Humanities

It is the right time to remember you again. I will teach the subject you taught me. I reckon that if I could get to them around half as effectively as you got to me, I'll be made. I'm glad to have rid myself of the technical writing courses at least for a semester. My criticism-heavy demo made sure of that. My gamble paid off. Now I'll be teaching what I've always wanted to teach, regardless of the fact that it's a good stretch away from my courses, both under and post-graduate. Then also, a further stretch from my previous job at the foundation.

Still, is anything at all really that far from the humanities?

I don't know how I'll measure up to you, or at least to the half that I aspire to. Despite all appearances, I'm taking this seriously. I'm familiar with people who could do this easily. I look at them and I thought I would envy them, but I didn't. I looked up to you and saw that when you taught, it all seemed so difficult. Not because you were incompetent. Not even because you were old and had to strain to hear us shout out our petty answers to your great, whispered questions. I saw that it was because you felt you had the burden of thirty-five young lives hanging on your word. Lives. I would think that to have that onus, one would go the way of the indifferent, the depressed, or the messianic. Yet, you were none of these. You were just a mother to children you never had.

I'm aware of people who think that the humanities should be easy, or worse, obsolete. I thought I would be forever angry with them. Yet how can I remain so? They were just not fortunate enough to have you for a teacher. It is a definite fault of this world that there are so few of you and so many of us, small minds.

I have one thing to my advantage. I know my measure firsthand. I know you. With measure comes direction. I will remain clear-headed for this semester at least. I will keep the other words at bay and forge on. Yet I must tell you, your measure is only half of it. Probably even the lesser half.

In the end, what would be left of the class are thirty-five or so lives. Their maesure will define my work. They will decide me more than I, them. You've always known that haven't you? In such a way, I have decided you: look now and see that I look no higher. I see you.

You have thus been remembered. I go now. There is much work to be done.

Here goes nothing.

Mayo 9, 2003

Panglimang beses ko na ito sa UP Los Banos. Papalapit na rin ang panahon na di ko na mabibilang ang mga araw na ito.

Pinakauna nuong sophomore ako. Ganito yun. Dahil sa matinding kamalasan o kabobohan, naiwala ko ang tanging kopya sa Main Lib ng libro sa pagtula at kritisismo ni Archibald MacLeish. Malaking halaga ang hinihingi. Hindi ko na kinarerang humingi sa mga magulang ko, di ko na maalala kung dahil sa hiya o sa yabang. Dahil sa laki ng dapat kong bayaran, ibinenta ko ang mga bala ko ng Pearl Jam, Silver Chair, Collective Soul, Enya, at iba pang ayaw ko nang alalahanin at baka panghinayangan ko pang muli.

Naibenta ko rin ang aking pinakamamahal na libro nuon, ang salin ni James Clavell sa Art of War ni Sun Tzu. Ibinenta ko rin ang kumpletong sulatin ni William Shakespeare. Mas mataas ko pang napresyuhan kaysa sa dalawang ito ang paborito kong magasin, ang Playboy ni Erika Eleniak na alaala pa galing hayskul. Isa dyan, di ko na sasabihin kung ano, binenta ko sa maargumento kong kaibigan. Yung isa sa pinakatopak. At isa sa aking nililigawan. Ayun, dahil sa inipong awa, pagnanasa, pagmamahal, at pera ng aking mga kaibigan, nabuo ang suma.

Malaki ang maiaawas sa kabuuang gastusin kung makahahanap ako ng librong ito ni MacLeish para mapakopya. Ayon sa katalog, may isa sa UPLB. Sa halip na magbayad na lang at tapusin na ang lahat, hinikayat ko ang tropang goons na samahan ako sa LB. Katwiran ko, sayang naman kung basta na lang ibayad ang pinaghirapan ko nang ganun-ganun lang. Mas gugustuhin ko pang pumunta sa LB, gasolinahan ang pulang Kia Pride ng mamula-mula kong kaibigan, at suhulan ng buko pie ang lahat ng sasamang goons. At iyon nga ang ginawa ko. Pumayag naman ang mga goons, basta full tank ang Kia at original ang buko pie.

Bahagi ng Isang Mahabang Kwento

Napakahabang kwento ng araw na iyon! Isa iyon sa mga paboritong araw sa aking buhay. Syempre, dalawa lang ang aapaw mula sa mga paboritong araw. Kung hindi mahabang katahimikan, mahabang kwento.

Sobrang dami ng nangyari! Sa kalye pa lang, kantyawan na! Paano ba naman e malulupit humirit ang lahat sa aming apat. Matindi ring magsipagbigay ng direksyon.

"Saan tayo?" tanong ng mestisuhing tsuper, matuling nagmamaneho tungo sa paghihiwalay ng daan.

"Kanan pare!" sagot ng higanteng backseat driver, excited.

"Oo pre, dun! Dun!" sumegunda pa ang katabi, excited din at seryoso pa, nakatutok ang siguradung-siguradong hintuturo sa pinakagitna ng dibisyong isla. Ewan ko kumbakit papadiretsuhin niya kami run.

"Kanan, kanan tol!" excited na talaga ang higante namin.

"Okey, sigurado ka ha?" naninigurado si tisoy, dalawang dipa na lang mula sa dibisyon.

At pagkapihit sa manibela, kumapit bigla sa likod ng driver's seat ang higante, "Hindi-hindi-hindi! Kabilang kanan! Kabilang kanan!"

Nuong kinaawaan naman at nakarating rin kami, ilang minuto naming hinanap sa mga estante ang libro. Wala. Memoryado na namin ang call number! Wala talaga, angsama-sama na ng loob ko. Yung dalawang nagsagutan sa kalye, sinimulan na ang paglibang sa akin. Sabi ko na lang sa loob-loob ko, di bale, talo na kung talo. Tuloy pa rin ang ligaya.

Tuloy naman pala talaga! Kakambal ng swerte ko ang tilos ng mata nung isa pang backseat driver. Lumayo siya sa aming estante, akala ko wala nang pakialam. Tapos lumapit sa amin, nakangisi, angat-angat ang isang dilaw na tomo. Pinagmumura namin siya sa tuwa.

Nagkainan kami. Dumiskarte lang ng mainit na kanin at malamig na sopdrink sa kanto tapos naghanap ng pwesto para magpiknik. Ano ang ulam? Samu't-sari, basta lahat diretso mula sa mga lata. Masarap ang kain namin. Kasahog ng bawat subo ang pinagsaluhang kwento at tawa. Naalala namin ang mga naiwan naming ka-org, laluna ang mga babaeng taga-food tech na laging pinandidirihan ang trip naming mga de lata. Lagi namin silang inaaya na makisalo duon sa Diliman. Ayaw nila. Yun nga raw, kadiri, exponential daw ang paglaganap ng mga mikrobyo run. Nakakatuwa yung mga mukha nila, asiwang-asiwa sa amin. Kami tuloy, mas lalo namang ginanahan!

Pinag-usapan namin ang UPLB. Kakaiba dito, nagkasundo kami. Parang mas okay pa sa pinanggalingan namin, mas tahimik, mas masarap ang hangin, mas berde. Sabi nung isa, mas taimtimang makapag-iisip sa LB. Para sa isa naman, baka mas masarap mag-aral, baka maging henyo pa raw run! Okay raw dun mag-jogging, ika nung isa. Nakakatuwa rin ang LB para sa huli. Kasi malayo.

Ilang sandali pa ang tinagal namin duon, pinalipas ang iba't ibang kwento at laro. Umuwi kami pagkatapos mapakopya ang libro at tangayin ang pangakong original buko pie.

Tungo sa Kabilang Kanan

Taon na rin ang nakalipas. Salamat na lang at sa kabila ng lahat mikrobyo sa aming mga balumbalunan, buhay na buhay pa kami. May komunikasyon pa naman, bihira nga lang ang mata sa mata, pinagtitiisan ang mga elektronik na paraan. Heto kami ngayon, may kanya-kanyang landas, kanya-kanyang kanan.

Sa aking banda, bumalik ako kamakailan upang makilala ang mga sasakyang bus, masukat ang tagal ng byahe, at muling makilala ang mga landas. Inalam ko rin ang mga gusali sa tulong ng mga umaali-aligid na tao run. Preparasyon ito sa aking pangatlong pagbisita, ang demo.

Sa ikaapat na byahe, ibinigay sa akin ang listahan ng mga aasikasuhing papeles. Inumpisahan ko na rin ang aking medical clearance. Ngayon, pumunta ako para lang malaman na may "radiologically healthy chest" ako. Dagdag dito, maikakahon ako sa mga dimensyong 1.68 metro at 74.5 kilo. Kailangan ko pang bumalik bukas para sa mga karagdagang eksameng pisikal. Isa na namang araw. Isa na namang bilang.

Sa dyip, kaninang umaga, medyo makulimlim at mahangin. Umambon ng bulak sa pagitan ko at ng pulang-pulang punong kabalyero. Nagsasayaw pa ang bulak sa hangin, nakakaengganyo. Tila libo-libong wishy-wishy na kailangang unahan ng libo-libo ring hiling sa tadhana bago isa-isang lumapag ang mga ito sa lupa.

Buti na lang, sa harap ako nakaupo, katabi ng tsuper. Isinakop ni manong ang kanyang ilong sa kamiseta. Hindi ko alam kung nabasa niyang baguhan lamang ako, kasabay ng talamak na incoming freshmen. Basta minabuti na rin niyang magpayo.

"Umaambon ng bulak, masakit sa baga yan."

Nagpigil ako ng hininga.

Alone, in a Cafe

It was a breezy afternoon in Makati. The breeze was peculiarly comforting. Most afternoons here are now usually hot, seldom attended by the breeze. Maybe I didn't believe there was really such a nice draft or, if there was, that it would last. So I opted for the more reliable air-conditioning of the mall.

I got myself a few CDs as a reward for finishing my first semester of both studying and teaching. Later, I would not look at it as any sort of gratification. It was just something I did to make myself believe that I achieved something in a span of five months. I didn't. All I really accomplished was getting myself some CDs.

I stopped by the cafe to get some hot chocolate and buy some time to pace myself, plan my next moves, and read up on Dutch poetry. So i went in, placed my order and waited until I heard the barista call out my name with her classy accent. I didn't really know why this place seemed like a good place to do the stuff I wanted to do. Why be surrounded by people that aren't kin to me, in fact, non-kin in many ways? Later, I would doubt whatever sense I used to expose myself to other people. Other people have a way of stirring something already shaken.


1 White mocha

I opened the anthology before the planner. I began with Jan Elburg's no place like home:

This must be me
I feel this more than I
feel others smarting at my notions.
this must be me
where I look in and out of.

There was a pregnant woman alone on my left, alone with her white mocha. She was in a dark corporate attire and wore highlights in her hair. She's texting somebody while her cheek rests uneasily on her left fist. She's not that big, maybe just a little over four months. She slouched on her seat. Later, with her right thumb still on the keypad, her left fist would become a palm beneath her belly.

2 Frappucinos, etc.

To my right, a bunch of students worked with textbooks, notes, expensive pens, and scientific calculators. Some of their classmates studied in front of me with their heads to the glass wall.

In between these batches and forward diagonally to my left, a fat, hairy, white man showed some harbor plans with plates of colored sketches to a brown man.

If the white man was selling, the brown man didn't look like he's buying. He didn't look like he could afford it. Maybe someone was conning someone. If so, I had no idea who's conning who. Or maybe they're both out to con somebody else.

3 Macchiato

There was a girl on her cellphone four or so meters to my rear. She had a white blouse on with the 3/4 sleeves ending in ruffles. She had her law books and black purse in front of her. She has largely ignored them along with her styrofoam cups of water and macchiato. Her head was thrown back, she was slouching, possessing the entire couch.

She chatted away very happily, so happily that her mouth suspended in open-mouthed smiles whenever she paused to listen. Her smile was a gaping promise, the red edges moving in ripples when she talked.

Her eyes flitted absent-mindedly to every corner of the room, looking everywhere and nowhere at once. She was not in the room, I guess. She was on the other end of the phone.

4 More white mocha

The pregnant woman was arguing with the guy who joined her. She brought in confident, incorrect English with her crossed corporate-sleeved arms.

She was negotiating, asking for 1/3 or at least 1/4 of something. Her tongue was hard. It was neither lashing nor hysterical, just hard. They were somehow involved.

The guy remained silent. He was married. He was also white, the pinkish, foreigner kind. And also very hairy.

I hated the taste of losing myself to peeping tomfoolery and eavesdropping. I fetched myself some water though I was not finished with my chocolate. I read on:

it can't be otherwise: these, my hands
rendering me more services
than all the hard and soft ones outside;
these, more joy at my body's raging
than pity on what I bring about.

5 More frappucinos, etc.

A youngish teacher came in and was noisily greeted by the students. The fuss died down and a girl approached the teacher from across the room and said hi sir with a flirtatious tone. The male students were all smiles and said they will consult him. Probably about their assignments. They were finishing up.

I myself had no plans or "pacing" done. Outside the glass walls, the leaves of the cement-boxed trees were rustling. The sky was falling to darkness, hue by hue, shade by shade. A young man opened a van parked by the sidewalk. A lady followed with a baby in a stroller. After loading the stroller, they entered the van, the child in the lady's arms. Inside, the couple collapsed into a relaxed conversation. After a couple of minutes, they drove off.

The lights were turned on and I decided to go home for dinner. I had no place at the cafe. I was done with my cups.

I think I'll stay here, after all,
with my very own agonies:
between my teeth is where I feel at home.

A Post-Baguio Note

I just came down from Baguio. The bus was scheduled to roll at 1 am and, despite some troublesome passengers who used up 20 minutes of our time, I was home in 5 hours.

Baguio is not that cold this time of the year. I only had a shirt and denim pants on most of the time. I only used my ukay-ukay Manic Street Preachers jacket on the bus when the hours of airconditioning soaked me to the bone. Too bad I didn't have the sense to check out a thermometer and record the exact centigrade reading. Then again, that would be boring. I'd rather say that I also wore shorts and sandals during my weekend in Baguio and that in a group of six people, only two would have a jacket or sweater with them. And of the two, only one would be wearing it.

I had to visit UP Baguio for my own intents and purposes. It was the last UP in Luzon that I haven't visited. There, I just had to mark this too. So this is exhibit B and still I have too few words to show for it. I must work on my student's grades and the rest of my requirements for postgrad class. So after I e-mail an Excel attachment, I'm off to the office. I'll deal with the faculty tomorrow.

I'm not okay. I hope everybody else is doing much better.

A Post-Romblon Note

Our mission to Sibuyan Island in Romblon was very enlightening. One of the best five days of my life, the ship travel included. There was no substantial rest nor recreation, it was almost pure work. However, I decline to share details. I'm not in the mood. Maybe, if I join the post-operation follow-up on April 5, I'd afterwards be more disposed to playing storyteller. Or maybe not.

I just put that fact here so I can mark it with a date. Right now, I'm not looking forward to spending much time with monitor and keyboard. Actually, I'm not minding pen and paper either. I'm not itching for keypad and LCD.

So why post? I just can't help but wonder how everyone else was doing.

The Fall at Bataan

Back then, I wanted to tell you what the sea of Bataan was to me. I wanted to tell you how it felt much like a mere rest stop on a round trip to Pateros. Yes, I'd explain the ill-planned trip that had me commit more time in the bus - feeling beneath my solo seat the laboriousness of its progress - than in the destinations.

I'd tell you about the trip up the mountain, how the bus climbed it like some hesitant, leaden beast. We stopped because a tire was giving way but we just put in some air and trusted the thickness of its rubber hide to haul our heavy asses up that angle. When we finally arrived, I mused a bit and checked out the cannons and old howitzer predecessors. I'd tell you how I wasted a good hanky just wiping off all the grease I got when I couldn't keep my hands to myself.

Higher up was the white monument. It was decent and tall and it had carvings adorning its sides, representing the divisions of the army we had then. There was an inscription which I don't remember reading. So I would just give you something else in its stead:

No monument as this would rise without fallen heroes.

After parting with this worthless proxy piece, I'd proceed. We went on to travel another hour and a half just to see water. I sat out front, behind the driver's seat. I found it barely comfortable even if I had the two-seater all to myself. Hecklers out back would not care for the B movie fed them. They're restive and, hearing no more jokes to throw tomatoes at, they figured that the whole trip was a big joke and the driver as some silent, failed mime. So they trained their verbal barbs at him. I'd note for you that no amount of whipping would make the beast go any faster. I tell you, if this were my class, I'd tell them to shut up, not so much because their tirade violated some innate sense of value and respect. Probably just because, up to a certain point, the futility of their witty exercise ceased to amuse me.

The people there were few and far in between, negligible to our traveling senses. I'd tell you what these wiseasses said, "seems people are not in fashion here." Imagine that, people as clothes or accessories of a locale. If so, the lands were naked. And with the fever of male metaphor-making, I'd say we here were an intrusion.

Maybe I won't phrase it that way for you. I'd just say we were intruders without adding the length of the bus or how, at several points of uncertainty, we went back and forth.

We finally unburdened our beast a few moments after we spotted sparkling water. Of course I'd add that at the mere sight of it, the boys grew wild and loud, throats grew coarse shouting "water!" - the reverse case of mariners greeting sight of land. A handful of them rushed at it throwing clothes on the way and disturbed its peace with splashing limbs. Later, chest-deep in water, a couple of them raised their underwear like banners - or maybe I'd say pennants - of a conquering host. They waved them too, with the same triumphal air as I imagine field marshalls of old would have.

I'd go on and tell you how I greeted the sea in my own fashion, filling my eyes with its blue and white sparkle, my ears with its rhythm, and my hair, face, and body with the warm breeze that attends it. My feet worked upon its shoreline. I allowed the water to go as high up as half my calves, trying to measure the gentle undulation of its waves with my legs. The sand mingled freely with my toes and leg hairs, were washed off with every wave, and replaced with every step.

I'd go on! I would! I'd tell you that there, far out there into the blue I forgot wars and theories, I forgot needs and inventions, I forgot duties and routines, marches and deaths! I felt so light, stripped of causes and definitions. Poised armies and lost loves all meant nothing at the time. I felt colorless, reflecting everything, being nothing. All I had were limbs for the water, skin for salt and waves, and eyes for the corals and the schools of flashing, flying fish. I had ears only for the song of the sea.

I cannot come back like this, so stripped. You wouldn't recognize me. So I shared the girls' meals and the boys' liquor. I took to the showers to replace the salt and sand with the tap water and soap that I'm more accustomed to wear. I dressed in my old clothes. I boarded the bus.

I tell you, I did not look back. I feared I might become some saline pillar that could never look forward again.

I could have told you this and more. But back then, I felt I didn't have to. Back then, all that mattered was that I wanted to. And that, I thought, was enough.