Leaving home

On my first day of nursery school I clung to mama and wouldn't let go. What if she doesn't fetch me, I thought. I didn't want to be left in my new school all alone! When dismissal time finally came and my mom wouldn't be in my first line of sight at the gate, I would collapse and cry myself to relief, as if wailing would magically summon her. Of course I was five years old at the time.

This afternoon I clung to mama again and wouldn't let go. And before that to my papa. And before that to my nephew. And before that, my sisters. And before that, my boyfriend. I clung to them tightly, as if doing so would make leaving easier. Of course it only made leaving all the more painful.

Today was different. Now a man of 26, I was not afraid for myself: I was afraid for them. Who's going to stop papa from eating that last morsel of chicharon? Who's going to listen to my mama when she needs to de-stress? I feel like my sisters would be losing their older brother, their protection and anytime go-to guy. Javi would be losing his doting uncle. As for Karlo, as I've said one time too many, who's going to take care of the little things when I'll be halfway across the world?

Throughout my final weeks at home, I avoided administering any final instructions (huling habilin). Doing so would only heighten the farewell-ness of the occasion. And ever the post-modern stoic, I had programmed myself to remain sober during the airport send-off. Crying was for the OFW movie, I convinced myself. Yet in the throes of several last embraces, my defenses fell: I was sobbing outside the airport like a girl. On impulse I whispered my final requests: to my eldest sister, take care of Javi; to my middle sister, take care of Karlo; to my mom, take care of Papa and Karlo; and to Karlo, take care of my family. I think I was confusing my leaving with death!

I was lucky the ground crew didn't charge fees for my excess baggage: responsibility. I felt that I had to take care of these people, and that if anything were to happen while I was away, I'd be the one to blame. To stave off my guilt, I wanted to make sure--ever the obsessive-compulsive anal queen--that I'd be leaving each of them in capable hands.

But now, as I muffle sobs 30,000 feet in the air, I realize: maybe I was confusing responsibility with conceit. Like the world couldn't turn without me. Like I was the glue keeping my family together. Like Karlo couldn't manage without my domestic services. Perhaps I also have to accept that they could all manage without me.

Perhaps I should also leave my conceit at home, that I could fill out the void it leaves with more faith in the people I love. More trust. And in the wellspring of faith and trust that my letting go would open, maybe I could also fetch a bucket for myself.

Not quite Superman

He called to tell me that he has an office function--that he'll be off work past 9pm and not at 7pm as agreed.  At first I wanted to grumble and whine. "Had I known earlier, then I wouldn't have parked my ass in Starbucks and sat through 3 kill-time hours!" But I bit my tongue, even though he trailed off into boisterous laughter on the other end of the phone.

"It's ok," I mumbled, dreading the thought of having dinner alone and spending a few more hours with only my online tutorials to keep me company, trying to forget that I could have curled up with my nephew at home rather than loiter in a coffee shop with strangers.

And that's when it hit me: what right have I to complain when what he did to me tonight was what I'll be doing to him for two years? Cue the tears.

Finding my as-yet response-less tweet an inadequate catharsis, I sent an SMS message to two very close friends. They both reassured me that my boyfriend would eventually get used to the distance, cope, and grow in ways he wouldn't have had I not left. That he is, in fact, proud of what I'll be doing, and perfectly understands that our sacrifice is not for naught.

I suppose he will, and I suppose he does. But I asserted that for as long as we reside in the transition, I can feel only guilt: I still can't bear the thought of him eating canned food for dinner and waking up in the morning with no one to hug except his fat sexless roommate. If a single ditched night took this much understanding on my part, how deep a well of understanding does he need to start digging?

Cue more tears. And not just for those canned meals and sexless hugs. I think I was also crying about myself.

Perhaps, I told my friend, I'm having trouble admitting to myself that I'm still that sentimentality junkie from 70 more lbs ago. Maybe I feel pressured to sustain this "I'm post-modern about relationships" narrative because I could not concede to the prevailing discourse of romance and dependency that so-called lesser mortals are wont. Maybe, I thought, I'm too caught up in a highly calculated self-portrayal that realizing I have this kind of feelings for a person expresses itself like an allergy.

I suppose that much to my dismay, I was reduced to being vulnerable. And with less than 2 weeks from my plane ride to Boston, I could afford none of it.

Please no despedidas.

A week prior my last day at work, one of my officemates asked if I was having a despedida (going-away) party. Asked if I should, she explained that it was a good way of celebrating a successful transitioning. I just shrugged and said that if I would be having one, I certainly did not want to organize it for myself.

In a month I'll be making the big move: a 19-hour flight to Boston where I will school in the so-called hallowed halls of Harvard Business School.  It's the first time anyone from my family is moving away from home.  I'll be leaving behind a three-year-old nephew who is only beginning to form complete sentences and a relationship 8 months his senior.  By leave I mean physically; no more.

In a poignant scene from last night's Toy Story 3, Andy's mother breaks into tears as she lays sight on Andy's room being empty for the first time. Andy, now 17 and going to college, has wiped his room clean of any memory of his living there--clothes, toys, photos, and all.  I couldn't help but ruminate on my own departure, and on the tears I'm likely to encounter.

I'm not so sure if my mom would have enough emotional space to cry, what with all her last-minute reminders and "did you remember to bring your so-and-so"s. My eldest sister, whose autism bestowed on her psychic sensitivity, will surely shed a tear or two. My middle sister will probably remain composed, too busy restraining her toddler who, in an uncanny manner, manages to comprehend the gravitas of a departure when he sees one. But among my family, it's my father, the closet emotional, whom I expect to be a wreck. Not only am I fulfilling my dreams; I am fulfilling his. Of course, he may merely be lamenting the loss of his everyday computer technician.

What I am not ready for is my boyfriend's weeping. He who expresses his love with gentle kisses and loving caresses, and who expects love to be reciprocated likewise. Oh, will he weep. I am confident that he could already look past the geographical distance and focus on the prize; he understands that being apart now is a small sacrifice in relation to whatever gains await us. What he cannot get over--and only recently even I cannot, for the love of God--is the everyday: the morning rides, the home-cooked dinners, the goodnight hugs, the weekend sleep-ins and the anytime embraces. I suppose it's hard for any couple to stay apart for this long. But considering he's lived in 7 houses for the past 28 years, it's a newfound stability that my leaving will deny him. And for which I bear the utmost guilt.

Which is why I am opposed to the idea of a despedida. All a despedida does is draw attention to my leaving--place three exclamation points where I deem a humble semi-colon is more appropriate. And though I speak of this "big move" with such enthusiasm, I've always regarded it as an inevitable.  Hence,  nothing is to be celebrated; let's save the time and effort for my homecoming when we could toast to an accomplished accomplishment.

Without being too presumptive, I ask for no going away parties where my boyfriend, among all, will only start feeling lonely when he shouldn't yet feel so.  I ask for for no reminders that my life with my family--the way we've known it--is about to end.

I only ask that we share a meal and act as if nothing will ever change between us.

The day our Lord died

Good Friday, among the days of Holy Week, was my favorite. Palm Sunday's palaspas-waving mass was always fun, but I was always dissatisfied with the crowd's uninspired "Free Barabbas!" in the gospel-turned-dialogue. Holy Wednesday's penitensya/senakulo was amusing, but the (literally) pedestrian quality of the production always failed to impress me. Maundy Thursday and Black Saturday just plain sucked because nothing played on our then-non-cable TV. And Easter Sunday always disappointed because I never found the golden Easter Egg in our village's Easter Egg hunting.

Good Friday was my favorite because at dusk, my family would troop over to my dad's hometown of Marikina to witness the yearly spectacle that is prusisyon (procession). And last Friday, after a hiatus due in part to "religious differences," I lassoed my family into renewing the tradition.

Some things never change.  San Pedro and his cock still headed the pack and woebegone Maria Soledad, with the face of a babydoll, was still the dramatic finale.  Between them, there was still the crocodile under Santa Marta's feet, the artificial tulips in Maria Salome's plexiglass podium, and the elephantine features of the holy corpse of Christ.  But this year I counted a whopping 57 floats--a goliath leap from the 38 I diligently catalogued when I was nine. Along with the usual suspects now marched oddly-selected fillers like San Nicodemo and San Longines. (Why a Pharisee and a Roman Centurion would share equal billing with the Virgin and the Apostles is beyond me.)

I always wondered what was so bewitching about Good Friday procession. Perhaps it was the carroza itself: each float's life-sized tableau breathed life into my religion teacher's every Gospel story. Perhaps also it was the theatricality: I found it ingenious that Maria Magdalena's tears were sculpted on to her flawless cheeks, and that smoke effects and thunderclap booming on megaphones accompanied the Pagkamatay ni Kristo sa Krus float. Maybe it was also the spectacle itself--of having scores of debotos lighting a candle and walking miles in the name of their favorite padrino.

Now, a quarter of a century into this lifetime, I think I have reduced the procession's charm to one thing: pageantry. I loved the pageantry of it all--costumes embroidered with gold thread and intricate patterns, oversized copper halos, impeccably scultpted nose bridges, bright orbs of light and enough flowers to rival Baguio's Panagbenga. Having lost my religion was no impediment to enjoying the procession like I did when I was a devout student of our so-called story of salvation.  Perhaps because at the heart of it all, prusisyon--fueling a microeconomy of artisans, candle vendors and flower producers--is as much a secular event as it was a religious commemoration.  As much profane as it is sacred.

But while standing in the mist of candlelight waiting for the perfect picture to grace my viewfinder, I thought to myself, What if it were all true? Wouldn't it be so much more picture perfect?

Alas, this year was for the mere spectator with his amateur photography.

        

a promise un-kept

dear buddha jones,

march has arrived. february passed without a single entry!

where are those spits of creativity i was expecting from you? is this project a fulfillment of its title?

you better shape up, lest i terminate your lease on life.


mike

we all want our country to change, but who amongst us are willing to change it ourselves?

every day while driving to work i ask myself: what can make our gravity-defying jeepney drivers not stop in the middle of the road? i mean, don't they realize that doing so stalls traffic for a million other motorists who have equal rights to the road?

of course they don't: they didn't go to college like us. and so the problem is the philippine education system. on other days, they don't because they secured their driver's licenses without undergoing a legit driving exam. so the problem is the LTO, and for that matter the microeconomy of facilitation payments in every level of the government bureaucracy. still, on other days they don't because loading more passengers--ergo, more income--takes precedence over the common good. so the problem is poverty, and our government's lack of poverty-alleviation programs.

and why the lack of poverty-alleviation programs? because roughly 50% of public funds are kicked back to corrupt officials. and why the microeconomy of facilitation payments? because someone's child is dying of cancer and receiving lagay is the easiest way of making money to pay for the cancer treatment. and why the insufficient education system? i dunno--maybe because our government sacrifices teachers' salaries in favor of servicing the national debt. so on other days the problem is debt dependence? my goodness, my imagination is running wild.

by the time i park my car i forget about my internal monologue because the very sight of my office building reminds me of customers to call and emails to write. and there lies the rub: i stop at thinking.

over lunch one afternoon i was ranting to a friend about this daily fault-finding exercise, soliciting from him a plausible all-encompassing solution. and to this challenge he replied, "what if we break it down? what if one day--just one day--everyone decides to follow traffic rules? won't everyone feel the benefit of such a pleasant drive that we'd all be motivated to follow traffic rules every day?"

i pondered on his proposal. i wondered: what would convince jeepney drivers to set aside their personal reasons to, for just a single day, NOT stop in the middle of the road?

maybe if each jeepney driver knew that every other jeepney driver was just as law-abiding as he is--that no one was unrightfully getting ahead--maybe it wouldn't be that difficult to drive up 30 more meters to the designated loading bay. maybe if people were doing those right actions together, it would be easier.

i guess that's the key--doing it together. besides, one small action isn't enough to ease up the morning rush on C5, right?

a group of friends has started to realize this power of doing small right actions together. and they've banded--together, no less--to spread the word. all they want is to ease up morning traffic on every road. and minimize our use of plastic bags and paper cups. and have every filipino register for this year's elections. they dream big. and they start small, but together.

log on to http://www.onetama.com if you wish to partake in the dream. the only catch is you have to start doing something right--even if it would be just one small action every day.

Sunday lunch in Davao

We had lunch in this unassuming place called Marina Tuna in the heart of Davao City. My officemate had been raving about their fish eye soup for the longest time. Now that we had an excuse to return to Davao, we made sure to stop by and taste what the fuss was all about.

First up was the soup my officemate had been raving about. Flavored with tomato, finger chilis and radish, it tasted a lot like sinigang, only the bony animal parts were of a huge fish. The cartilage and fatty eye muscles gave the broth a sweet yet savory flavor--manamis-namis. How satisfying to carve out the sinewy flesh from the jagged facial bones!

Up next came the grilled swordfish belly, meaty and succulent. My boss likened it to shark, only the flesh had more give to it. Indeed, I felt like eating an exotic meat like whale or dolphin because of the texture. And I love how it sopped up its soy-flavored sauce--its juiciness making up for the denser than average cut of fish.

A serving of bihud or deep-fried tuna eggs followed. It was alright. My boss was quick to point out that this is the peasant's equivalent to the ikura I had for lunch the other day. I guess this dish--salty, greasy, and lending itself well to munching--is better off as pulutan or bar snacks.

Why my officemate ordered fried quail in a seafood restaurant escapes me. The dainty fowl quarters seemed like scorpions, especially because of its being served heaped up in a mound. Good thing it was well seasoned, with a bit of a kick. The skin's crimson gleam made it even more appetizing.

We finished off with steamed live pompano (pomfrey)--one of the creatures innocently swimming in an aquarium behind the cashier's booth. Here our culinary experience finds its culmination: the delicate, silken flesh was immaculate. It was not unlike the steamed lapu-lapu (grouper) flavored with ginger and green onion commonly served in upscale Chinese restaurants. But at P250 ($5), this dish was not only perfect; it was a steal.

take off your shoes

"Uy, si Manny!"

Yes, cut the line, why don't you. Too much in a hurry to take your shoes off and fall in line just like us plebeians you pledge to serve? Where to, dear senator? I mean, your bags are still with your security detail, on the xray machine's conveyor belt, right next to mine!

First, a business meeting was too important that you missed a public debate. Now, your personal reasons exempt you from complying with airport security?

Shame. You're so not getting my vote.

giving the smokeless grill its telos

While doing the grocery on new year's day my boyfriend and I thought of putting to use that Imarflex smokeless grill which I won in our office Christmas party raffle.  And so we snatched up 3 tilapias and some veggies to fix up a filipino-inspired meal.

2 Jan 2010: Grilled (but in effect, en papillote) tilapia

stuffed with tomatoes, onions & parsley

served with rice and a side of puki-puki

(grilled eggplant mashed up with tomatoes, onions, fish sauce and egg)

We should have put ginger in the fish to get rid of some of its lansa or fishiness.  But the tilapia was very moist and seasoned just right.  The puki-puki was also quite successful.  Nothing beats the smoky taste of grilled eggplants enhanced by the saltiness of fish sauce then enveloped by the velvet texture of egg.

Then in the middle of the workweek, we again thought of playing co-housewives.  This time my boyfriend downloaded a Japanese recipe and did the grocery himself!  Of course I still had to actually cook the meal.  (At least I didn't have to wash the dishes.)  And this time no other cooking equipment was used save the grill.  And a pair of tongs, of course.

5 Jan 2010: Chicken-tofu burgers 
(with spring onion, egg, ginger and panko breadcrumbs) 
and grilled-in-husk Japanese corn

Corn was meant to be grilled.  Period.  Grilling not only brings out the sweetness of the kernels but also locks in all of the corn's nutrition, not to mention pre-empting the use of salt and butter.  The burgers, though meaty and satisfying, were rock hard!  I guess I should have put more moisture (egg or water?).  And the tofu made it taste kind of sour.  We had them burgers with grated daikon raddish and a soy-mirin vinaigrette.  Oh, and to pump up the fiber we tossed some greens with a Japanese sesame dressing.

Breakfast the next day tasted better for me.  I drizzled some 4-week-old leftover yogurt sauce on the bland burgers.  Lesson learned: Persia Grill's yogurt sauces (garlic and spicy variants) keep very well in the fridge!

across the colorado river

too many of us

too little to spread around

Buy a clutch

Clearly she's not as wealthy as she purports herself to be.

I was at a friend's birthday party.  My friend elected to throw the bash at her backyard, and perhaps compensated for the modest setting by hiring a caterer.  But since her house is in a gated subdivision, guests still dressed 2 stud earrings short of The Palms Casino.

I was lucky to have chosen to wear shoes--I mean, I did walk out of the house in slippers.  I thought to myself it was gonna be just like another impromptu drinking session our group was wont to having. Besides, the celebrant and I are neighbors.

Just when I was debating on whether I was going to keep to my diet or have another slice of chocolate cake, this Birkin 40 flashed before me. Who brings a Birkin to a house party?

Ok, so she wanted to boast of whatever.  Hey, woman with the big purse, can you spell noveau riche? Classy people don't bring Birkins to casual house parties.  And if they do, they'd bring a size 30 at the most.

Day bags are called such because they are.  Birkin 40s don't have a respectable place in an evening party.  If you were really as wealthy as your taste in bags pretends to be, you would have already afforded a size 28 Kelly.  What's in your bag anyway?  A birthday cake?  A change of outfit?

Prada has pretty clutches, bitch.