crudely constructed to look like calesa seats with wheel armrests.  Overhead is a tall kamias tree with mature fruits about to fall on its own; some already did and are squished flat on the ground by footfalls.  To the side of the house are several mini bamboo huts that look like they are dangerously close to collapsing on unwary customers.

The house itself was dark and you wouldn’t know that it is inhabited if not for an old man wearing an oversized shirt and cargo shorts coming in and out of the very open front door.  He was stocking his display counter with one steaming dish after another, pork adobo swimming in its own fat, fried chicken wings with signs of chili flakes, rebosado, pakbet, tapa and others.  They all looked and smelled tasty, but we were there for the sisig.

The old man informed us that he was preparing the sisig last, but he offered us an appetizer, what he called seafood salad, a special dish that he only serves on Fridays.  A plate of salad won’t ruin our appetite if it’s good, and at P40 a serving, wouldn’t hurt the pocket if it’s bad.

When the old man brought us his salad, I can’t help but smile because it looked like something that can be served in a much more expensive restaurant.  The plating was almost exquisite.  A generous heap of lettuce and tomato slices bordered an avocado fruit sliced in half which contains, aside from its succulent flesh, an assortment of steamed shrimps, tahong and squid.  The salad is accentuated by a simple mayonnaise/ketchup dressing sprinkled with sesame seeds and balanced off by freshly squeezed calamansi and a hint of ginger shreds.

The salad did not last long and soon Sammy was spooning remnants of the dressing and leftover morsels into his mouth as we awaited our main order.  My taste buds’ first encounter left me with skyrocketing expectations.

By then it was almost 5pm and customers slowly began trickling in, some by car, others by foot.  It was obvious that this barangay’s watering hole has already built quite a reputation even to non-locals.

The sisig came, sizzling, hot and aromatic, followed shortly by two plates, each with four mounds of rice rolled in some orange concoction. Believe it or not, and I can’t believe it at first, each plate of rice costs only P10.

I thought the rice was too much for one sitting.  But when I stirred in a few bits of the sisig with a spoonful of rice into my mouth I realized that the first bite should be followed immediately by another, then another.  Soon, I was looking at an almost empty plate which would be a sin if I left it that way.  So I diligently scraped the little sisig left on the sizzling plate and merged them in my mouth with the last remaining rice.

The meal was heavy and a bit early for dinner.  But it was satisfying, fun, and an adventure that is worth doing all over again, and is certainly a great deal what with the measly P128 that we have to shell out for such a flavorful meal.  I’m pretty sure that the other dishes in the display counter are equally good, but they have to wait for another visit.

The ride home was slower because Sammy, the newbie, felt the added weight in his every stroke of the pedal.  But we were not in a hurry.  When you’ve just had a beautiful meal, you would want to take it slow.

There are two Talisays in Lipa; one is beside Taal Lake and is known as the gateway to Taal Volcano, the other is at the footstep of the Malarayat mountain range – this is where we had our sisig. 

My Tatay's Gift

I got no father to greet this Father's day.  He died a year ago, only more than a month after his 63rd birthday.

My tatay was an enigma, to us his family, and probably even to himself.  He was intelligent, talented, kind-hearted and God-fearing  yet he never amounted to much, that is if we go by conventional ways of measuring one's success, or lack of it -- money, property and the adulation of people.  

But Tatay was never a conventional person.

On earth, he loved a few more than most: Nanay, his six sons, his garden and booze -- specially Ginebra.  Later on, his most-loved list grew one grandchild at a time.  Still, he managed to divide his love, not equally of course, for it only took him about two hours to carouse with the booze and all night to express his undying love for Nanay whom she called Meow, and us, his sons, whom he will call in order of appearance to the world, complete with glowing individual description of each of our strengths and merits.

When he wakes up finally sober, he tends to his apos, checks up on his flowering plants and vegetables at the backyard, and cooks a merry mix of veggies and leaves that others would dismiss as weeds.  And when challenged for a conversation, he could talk about everything under the sun because he was a well-read man.

When we (meaning us six brothers) got older, Tatay's nocturnal inebriated utterances became some sort of cute amusement to my brothers.  But not to me.

Being the youngest child living in a small 2-bedroom house, I shared banig and kulambo with Nanay and Tatay at the sala while my Kuyas shared the bedrooms.  Early on, I sort of developed a sense of when my Tatay would come home drunk and bothersome.  And everytime I got that feeling, I knew that it would be another long night for me.  I would not allow myself to sleep until I hear Tatay unlock the door in the wee hours of the morning -- then I brace for a nightmare.  I would edge closer to my Nanay so that Tatay would be forced to lay by my side.

Then he would begin to mumble.  Aimlessly.  How he loved Meow and how wonderful a person she was, how good looking, intelligent and promising his boys were -- things that you would love to hear had the one speaking them was sober.  Eventually he would air his frustrations, his views on any particular issue, and how wonderful it was to spend the night with his barkada.  All this time I lay still, trying to block off everything I hear.  And everytime I would be unsuccessful because Nanay would soon explode and try to engage Tatay in a verbal tussle.  If it were a good night, Tatay would shut up and proceed to sleep.

But the bad nights outnumbered the good.  

Soon Nanay will stand up and will open the lights so that she can rant some more.  And Tatay too would stagger to get up so that he can argue as well.  And I would also stand up, because then I knew that my role had changed from a horizontal hump to a mobile pacifier.  Many times, their arguments almost led to physical jousts as my Nanay would challenge Tatay to one.  I, of course, would stand in between them even if I have never seen Tatay lift a hand on Nanay.  But I saw everything and I saw more.  I have seen Nanay grab a knife and I have seen Tatay light up a paper bill just to spite her for asking him to share in the responsibilities of rearing the six boys.  I experienced all these as my brothers stayed in bed.

If finally I have managed to coax Tatay to go back to the banig, he would proceed to talk himself to sleep, which would probably take another hour or so.  I would lay motionless as I hush even my breathing because the slightest movement or noise will spur my Tatay to talk even more.  Only when I hear him snore will I begin to move and salvage whatever sleep I could till the sun wakes me up in the morning.

As my brothers left for college one after the other, I began to enjoy the freedom of a separate room.  But nothing changed, I still did not sleep until Tatay came home, still got betwen them when the verbal was on the verge of being physical, and still made sure that I was the last to catch sleep for the night, or morning for that matter.

I grew up with a deep hatred for my father.  As soon as I grew taller than him, I began to ignore him as if he did not exist. When I went to college, I began telling my rich classmates that my "Daddy" was a Major in the military when in fact he was just a lowly Seargeant.  I transferred school and I decided to altogether stop trying to talk about my father, or about my family, or about how I grew up.

I found a job and I hated him even more because for years he had none.

In 1997, I attended the Inner Child retreat (it's a retreat that prods you to go back to your most painful childhood memories so you can deal with them once again).  And as I relived the harrowing experiences, the gloom of hatred began to dissipate.  And I began to see life in a different light.  I saw the Tatay who would gather his boys for a hike to the neighboring farmlands.  I saw the Tatay who never loved another woman other than Nanay.  I saw the Tatay who spoke softly and kissed me gently with his stubbly pucker.  I saw the Tatay who never spoke ill  nor harbored a grudge on anyone, not even to people who hurt him most. I saw the Tatay with the kindest eyes that stared with a reassuring understanding.   I saw the many beautiful facets of his personality that I knew existed but which I ignored because of my seething rage over his weaknesses.  I saw the Tatay that I longed to love all my life.

I always had this romantic idea that my healing would be completed the moment I see Tatay hold my child.  But God sometimes does not give in to romantic notions.  He is partial to giving something better.

The years of alcohol and tobacco abuse took its toll on Tatay's health and he spent the last two months of his life in the hospital.  But it was there that I discovered the healing that I so longed for.  Everytime we talked, everytime I fed him food and made him drink his medicine, everytime I masssaged his entire body, everytime I carried him or assisted him to the toilet, everytime I held his nebulizer to his mouth so that he could breathe easier, everytime I just sat by his bed and we just looked at each other, everytime I kissed him goodbye as I prepared to go home to my wife -- every moment, a gift of healing.

I was with him when he died.  I saw his stare drift from consciousness to nothingness.  I gasped his last breath as I held his head close to mine as I whispered to him that everything was going to be alright, that it's time to move on, that we will take care of Nanay, and that I loved him so much.

He who says that he has the best father that one can ever have is right, and he who can't say the same is missing on the chance to see how beautiful it is to truly embrace life.  If my father's sole contribution was just the fertilization of my mother's egg, then what could be greater than that?  I would not be without him.  I may be flawed and weak because of him, but I am also strong and capable also because of him.   I can't imagine not being with my wife, not being challenged by the course of charting a life, not being able to share what I can, not being able to make a difference in other people's lives, not being able to smile, cry, hope, strive and explore the depths of human emotions.  I will be nothing.

Loving someone who has hurt you the most is certainly not easy, and for some, even unimaginable.  But to do so is perhaps the most precious gift you can ever receive.  Being happy is a decision,  if you choose to see the negative and supplant it as your reality, then that would be so.  But if you can see the best even in the ugliest moments of your life, imagine how even the simplest joy can be such an uplifting experience.

I can't remember my Tatay ever buying anything specifically for me.  But I do remember him  from his hospital bed, looking and smiling at me, with no words to say, but with all the love I can live by for the rest of my life.  That I will remember.

I wrote this in 2004.  Still, the message remains fresh.