Give Kuya Enteng the gift of hope this Christmas

Whenever I hear Enteng Kabisote, I always think of Kuya Enteng in a crown and cheesy leggings, with a babe by his side.

 

Kuya Enteng was the chief carpenter in the renovation of our first house. In our second, he crafted many of the furniture and other installations. In the very room I sit writing this; the wide pink cupboard above my head was fashioned by his hands.

 

At 32, he has been hailed a talent by us and all of his other employers and colleagues. Amusing it is to say that he barely even finished Grade 6 and has no formal education whatsoever in carpentry.

 

Again, no formal training. But what he has—determination, courage, skill—I am sure he has a lot of.

 

Recently, he has been diagnosed with cancer in the abdomen. Formerly robust, I last saw him with pitifully thin limbs. Formerly a bright, good-looking face, I last saw him emaciated. Formerly lively, it is a wonder how he still gets to keep up that smile.

 

He is the breadwinner for his family—with his wife, Laarni, and 5-year old son Lorenz—and his two parents. His mother, 72, is suffering from benign ovarian cancer. His father, 68, has tuberculosis. Kuya Enteng’s diagnosis shoved away his profitable workload and brought on medical expenses to add to those of his parents. His diagnosis is untimely, unwelcome, and—in my opinion—undeserved.

 

I have always admired Kuya Enteng. His life story is one woven with hardship; yet where he is now, anyone can beam with pride to exclaim. He was born in Illigan City, but was quickly given away by his grandmother because his mother neglected him. His adoptive parents brought him to Manila and made him a Junior—Vicente Yangco,  Jr. At 9 years old, he was made to take care of pigs. At 16, but only in Grade 6, he was made to leave school and was taught carpentry by his adoptive father.

 

From then on: if Enteng Kabisote had his magical sword, Kuya Enteng had his brilliant hammer.

 

I recall the hands that seamed through this cupboard above me, and I have always liked this cupboard. The little pink groves, the carved borders, the smoothly-drawn drawers—this cupboard is flawless.

 

It is flawless like him in many aspects. I recall one time—I think it was in 2003—he and his family celebrated a Christmas party and invited all the children they knew. This included me and my sister. Imagine this poor fellow with not even a house or lot to his name, spending for spaghetti, hotdogs, and toys for the kids in the neighbourhood; how humbling the experience was to me.

 

And I, humbled even more this time, see him enduring the pains of his cancer to remain the stronghold and anchor of his family. He refuses to undergo chemotherapy because, one, he cannot afford it and, two; he understands it does not attack the cancer itself. He favours more the option of surgery although this also entails an amount of money he does not have.

 

Furthermore, he is currently the caretaker of the lot he and his family are occupying. To add to the dilemma, they have already been advised to move out since the lot has been put up for purchase.

 

In lieu of this, I would like to invite all of you for a humble Christmas party. In 2003, he was gracious enough to have me; and 7 years thereafter, I repay the lesson learned. It is to be held anywhere where my words echo to your hearts and anytime help could be extended to Kuya Enteng and his family. Particularly, I would like to ask for monetary donations to fund his surgery plus support in spreading the word about him and his predicament.

 

Much like movies like Enteng Kabisote, this is the climax; this is the part where you and I are supposed to sit, think, and give the gift of hope this season.

 

Throughout his work so far, it is sad to remark that all the sawing and the measuring and the hammering are done to construct pieces for others, to build houses for others. But I would like for Kuya Enteng to endure, live on, and someday have the health and the capacity to use his talents to build a house, this time, for himself.

 

Again, please help spread the word by tagging or telling your friends. Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

For inquiries, requests, donations, please contact me, Arizza, through arizza.nocum@gmail.com or 09995609435. You may also contact Kuya Enteng himself through 09206722272. To send donations straight to his Banco de Oro account, the account number is 2210189957.

 

 

Test Paper

Good afternoon, class. For the next few minutes, kindly bring out a piece of paper and a pen or a pencil. Red ink is not acceptable. Pay attention to me for I will only say it once. You can have as many answers as you are capable of. You can write alternately in black and blue. You can make noise. You can shut up. The only direction is:

Complete the following sentence:

I should have __________ instead of ___________.

1) saved money; splurging P440 on McDo and a new book

2) studied my UPCAT review book; watching Toy Story 3

3) studied for my Economics long test; practicing my football kick

4) stuck to the diet menu; steak-ing

5) lived; surviving

I’m done with my paper.

These days, I’ve thought about college non-stop. Where I should go. What course should I take. How I decide to spend the rest of my life. Inevitably, college is the springboard of the rest of your life. It seems to me like there is a thick border separating high school and the big C. High school is where you can survive without knowing what to do; college is where you survive by knowing exactly what to do, how to do it, and what to do it for. Right now, that border is a piston. Right now, that piston is bearing down on me.

I have several answers to all of these grown-up questions. None of them seem to outweigh the others. They all look so nice, or so terrible — even that I’m unsure of. To say the least, I am uncertain; and my uncertainty is founded on uncertainty. It could be age, lack of experience, or the fact that I have just not been blessed with those trademark light bulb moments. It could be these things that make me uncertain. But I am uncertain if these truly are the things that make me certain. Married with Arizza’s Law of Infinite Uncertainty are the uncertain decisions that I have made to pursue my uncertainties. What I’m supposed to study. Should I study or not. How long should I sleep given the thickness of the review book. Should I sleep or not.

It’s never-ending. It’s never-beginning. My head has ached. My heart has suffered. For these past few weeks, uncertainty has caused me. By trying to piece the puzzle to form the bigger picture, I have ignored the little glossy pieces. In trying to answer life’s questions, I have ignored life itself.

I forgot how ice cream tastes on a sunny day. I forgot what delight could be derived from a few minutes of The Simpsons. I forgot how a little action for a big friend can make a little big difference. I forgot when I last got Top Score in Minesweeper. I forgot my upper limit on laughter.

However, in contrast to the uncertainty of the big C, the big future, the big puzzle board, these moments are as sure as the shore, as certain as the curtain. Laughter. Tears. Fights. Hugs. Chocolate kisses. These little moments comprise life just as a million 1′s can make 1 million. Once you forget them, once you regret them, a moment is lost. An opportunity to make yourself smile, make someone smile, do something different, wear something different, indulge, get wild, get serious, get loud, get smart, and get ‘it’ is lost.

But I am done with my paper. I choose no regrets. I choose not to forget. I choose not to survive. I choose to live.

I have long tests. I have to study for them. But I will not forgot the short ticks and tocks that will make my world go round.

Okay, class, given the ample time, I’m sure you have accomplished the test.  Kindly pass your paper to the person seated in front of you; front row seaters, kindly pass your stacks to the center aisle. Again, red ink is not acceptable. No need to check back. No need to regret mistakes. You have answered. You have done your best.

This moment, this test paper, has passed; and so should you.

Ode to Apollo

NOTE: Help me. Is this a suitable essay that I can submit? It looks more like a short story; but that’s what I got out with the topic question for the essay. Thank you. (:

———————————————————–

Apollo (in the red robe) chasing Daphne

A whiff of sweet ambrosia impregnates my senses. An impression of heat builds and builds and builds beyond me. Suddenly, I hear one note of precise music smite the silence in the room. It hangs beautifully, and is followed by two other notes. These then are followed by others. They cut the air like harmonious daggers that elevate the soul out to heaven.

I open my eyes as if to drift clothed by this music.

Behold: a man – a man with a strange yellow glow about him – looks up at me through his lyre. He continues to play seated on my stool. The locks of his hair dance slowly on his head. The folds of his robe sway as he moves his elusive hands.

“I am Apollo.”

He is playing still; and his voice is one with the music.

Thoughts of my lessons in English come back to me: my teacher pacing around the room, gesturing about the who and what of the glorious Olympians, tenderly enunciating Apollo in my memory.

“I am here to grant you a boon.”

I feel like a slave to the music, and inch closer and closer. Merely a breath away, I kneel before him and his lyre. Slowly, I reach out to him, and trace with my fingers the pits and hills engraved on his vessel of music.

“Speak, young one.”

I felt incapable of speaking. The thought of breaking a perfect line of sound hurt me; and so, ever slowly, I moved closer and whispered the deep longing of my heart.

I kneel before him once more and wait. He continues to play. I continue to venerate the music. His hands move back and forth across the lyre. The music soars – then evolves into a handsome, passionate, rapid melody.

I feel cold revolving about my fingertips.  I smell the staleness of the air, the loss of the sweetness. Suddenly: a flash of light strikes me blind. He is gone.

However, one note hangs beautifully in the air. Two other notes follow. Music and harmony and heaven grow out of the notes. I look behind me. I look above, beside, around.

I look down and see my fingers tantalizingly moving across the lyre; I have been given the blessing of music.

A Call to the PSHS Scholars

They made a movie about us -- "Pisay" was the title. Unfortunately, it now feels like we're as much show pieces as movies are.

“There is talk in the science community that PSHS must be taken off from DOST and let the money be spent for more advanced degree scholarships. (The idea is that DOST should not deal with basic education) But PSHS is a showpiece for the DOST, that’s why there are PSHS campuses in the various regions. If people think of DOST, they think of Pisay!”

Four years of hard science. Four years of four hours of sleep or less. Four years of sacrifice for something bigger than me. Four years before a future that we have pledged to devote to a Motherland. And ‘showpiece’ is the word they choose to anoint us with.

I was deeply bothered when I saw this. Coincidentally, I was a falcon hunting for the rarest of things — a research idea. And through the flight, I noticed an article discussing the problems that faze the Filipino science community. Sadly, reading between the lines, my schoolmates and I are one of those problems.

If you are not a Pisay student, let me introduce you to a brief history of Pisay. One, during Marcos’ era, they established a little idea called Philippine Science High School where the young and the bright can be intellectually enhanced in laboratories and classrooms such that the country will someday proliferate with service-oriented scientists. Two, the effects were first monumental; the first batches of PSHS produced the likes of Dr. Cielo Habito, former Chief of Staff Hermogenes Esperon, and Dean Rowena Guevarra. Three, unfortunately, after that, the expenses started to outweigh the profit. PSHS scholars still continued to excel in fields of science — but they were like scattered rains too weak to conjure a storm. Four, four years of high school are demoted to a showpiece.

In trying to explore the problem of productivity, I come up with a blur of whirring ideas. They do support us as scholars, but then after high school, it seems like we are antique vases gone with the wind. They do support us as scholars, but it’s hard to call it support if you’ve seen the Main Campus. They do support us as scholars, but, sometimes, in turn we have been too smart.

Too smart to forget the contract that binds us to a responsibility. Too smart to neglect that responsibility and use the Pisay pedigree to our own advantage.

So, I call on my fellow scholars. I ask them to recall their second year lessons in geometry.

In geometry class, my teacher taught me — with his large, glassy eyes, and his palms resting on the chalk ledge behind him — how to prove theorems. Given time, I can prove the Isosceles Triangle Theorem or the Vertical Angle Theorem. Given a lot more time, I may be able to prove Carnot’s Theorem as well.

But he also taught me to disprove.

And, dear scholars, let us not disgrace our teachers in geometry, the other sciences, and in the humanities. Let not our four years of growth be a showpiece. Let us stick to the pursuit of excellence, the ultimate pledge of service to a dilapidated country.

Let us prove them wrong.

Schooling VS Education

I am not deceived!

Schooling and education are two different things.

Like apples and oranges. Women and men. Speediness and procrastination. All of these share things in common; but they do not commune in meaning. They are not the same.

I try to repeat that to myself when June starts to look like Fairy Godmother in Shrek. She promises you the veracity of your colorful unicorn dreams; but she really wants to butcher you.

June, July, August, September. Imagine a long line of Fairy Godmothers growing out horns and beards and forks as they poke you into the fiery, bloody, soul-wrenching rampages of HELL.

Not quite right, isn’t it? Not right. Oh, there I go — the fiery, bloody, soul-wrenching, quiz-giving, graded recitation rampages of SCHOOOOOL.

And right now, it is dark. The mist of the night is chilling me. The vibration of evil is piercing my skull. But all I can hear is, “You can run, Arizza, but you can’t hide.”

Woe is me!

But then again: Schooling and education are two different things. Schooling and education are two different things. Schooling and education are two different things.

And the Fairy Godmothers cower beneath me. I control hell. I control the fire. I am undaunted. I am strong. I am Superman.

This is because I realize that Schooling is saying — “It’s a bird! No, it’s a plane!” while Education is saying — “No, it’s Superman.”

They give you the areas on which to focus on, they tell you several things about this and that and birds and planes, then they give you a hard-ass test. Schooling is exposure. Schooling is gathering of some facts. Schooling is teeny bits of the world being offered to you.

But education is about you and your inner Superman. You have been given the criminal case; now you solve it. You have been given some facts; now you conclude and synthesize. Education is self-translation. Education is absorption. Education is piecing together the teeny bits of the world and forming a sensible picture that you can understand.

And to be educated is to internalize not merely on your schooling in school; but your schooling in your house, in your boyfriend’s house, in the local beerhouse, at the field, in the McDonald’s in Katipunan, in India, Hong Kong, and Timbuktu.

Moreover, schooling lasts but a few years (THANK GOD) but education lasts. And lasts. And lasts. Until your heart packs up its bags and says he wants to go to Disneyland. Until you surrender yourself t0 the ultimate first-class vacation down under (not Australia).

Therefore: I take a deep breath. Grab my notebooks. Grab my pens. Pull out my friends. Call out the feel-good band. Maybe do some crunches.

Now, I face my schooling once again — with my inner Superman courage and strength — not really because I can run but I can’t hide.

Mostly, I face it because schooling and education are two different things. Like failing a quiz and failing kind expectations of those who love you. Like solving a problem about four and a half ducks and solving a problem about your job. Like knowing piezoelectricity and knowing when to stop. Like giving a grade to your groupmate and giving your all.

And most especially–distinguishing between the winner in a battle between a) Fairy Godmother and b) your inner Superman.

You decide.

_______________

Good luck, friends! (:

My grandmother is dying. And I never knew her.

She’s dying. And I never knew her.

I sat uncomfortably on the railing of the patio as my Mom told my Dad, my sister, and me the news. She was seated. She lightly gripped the side of her chair — one distinct green vein ran across her right hand, her fair skin giving a glow against the massive, blunt light of the night, and said it.

“Your lola is dying.”

I can recall those same hands on my grandmother — I have always fondly called her Ina. They were smooth, and they always seemed to give off a glow. Compared to my Mom’s however, hers were browned severely. Hers were also crisscrossed with so many veins — as if the story of her life as an illustrious teacher, a loving mother, a poor widow sought to be written on her hands.

Since ill fate brought down her husband’s death, her ill heart gave way to a stroke. And ever since I can remember, she had a hard time talking and walking because of it.

Whenever I would visit her in Zamboanga, she would be at the living room — watching TV, mostly. Then her gaze would turn to me. Then she’d smile.

Since her voice failed her, the emotion climbed all the way up to her face. There was so much radiance in that smile. It felt like however awkward I expected this visit to be, those expectations would seem like a distant story of long ago nobody believes in anymore.

Then my mom — or one of her sisters — would ask me to sit down beside her. And then they’d venture on an elaborate tale about one of my recent achievements. I barely understood their Tausug; but I’d see from them the utter pride of having me.

I’d see in her that utter pride. It’s the best kind of pride that isn’t spoken in words. It was in her eyes and her smile — and if you could only feel that, at that moment, sleepless nights, days of pacing around my room, days of cudgeling my brain with the meaning of ‘achievement‘, studying, toiling, bleeding would feel like a distant story of long ago that didn’t matter much.

All that was left was the irking thought: I have to make her feel this way at least once more.

But I never knew her. Never got to tell her that I wanted to. Never got down to asking her questions about her life, the distant stories of her long ago — what she felt as a child, how she grew up in the beaches of Sulu, how she met my grandfather, what she felt when she lost him.

What would I feel if I lost her?

But would I ever lose her? Would two veins bursting in her brain, in her frail, frail body take me away from a grandmother I still crave for? Would ill fate swoop down and carry all of her elsewhere?

No.

Remembering her smile, her eyes, her pride in me would make those questions a distant story of long ago. Remembering her in my own mother will continue to irk me with the thought: at least once more, I want you to be proud of me.

Someday from now, when I myself have wrinkled, deep-veined hands, I pray that she will not be only a distant story from long ago.

She’s dying.

But, to me, she will continue to glow beyond death against the massive, blunt light of the night in her children, in the presence of my own Mom, and most especially — in me.

I never knew her. But when I look into myself, I will.

(This is for you, Ina.)

Is it possible?

After a vehicular accident, Ka Beltran is confined in the Philippine General Hospital. That is him, in a narrow bed. And to his left is his daughter, Olivia.

Let’s start with a story:

“A neophyte congressman sought out to construct a strip of road in his province using allotted government funds. Three contractors presented their plans to him.

The first contractor offered services and materials for P300,000. The congressman frowned at the slightly high cost.

The second contractor offered services and materials for P250,000. The congressman thought this a wiser bid.

The third contractor approached him, smiled confidently, and whispered, “Services at materials na, P400,000.”  The congressman looked bewildered.

The third contractor smiled slyly and whispered once more,”P200,000 sa services at materials. P100,000 sayo. P100,000 sakin.” “

Is it possible? This story is not merely possibility. It is reality.

My dad always tells me–while gesturing with his hands the socio-political hierarchies–that Philippine politics is entrenched with corruption from the President to the Senator to the Malacanang janitor.

Whatever you do, whoever you deal with it in the government, it always comes to a point where the person you’re addressing raises his fingers–and rubs the tip of his thumb with his forefinger in a circular motion.

Money. If that’s the word of the day today (which is Saturday), then everyday must be Saturday in Philippine government.

But can a leader turn deaf to the miniature devil on his left shoulder despite satanic music itself playing shamelessly in the Palace? Is it possible to have politicians who–simply put–will not steal despite a culture of stealing in the government? Is it possible to have Representatives instead of Representathieves?

Yes, it is possible. And I don’t have to write down an equation for you to believe it is. I don’t have to certify with a long list of names and dates and events. I just have to say two words: Crispin Beltran.

Crispin Beltran was a Representative–in all the glory and humility it should have pertained to. He was a man of the masses–a poor taxi-driver who joined the union of taxi-drivers then became its leader then became leader of other labor unions and organizations.

Then became a Congressman–a brilliant Congressman, but simultaneously, a poor man as well.

He had 11 children, a declared net worth of P50,000, his eyeglasses, cabinet shelves, and a pair of Barong Tagalog which he used and overused during his astounding three terms.

His life was long and eventful. But his death seemed to me like a summary, a consistent ending to a consistent story.

Let’s end with a story:

“75-year old Crispin “Ka Bel” Beltran was repairing the roof of his 60-square meter, one-bedroom home in Bulacan. Up until this time, he had been paying the monthly amortization of P5,000 for this house as he had taken a GSIS loan for its purchase. Because of a fatal step or movement, he fell from the roof, sustained major head injuries, and died.”

He did it to his roof. He did it to our Motherland. Is it possible then to continue the repairs which Ka Bel have started?

__________

For a fuller biography on Crispin Beltran, click this. (:

Summer is almost over! And so is the election period.

Noynoy's not enough. We need the Pinoy too.

Summer is almost over.

This beautiful, restful, wonderful summer is almost over. For over a month, I have had a glimpse of true carelessness. No quizzes. No homework. Free time. It almost feels like a glimmer of hope to one like me whose soul is sold to the devil when June must come again.

The same goes for the country: the election period is almost over.

And while this lasts, it is a glimmer of hope for most of us.

It almost feels as if everyone thinks the timeline will go like this: before May 10, the label written below is a bloody, chicken-scratch BAD THINGS. On May 10, the label is ELECTION DAY. After May 10, the label is a cursive, shiny GOOD THINGS badge with that signature yellow color.

This is, in fact, the true dream that elections give us. A glimmer of hope. A chance for change. Particularly, with a promising head of state who is promising us a vision that we, in any other circumstances, would deem impossible. But now, we feel the rush of the tide: it is possible.

But we elected a president. Not a saviour.

He cannot eradicate poverty, corruption, our ignorant system of education, the flaws of our constitution, the flaws of our state with a snap of his fingers. A clean throne does not always make a clean kingdom. He will need our help.

We elected someone not really because he can change the way things are. We elected someone because we believe he can lead  US in changing the way things are.

We are not electing a person; we are electing a system—a system in which we all participate to move along the timeline from BAD THINGS to GOOD THINGS.

Even though Noynoy has won the elections, we should all continue to campaign his—our—vision for the next six years; endure the heat of the campaign with him, thirst and hunger with him.

Surely, June will come; and I must sell my soul to the devil once again.

Surely, inauguration will come, and in doing this right, we must devote our souls and minds and hearts to be in league—not behind—Noynoy as we uplift a system of hope, a system of change.

Mabuhay ang Pilipinas!

Stacy’s Mom (A short story for Mother’s Day)

Stacy's mom has got it going on / She's all I want / And I've waited for so long / Stacy can't you see / You're just not the one for me / I know it might be wrong but / I'm in love with Stacy's Mom

I

Have you heard the song Stacy’s Mom? Well, that was my story. I’m the little boy in Stacy’s Mom.

I don’t know how Fountains of Wayne did it. How could anyone dig up a story about a kid who falls in love with another kid then falls in love big time with the kid’s mom? Maybe i’ll ask them someday. But it’s unfair, really. It’s unfair that they turned my story into a sexy, hardcore, power-up rock song. Well, maybe it isn’t unfair. I’m a legend now—like Tony Stark or Peter Pan. But who am I?

You all know my story. But you don’t know me. I guess that’s the only unfair thing about it.

II

My name is Juan Sevilla. And if Fountains of Wayne forgot to tell you, I’m a true-blue Filipino kid. My mom shipped both of us off the Philippines when she went to work here in D.C. as a nurse. I don’t know who my Dad is; I mean, I know his name is Juan Sevilla, too—but I don’t know who he is.

I met Stacy in ninth grade. We were in Shop class together. This one day, I was using a screwdriver to detach the screws from a cupboard I was trying to fix. I screwed off the third screw, and it fell towards Stacy’s place. She picked it up, gave it to me, looked me in the eye, and said, “I think this is your screw.”

That was when all this Stacy-and-her-mom-humba-jumba started—so screw that day.

That day, I didn’t really notice Stacy. She was your standard high school girl—pearl earrings to get that elegant, classy hype, a Guns and Roses shirt which made her look a little pudgy, really tight jeans, and purple sneakers to say, “Hey, I can be edgy, too”.

But me—you could say I was really edgy. Long, scruffy hair. Dark—but not like Will Smith dark, more like Antonio Banderas dark. One metal stud on my right ear. Chains on my belt, sometimes. Addicted to the drums. A bit on the indie-rock side. Edgy. So I really didn’t notice her.

I didn’t notice her until Mr. Waters made us partners for a Shop project. On the first day, she called me Joo-wan like I was a physically misplaced Korean of some sort. On the second day, I called her Stah-see with a mild Jamaican accent to annoy her equivocally. But I stopped when she almost threw me the hammer and said I was as annoying as the Backstreet Boys. On the third day, I called her. I told her, “Hey, sorry, and I hate the B-boys too.”

On the nth day, I realized I was in love with Stacy Greene.

III

One day, I told her that. We were watching La Vita E Bella in my living room.

“Stacy, I think I love you.”

She looked at me slowly. Her yellowish brownish hair was in the way of her eyes; and I gently pushed it aside.

“Joo-wan,” she said.

We both snickered.

She said it slowly—like it was a chocolate truffle in her mouth, “I think I am starting to feel the same way”.

That beautiful smile stayed on that beautiful face.

I edged nearer to kiss that beautiful face. When I did, that screw, that cupboard, her Guns and Roses shirt, and even all those Backstreet Boys songs made sense to me. Slowly, slowly, we kissed—we had all the time in the world, and it was perfect.

Well, until the door squeaked. We were both startled. My mom scurried in with a brown bag of groceries. I knew she’d be leaving again for her part-time job in a bookshop sometime soon, so I didn’t worry so much.

“Ah, Stacy! You’re here agin,” my mom said.

Isn’t that accent just embarrassing sometimes?

“Oh, hey, Mrs. Seville. I was just watching a movie with Juan,” she stood up.

“What movie are you watcheng?” My mom’s hands were on her hips.

“Uhh, La Vita E Bella, mom. It’s kind of required for uhh school.”

“That’s gud. Stacy, if you can excuse Juan for a time, he has to help me in the kitchin.”

“Oh, no problem, Mrs. Seville!” she grinned.

I followed my Mom to the kitchen. She looked worried. She closed the kitchen door and started getting things out the grocery bag. And then she stopped, rested her palms on the breakfast table, and looked at me.

“She’s here agin, Juan? Is she your gerlpren?”

“Sort of, Mom. You don’t have to worry about anything. We’re tight.”

She looked at me suspiciously, “What do you men ‘tight’?”

“Uhh, I mean I think I love her.”

When I said the L-word, she looked at me like I cursed her. Her thick eyelashes fluttered around the idea of it. She turned her gaze to the grocery bag again and removed the pasta and the beans and then the bacon. She looked at the bacon and shoved it in my view.

“Do you know how mach bacon is here?”

“Depends on how much bacon you get,” I told her.

“It’s really ixpinsive here, anak.”

“And?” I asked—to push her to the point of it.

“Even if it is ixpinsive, I brought you here so you could have a greet future. In the Philippines, you have nathing. Here, you have so many uppurtinities.”

She moved closer to me and held my shoulders.

“Anak, don’t waste thim,” she said curtly.

But it was as if she was begging me.

She moved even closer to hug me. I shrugged her off.

“Uhh Mom! Don’t worry. I’m fine. She’s a good kid. And i’ll be a good kid. Promise.”

IV

I was a good kid. Probably until that day I saw Stacy’s mom.

It was a Friday. And The Cure—they came up with this song called “Friday I’m In Love”. And for the months my thoughts played over and over about Stacy’s mom, this song played over and over in my room.

I wanted to show my mom I was being a good kid. So instead of my house that day, we went to her house. Stacy pulled me into her car after Algebra, made out with me a bit, and drove to her house.

“You nervous?” she asked.

“Why would I be?” I smugged, and she tickled me like there was no tomorrow.

We were laughing when we got to her porch. But when the door opened, I was as quiet as cotton buds.

“Hey, you guys,” this magical being said.

She didn’t look human. She didn’t look alien either. She was too beautiful to be either. She was magical—from her black tresses, her rose-colored sundress, that beautiful shape, those sweet pink toes. She looked like a cross between Salma Hayek and Julia Roberts. It was crazy how stunnning she was. I froze right there—and to think it was almost summer that time.

“Juan? Hey,” Stacy said as she shook me.

“Oh, yeah, Stacy! Hey! And your mom? This is your mom, right? Cool. Yeah. Hi.”

“Are you alright, Juan?” the taste of my name rolled in her mouth like it was a juicy cherry.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go,” Stacy said in some faraway place in some faraway time.

She led me to their living room. We sat on the couch, and her mom brought us lattes she had just made. How cool is that.

“So, Stacy darling, you two are in the same class?” she said as she sat on the space beside me.

“Yes, Mom. Shop.”

“Right, Mom—I mean Mrs. Greene,” I managed to say.

“Please, call me Paloma,” she said in a way that made me melt, “It’s from where I was born, you see—Paloma, Italy.”

Wow. She was beautifully gorgeously stunningly awesomely magically her. And she was Italian, too.

V

You see why I couldn’t be good now? If you had seen her, you would understand. If you had heard her voice, you would know where I stood that Friday.

Paloma, Stacy’s mom, was single. We have got to give props to Fountains of Wayne for telling it right. Her husband left her sometime back. I don’t know why he did. I don’t know why anyone would.

I continued to go to Stacy’s house, continued to “date” her so I could chance upon another evening in her house. This went on for a while as I told myself I would still be there for Stacy—she was beautiful and all and she’d still be a best friend to me. But I avoided sometimes when she wanted to kiss me; at other times, she’d tickle me and i’d give in. She was so much a kid.

And Paloma was so much a woman.

Sometimes, I would see her go on nights just perfecting her Baked Ziti recipe. Sometimes, I would see her read Tolstoy or hear her recite poems from Pablo Neruda to herself. Mostly, she painted (she was a painter)—and when she did, she’d play Mozart full-blast. This annoyed Stacy so much; but me—oh, I’d like to imagine dancing with her to Herr Mozart on a moonlit night, her red dress, my black tux. It would be so edgy.

She was all I could think about. My grades were down. My virtues and promises were failingly down. But I was up, up there—I was high with love for this woman.

It doesn’t have to be Friday. I was in love with her on Monday, Tuesday, Saturday, Mother’s Day, 4^th of July.

But one Friday, I gathered enough courage to go to Stacy’s house without Stacy. It was easy peasy; i’d tell her mom I had a surprise for her and tell my mom, again, I had to do a project in a friend’s house. But, really, I just wanted to see Paloma, be in the same room with her, breathe the air she breathed.

I was in their porch. I was about to ring the doorbell.

“Come in, Juan,” as always, it rolled off her tongue like chocolate and spring and the gumamelas I used to see in Manila.

I slid in. She was wearing a short black dress and a ruby necklace. It looked like she had a grand date. But then her eyeliner was all over her face and so were tears.

“Are you alright, Paloma?” her name fit so perfectly in my tongue.

“It’s nothing. Where’s Stacy?” the sound of desperation in her beautiful voice made it crooked and tired.

“It doesn’t sound like it’s nothing.”

She cried. And all I could do was stand a reasonable distance as she heaved.

“Tell me,” I begged.

“Juan, sit down,” we sat.

“You wouldn’t understand, kid.”

She touched my knee as she cried those terrible notes. It felt like heaven to me—that touch—but that’s just not right. In her other hand, she held something. It had tinges of color in it. It looked like a photograph. If i’m not mistaken, it was that of a man.

Her lips were trembling. And I had wanted to stop that trembling. She was so magical even in this form, and this time, I shouldn’t freeze and do nothing.

I embraced her.

“Paloma, believe me when I say i’m here for you. I’ve been here all along because—“

I was going to say it. I was about to say it. The angels in heaven waited for it. The temptresses of hell egged me on. But then Stacy rushed in, took Paloma from me, and hugged her herself like she was the child.

“Thanks, baby,” Stacy looked at me with the same beautiful eyes that cried in her mother’s,” what happened, Mom?”

VI

“I’m in love with your Mom, Stacy.”

VII

Stacy avoided me. Like I was the plague. Like I was a murderer. Like I was a Backstreet Boys fan.

It has been months since I last saw Paloma, and it hurt for a while. To think that love can be so immense and then so minute. One day, I could worship even the strands of hair. Then, suddenly, even Friday doesn’t remind me of her anymore

How did you picture it would end with Stacy’s notorious mom? I’d score with her somehow? Or she’d actually fall for me? But there you go—as simply as I could put it, I got over her.

But I couldn’t get over Stacy.

I saw her in Shop class again. I was building a lamp for my final project. She was building a Barbie. She was so much a kid.

And I was so much a fool.

I miss her smile. I miss her eyes. I miss her laugh. I miss her tickles. I miss the screw she picked up. I miss the times we kissed in her car and she’d play Guns and Roses and i’d fight with her and put in an 80’s tape. I miss watching movies with her. I miss the way she said Joo-wan. I miss my Stah-see.

VIII

One day, I told her that.

“Stacy, I miss you.”

She was finishing her Barbie, and there were few people left in class.

“Get away from me.”

And she shoved me as she ran past. I hit the table beside me. The screws fell like thunder on the floor.

IX

The next day in school, I was walking down the hallway—thinking about Stacy.

“Hey yo Juan, you dig Stacy’s mom. You retard!” Jerry Sprinkler said as he opened his locker.

“Do you go hit on moms in the Philippines?” his friend Deepak said.

They both laughed.

People looked at me. People talked about me. Even those horn-rimmed geeks in Physics Club snickered when I walked past them.

“I told them,” a voice behind me said.

I looked back. It was Stacy.

She told her Mom. She told her friends. She told my friends. She told everyone. Stacy was on ultra revenge mode. I guess I didn’t expect her to be this immature.

X

Thinking about it now, maybe Fountains of Wayne heard it from a pot dealer who heard it from this kid who part-times in T.G.I. Friday’s who saw a blog on the ‘net posted by a kid who rooms with one of my schoolmates. Maybe.

I am now the butt of jokes though immortalized by Stacy’s Mom. I am a legend—in that I fell head over heels and heels over head over a mom. My girlfriend’s mom, to be exact.

I became an outcast, a loner. You could still say I was edgy—but not like Tony Stark edgy, more like Count Dracula edgy.

I’d go from my classes. To the house. From my classes. To the house.

One day, I was in my room. It was a Friday, and I was listening to the radio. I was doing Trigonometry problems; they were killing me. I was so hungry (I vowed i’d eat after homework); it was killing me. I could feel wisps of thoughts of Stacy-and-how-she-ruined-my-life in my head; it was killing me. Then Backstreet Boys crooned “Quit Playing Games (With My Heart).

I screamed.

XI

“’Nak! What’s the mattir?” my mom ran to me.

“I love Stacy. But then I thought I was in love with her mom. And I told her. But then I was really in love with her after all. So she told everyone. Now i’m all alone and I wanna die. And my grades, shit. Have you seen my grades? At least now i’m trying harder. But look, I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know. It just sucks. The pain. I could still remember how Stacy felt to me and—“

“I know.”

She hurried to my side and embraced me. Tightly. I saw puddles of water forming on the shoulder of her cardigan. Was I crying? I tried to rub off the pools of tears. I couldn’t be crying.

Then I saw her cardigan. I saw it. There was a hole near her shoulder. And an even bigger hole near the waist.

I saw my room. The left-side lamp wasn’t working. There were clothes on the floor, posters of The Cure on the wall, and dilapitated areas in the wallpaper.

“I lust my part-time, Juan. It’s nat so enough now,” she said as she followed my gaze.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Mom? You know I could help.”

“You were bothired inough. I brought you here fur a bitter life. I don’t want you to worry like I did whin I was younger.”

I looked at my mom. I wanted to embrace her. The angels in heaven were waiting for it. The temptresses of hell were egging me on. I did. Her beautiful smile was right there on her beautiful face.

XII

What’s the fuss about Stacy’s mom? If Fountains of Wayne still thinks that I’m head over heels and heels over head for her, they’re wrong.

You see, my mom—she is beautifully gorgeously stunningly awesomely magically her. And she’s a Filipina, too.

Screw Stacy’s mom. I’ve got mine anyway.

Happy Mother’s Day. (:

A Nightmare on El. Street

Our personal Freddy Krueger haunts us in the form of fetal automation and the specter of a possible electoral failure.

We have 4 days until the nightmare begins.

Instead of Elm Street, we use El.–an amusingly abbreviated form of Elections. Instead of a pock-faced Freddy Krueger, our own personal Freddy Krueger haunts us in the form of fetal automation and the specter of a possible electoral failure.

With automated elections, we had envisioned a cleaner, faster, and more progressive electoral process. Our teachers have rejoiced; our local crooks have probably scratched their heads around how they could beat the counting machines; and the Sexbomb Girls continuously screech about shading fully in the ballot the circle that is shaped like an egg.

However, seeing the glitches and bugs that have surfaced less than a week before E-Day, our view on this revolutionizing process has been shadowed darkly.

These glitches may have been caused by two things: for one, it could be a software or hardware problem that is definitely being addressed at the moment (and hopefully fixed); or, worse, it could be that the machines were engineered to fit the specifications of the fraudulent crocodilean species.

Whatever the cause, the effect is on us. And it isn’t good at all.

To me, it does not look like a total electoral failure; as I write, Smartmatic technicians are installing new CF cards and working to fix other bugs. We are sure to get votes and sensible results; but, as the bloody nightmare goes, the glitches and bugs that had surfaced can be reason enough for some losing candidates to claim for themselves the seat of power.

E-Day will be a mosaic–a mosaic of sweating people in lines, (beware) suspicious-looking men circling voting areas, and cursing voters whose slight mistakes cost them their voucher of democracy.

But the nightmare will doom us once the champions of the race are announced. Depending on who the champions will be, expect various magnitudes of rallies, protests, demands for recount, demonstrations, traffic, and even more heat spiting us already in this oven-hot summer.

Note, however, that nightmares like these don’t have to happen. As was in the movie, we should just not sleep on E-Day and the days before and after it.

I’m not saying go out there and empty the shelves of coffee in the grocery (or Starbucks supplies, if you fancy). I’m not saying huddle with your friends for a sleepover (because really, who sleeps in a sleepover?).

I’m saying be conscious of what’s happening now, on May 10, and after. Help out the neighborhood guards in watching as other people vote. Have your mouse ready to click to INQUIRER.net or ABS-CBNNEWS.com. Do what you can to safeguard this bastion of democracy.

It may come. It may not come. There may only be angry voices. There may be blood. But what is important is that we must all take part in avoiding a nightmare on El. street.

Hoping and praying,

Arizza.