And it might be a good idea to stick to it!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Singled Out
This has got to be my favorite story ever written about anybody. Author isn't me though. It's my brother's writing genius revering our Mom.
Date of first publish: 10 May 2001 in Philippine Daily Inquirer's Young Blood section
MAMU
My mom’s story is simple. Very simple.
She came from an upright family and was raised according to strict Christian values. She studied hard, worked even harder, studied some more, married her first and only boyfriend, raised a wooly trip of seven, was always on time and never tried to hurt anyone. And when the final call came, she bowed out gracefully.
Fancy things did not impress her. Although she was always content and grateful for what she had, she practically stopped at nothing to give a little more to the ones she loved.
But like any other simple life, hers also had its share of drama and conflict. For years, she had been hobbled sporadically by bad health. I remember her undergoing operations and treatment for a variety of illnesses that were supposed to be debilitating. Also, she had been a victim of gross discrimination in the workplace, an unspeakable injustice that would have broken anybody else’s spirit. And yes, she suffered “periodic heartaches”, which came as regularly as the end the end of every semester when my grades would arrive (which is an entirely different story, however).
But in the face of all these trials and tribulations, she exhibited tremendous resilience. And every time, she found a way to come on top. Up to the end.
When the doctors said she had a brain tumor, six months before she passed away, my knees buckled. I was so shocked that for several moments, I was unable to say anything. On the other hand, she who was the direct recipient of that harrowing blow was still as positive as any proton. But then she was not really the type who got easily rattled and intimidated by adversity.
I recall when I was about 8, I asked her, trustingly and with all the naivete of a third grader, what my motto in life should be. She replied without batting an eyelash: “Success lies not in never falling, but in rising every time you fall.” I guess she lived this all her life and that she saw this new episode, scary as it was to us, as nothing more than a speed bump.
And we knew it was not for a show. Her positive demeanor did not stem from a desire to display outward strength for the rest of the family to emulate. Rather, it came from a real will to survive—a strong determination to continue life and living.
So for six months, the family was trapped in a very unusual emotional zone. Everyone tried to act normal and take everything in stride, but inside we were gearing for a war. After all, this is the first time a crisis of this magnitude had hit us. There was no time to mull and find rationale for such a fate. Simply, everything said and done were centered on mom’s well being.
Visits to the hospital, both of the scheduled and rushed varieties, appointments (and disappointments) with her doctors, scouting around for other possible medication, being scouted in return by bearers of alternative medicine, shifting hours as hospital bantay, entertaining well-wishers, basking in the overwhelming show of love and support from family and friends—all these became ordinary fare for us. We quickly got attuned to that kind of set-up an no one minded giving other things up just so Mamu’s condition improved.
For her part, mom responded with inspiring gallantry. Though the pain at times became so overpowering, she always had that toothy, reassuring grin that told us she was giving the beast a run for its money.
Despite the perfunctory assurances from her army of doctors that “there is still hope”, the gradual deterioration of her internal functions and the physical manifestation of the disease indicated that the end was approaching. And so we had to, really tightly this time, embrace the reality facing us. This was a full-blown case of brain cancer, and the statistics were not in our favor.
Hope was never lost but to be in denial would have been a lot more painful and devastating. We had to be strong for her, and for ourselves. No one was to show a sign of weakness. Not in front of this woman, from whose strength we gather our own. Not in front of this lady, in whose gentleness we so joyfully and willingly drowned. Hanging tears were only allowed to fall during silent prayers before sleep.
My tears poured by the bucket as my prayers tripled in frequency and intensity. Not only did it hurt to see mom slowly and seemingly systematically being ravaged by the illness, it was also uncool for her to leave at that moment. I didn’t know when it’s cool for any loved one to leave, but I knew it wasn’t right time for her to go away.
How it could be cool when she was singing “Indigo Girls” and “10,000 Maniacs” with me in the car? How could it be right when we were all set to launch our partnership in a fertilizer business we had decided to call Chicken Shit for the Soil? How could it be okay when the late-bloomer that I am, I was just beginning to understand her simple joys and her inner pains, and, she too, was beginning to appreciate that I truly, deeply cared? Indeed it was a bad time for her to go.
But she went away anyway. She went after she had made peace with everyone she might have offended and everyone who might have hurt her. She went after she had assured everyone she was ready to ride into the sunset and face her Creator. And in a final act of courage and love, she went only when we were ready to let her go, and after she had stage-directed her own wake and funeral.
When the moment arrived, of course there was grief, but there also was celebration. Sure there were tears, but more radiant were the smiles. Sure it was her death, but what loomed largest over everything else was her life. Clichés are clichés because they always ring so true.
It has been three years. A lot of big things have happened in the family and bigger ones are still to unfold. It would be a blast if she were still here to share and make pakialam in all these. Of course, we all have somehow snapped out of the emptiness brought about by her absence. But I really miss her.
I miss the way she’d flip when I held open the refrigerator door longer than necessary. I miss her gladly coming down for seconds when I arrive late for dinner so I wouldn’t have to eat alone. I still blow kisses at her picture before going to bed. I still look up to the night sky and acknowledge her presence somewhere beyond cosmic boundaries.
I still look at the untouched crossword puzzles in the papers and acknowledge her presence just within mortal reach. I wish our plans to engage in business still stood. I wish she had met Amanda.
I am grateful for everything she gave me and everything she didn’t let me have. I thank her that everyone of us turned out to be a little like her: a little more caring, a little more understanding, a little more tolerant, a little more kind and a whole lot stronger.
When Mamu died, she bore all the scars of that painful ordeal. It is indeed humbling to witness the vulnerability of the human body. But for us, it came not without the fortune and the honor of realizing the triumph of the human spirit. And the mother’s heart.
Date of first publish: 10 May 2001 in Philippine Daily Inquirer's Young Blood section
MAMU
My mom’s story is simple. Very simple.
She came from an upright family and was raised according to strict Christian values. She studied hard, worked even harder, studied some more, married her first and only boyfriend, raised a wooly trip of seven, was always on time and never tried to hurt anyone. And when the final call came, she bowed out gracefully.
Fancy things did not impress her. Although she was always content and grateful for what she had, she practically stopped at nothing to give a little more to the ones she loved.
But like any other simple life, hers also had its share of drama and conflict. For years, she had been hobbled sporadically by bad health. I remember her undergoing operations and treatment for a variety of illnesses that were supposed to be debilitating. Also, she had been a victim of gross discrimination in the workplace, an unspeakable injustice that would have broken anybody else’s spirit. And yes, she suffered “periodic heartaches”, which came as regularly as the end the end of every semester when my grades would arrive (which is an entirely different story, however).
But in the face of all these trials and tribulations, she exhibited tremendous resilience. And every time, she found a way to come on top. Up to the end.
When the doctors said she had a brain tumor, six months before she passed away, my knees buckled. I was so shocked that for several moments, I was unable to say anything. On the other hand, she who was the direct recipient of that harrowing blow was still as positive as any proton. But then she was not really the type who got easily rattled and intimidated by adversity.
I recall when I was about 8, I asked her, trustingly and with all the naivete of a third grader, what my motto in life should be. She replied without batting an eyelash: “Success lies not in never falling, but in rising every time you fall.” I guess she lived this all her life and that she saw this new episode, scary as it was to us, as nothing more than a speed bump.
And we knew it was not for a show. Her positive demeanor did not stem from a desire to display outward strength for the rest of the family to emulate. Rather, it came from a real will to survive—a strong determination to continue life and living.
So for six months, the family was trapped in a very unusual emotional zone. Everyone tried to act normal and take everything in stride, but inside we were gearing for a war. After all, this is the first time a crisis of this magnitude had hit us. There was no time to mull and find rationale for such a fate. Simply, everything said and done were centered on mom’s well being.
Visits to the hospital, both of the scheduled and rushed varieties, appointments (and disappointments) with her doctors, scouting around for other possible medication, being scouted in return by bearers of alternative medicine, shifting hours as hospital bantay, entertaining well-wishers, basking in the overwhelming show of love and support from family and friends—all these became ordinary fare for us. We quickly got attuned to that kind of set-up an no one minded giving other things up just so Mamu’s condition improved.
For her part, mom responded with inspiring gallantry. Though the pain at times became so overpowering, she always had that toothy, reassuring grin that told us she was giving the beast a run for its money.
Despite the perfunctory assurances from her army of doctors that “there is still hope”, the gradual deterioration of her internal functions and the physical manifestation of the disease indicated that the end was approaching. And so we had to, really tightly this time, embrace the reality facing us. This was a full-blown case of brain cancer, and the statistics were not in our favor.
Hope was never lost but to be in denial would have been a lot more painful and devastating. We had to be strong for her, and for ourselves. No one was to show a sign of weakness. Not in front of this woman, from whose strength we gather our own. Not in front of this lady, in whose gentleness we so joyfully and willingly drowned. Hanging tears were only allowed to fall during silent prayers before sleep.
My tears poured by the bucket as my prayers tripled in frequency and intensity. Not only did it hurt to see mom slowly and seemingly systematically being ravaged by the illness, it was also uncool for her to leave at that moment. I didn’t know when it’s cool for any loved one to leave, but I knew it wasn’t right time for her to go away.
How it could be cool when she was singing “Indigo Girls” and “10,000 Maniacs” with me in the car? How could it be right when we were all set to launch our partnership in a fertilizer business we had decided to call Chicken Shit for the Soil? How could it be okay when the late-bloomer that I am, I was just beginning to understand her simple joys and her inner pains, and, she too, was beginning to appreciate that I truly, deeply cared? Indeed it was a bad time for her to go.
But she went away anyway. She went after she had made peace with everyone she might have offended and everyone who might have hurt her. She went after she had assured everyone she was ready to ride into the sunset and face her Creator. And in a final act of courage and love, she went only when we were ready to let her go, and after she had stage-directed her own wake and funeral.
When the moment arrived, of course there was grief, but there also was celebration. Sure there were tears, but more radiant were the smiles. Sure it was her death, but what loomed largest over everything else was her life. Clichés are clichés because they always ring so true.
It has been three years. A lot of big things have happened in the family and bigger ones are still to unfold. It would be a blast if she were still here to share and make pakialam in all these. Of course, we all have somehow snapped out of the emptiness brought about by her absence. But I really miss her.
I miss the way she’d flip when I held open the refrigerator door longer than necessary. I miss her gladly coming down for seconds when I arrive late for dinner so I wouldn’t have to eat alone. I still blow kisses at her picture before going to bed. I still look up to the night sky and acknowledge her presence somewhere beyond cosmic boundaries.
I still look at the untouched crossword puzzles in the papers and acknowledge her presence just within mortal reach. I wish our plans to engage in business still stood. I wish she had met Amanda.
I am grateful for everything she gave me and everything she didn’t let me have. I thank her that everyone of us turned out to be a little like her: a little more caring, a little more understanding, a little more tolerant, a little more kind and a whole lot stronger.
When Mamu died, she bore all the scars of that painful ordeal. It is indeed humbling to witness the vulnerability of the human body. But for us, it came not without the fortune and the honor of realizing the triumph of the human spirit. And the mother’s heart.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Sketches of People I Know -- Entry # 2
Date of first publish - 07 April 2009
**
I don’t suppose you realize your eyes tell your story very, very vividly.
You’ve spent your years running, escaping, hiding. It’s only in recent times that you have finally come into terms with who you really are. And what innate privileges and duties come along with being the person you were meant to be. You were given tall orders—things you fought off for as long as you could. Reluctance and rebellion do not work, that you figured out the hard way. You’ve spent far too much energy already fighting the force of the inevitable. Now you are at the time of reckoning. You were never asked to pay back, nevertheless you find yourself giving in with surprising willingness.
To surrender, when you were younger and did not know any better, was not even in your realm of consciousness. But your miscalculated moves have taught you that surrender did not necessarily mean the lack of conviction or a harrowing blow on being a smart, able man. Rather, to surrender meant trusting more and loving more.
Your battle scars. Ahhh, your battle scars. You may not have been as gentle and nurturing if not for them and what they mean in your life. You learned things through contrast. That life is tough enough already so you are tender towards those who tread the road with you. You learned that being out in the cold numbs the heart so you spread warmth as far as you could. You learned that the attitude of helplessness leaves you exactly where there is no escape from your shackles. Now, you are expectant of better things to come.
I know you are scared that no one would ever take you to be her man. But look at you. Really, take a good look at yourself in the mirror. I can not even begin to tell you how beautiful you are. I know, someday, you would make one woman feel like she hit jackpot. With that kind of love dying to escape from you? Man, she’s on for the greatest thing that will ever happen in her lifetime.
You did not renounce your being juvenile. You just dusted off after that crazy ride. You decided to rectify the mistakes of the past by facing your demons head on, resolved to never allowing them get the better of you (again). You are not a new man. You’re still you, only better.
Snaps to you, man. Now it’s my turn to accept a couple of things myself… The most important of all is to acknowledge that I cannot move an inch closer from where I’m standing…
**
I don’t suppose you realize your eyes tell your story very, very vividly.
You’ve spent your years running, escaping, hiding. It’s only in recent times that you have finally come into terms with who you really are. And what innate privileges and duties come along with being the person you were meant to be. You were given tall orders—things you fought off for as long as you could. Reluctance and rebellion do not work, that you figured out the hard way. You’ve spent far too much energy already fighting the force of the inevitable. Now you are at the time of reckoning. You were never asked to pay back, nevertheless you find yourself giving in with surprising willingness.
To surrender, when you were younger and did not know any better, was not even in your realm of consciousness. But your miscalculated moves have taught you that surrender did not necessarily mean the lack of conviction or a harrowing blow on being a smart, able man. Rather, to surrender meant trusting more and loving more.
Your battle scars. Ahhh, your battle scars. You may not have been as gentle and nurturing if not for them and what they mean in your life. You learned things through contrast. That life is tough enough already so you are tender towards those who tread the road with you. You learned that being out in the cold numbs the heart so you spread warmth as far as you could. You learned that the attitude of helplessness leaves you exactly where there is no escape from your shackles. Now, you are expectant of better things to come.
I know you are scared that no one would ever take you to be her man. But look at you. Really, take a good look at yourself in the mirror. I can not even begin to tell you how beautiful you are. I know, someday, you would make one woman feel like she hit jackpot. With that kind of love dying to escape from you? Man, she’s on for the greatest thing that will ever happen in her lifetime.
You did not renounce your being juvenile. You just dusted off after that crazy ride. You decided to rectify the mistakes of the past by facing your demons head on, resolved to never allowing them get the better of you (again). You are not a new man. You’re still you, only better.
Snaps to you, man. Now it’s my turn to accept a couple of things myself… The most important of all is to acknowledge that I cannot move an inch closer from where I’m standing…
Sketches of People I Know -- Entry # 1
Date of first publish - 30 October 2006
**
I know someone who's addicted to gambling.
No, she does not frequent casinos nor is she hooked on striking bets with her friends. She's just addicted to the unknown. She's so spontaneous, sometimes even reckless, that she pounces on opportunities that show even just the slightest possibility of giving back benefits.
She has fallen apart, gathered up the pieces, stumbled again, went back on her feet again. I don't know what kind of rush she gets from taking risks. But watching her through the years, she has morphed into someone i barely recognize. She's now careful but not cynic; willing yet watchful. She admits she's been hurt but anyone can see she's not at all jaded. I suppose at the very least, she learned to trim down her options and from them pick the soundest, not necessarily-- for nobody really knows-- the right choice.
So from all her gambling came so much realizations. her what-have-i-to-lose attitude may be a little overboard to the metrics of others but she pulls it off every single time. She takes chances and she does them with gusto. With pride. Convinced that even on the losing end, there's always (and always) something there that would make going through unchartered course worthwhile. some may be pleasantly surprising, others just flat out BS…. But life changing nevertheless.
**
I know someone who's addicted to gambling.
No, she does not frequent casinos nor is she hooked on striking bets with her friends. She's just addicted to the unknown. She's so spontaneous, sometimes even reckless, that she pounces on opportunities that show even just the slightest possibility of giving back benefits.
She has fallen apart, gathered up the pieces, stumbled again, went back on her feet again. I don't know what kind of rush she gets from taking risks. But watching her through the years, she has morphed into someone i barely recognize. She's now careful but not cynic; willing yet watchful. She admits she's been hurt but anyone can see she's not at all jaded. I suppose at the very least, she learned to trim down her options and from them pick the soundest, not necessarily-- for nobody really knows-- the right choice.
So from all her gambling came so much realizations. her what-have-i-to-lose attitude may be a little overboard to the metrics of others but she pulls it off every single time. She takes chances and she does them with gusto. With pride. Convinced that even on the losing end, there's always (and always) something there that would make going through unchartered course worthwhile. some may be pleasantly surprising, others just flat out BS…. But life changing nevertheless.
Who loves people watching?
I do!
I just saw Steve Carrell and Tina Fey's movie Date Night and was very happy my sister rented it from iTunes. It's a short movie filled with the lead stars' signature comedic genius. James Franco and Mark Wahlberg's short appearances also added the eye candy factor to it. =)
In the movie, the couple has a habit of watching people- strangers- placing their age and analyzing their dynamics. They would also make up a dialogue for the people they're spotting. Much to my surprise, this is actually a movie adaptation of what I do in real life. But that is not to take credit for the inspiration of the movie (haha).
I do love watching people and making something out of how they roll their eyes, scratch their forehead, unconsciously flash a smile and the other interesting things they say when their mouths aren't open. I suppose Filipinos are people whose heads are always busy so in that sense we're always "talking". Try looking out the window of McDonald's and you'll see passersby telling you their story without having to make contact with you. Really, it's a fun little social experiment. =)
The next 2 entries I will post are different, however as they are stories of people I got to know at deeper, varying levels. They are reposts of stuff I've written in my good old Multiply site with the first one dating way back in '06! I think it's an opportune time to revisit them since this new blog is all about telling stories of whoever. =) Enjoy and see if you have unwittingly landed on this blog. =)
I just saw Steve Carrell and Tina Fey's movie Date Night and was very happy my sister rented it from iTunes. It's a short movie filled with the lead stars' signature comedic genius. James Franco and Mark Wahlberg's short appearances also added the eye candy factor to it. =)
In the movie, the couple has a habit of watching people- strangers- placing their age and analyzing their dynamics. They would also make up a dialogue for the people they're spotting. Much to my surprise, this is actually a movie adaptation of what I do in real life. But that is not to take credit for the inspiration of the movie (haha).
I do love watching people and making something out of how they roll their eyes, scratch their forehead, unconsciously flash a smile and the other interesting things they say when their mouths aren't open. I suppose Filipinos are people whose heads are always busy so in that sense we're always "talking". Try looking out the window of McDonald's and you'll see passersby telling you their story without having to make contact with you. Really, it's a fun little social experiment. =)
The next 2 entries I will post are different, however as they are stories of people I got to know at deeper, varying levels. They are reposts of stuff I've written in my good old Multiply site with the first one dating way back in '06! I think it's an opportune time to revisit them since this new blog is all about telling stories of whoever. =) Enjoy and see if you have unwittingly landed on this blog. =)
Monday, August 16, 2010
In 3...2...1...
Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.
~ C. S. Lewis
And I believe in everyday miracles…
***
The story of the man on the street has always fascinated me. As a child, I’d imagine myself having my own talk show (as every child would dream to be on TV), interviewing every Juan about anything and everything.
Tales of cosmic miracles about finding “the one” have always been a personal favorite. I am such a sucker for mush, you can say. But there is a whole lot more out there… Even the strangest stranger can host popcorn night and fill you with stories of adventure, heart brokenness, struggle, triumph…anything! There’s just so much of life to rant, scream and narrate about.
Please allow me start with my own story—
I am just another wide-eyed wanderer. I love the beach. I run. I am an orphan, the youngest of a wonderful bunch of 7, aunt to 2 of the most beautiful boys ever. I believe Rafael Nadal is my soulmate. I cry a lot but I am unbreakable. I have a nasty scar of my right leg which I got in the summer of ’96 when my cousin and I were trying to be noticed by the cutest boys on the block. I know, someday, I'm gonna fly :)
Seriously though, I don’t know what makes a good story. Is it when it is relatable to more people? Is it when it touches hearts and sends shivers down the spine? Does it have to be an ROFL-kind? I have no freaking idea, really. All I know is that more than just hearing a good story, it’s also about connecting with another person, another life. It’s also about scratching beneath the surface…
I believe that each one of us has a story to tell, and a life to share. As mundane or revolutionary as it may be, every story deserves to be told. And it deserves an audience… even if it means an audience of one.
With that, I’d like to welcome you to the chronicles of everyday people. In here you will find a smorgasbord of stories-- allegories, anecdotes, tragedies, and whatnot. But most of all you will find here your story.
They say that the oldest story is written in the stars. I say yours is the best story that might not have ever been told. Yet.
~ C. S. Lewis
And I believe in everyday miracles…
***
The story of the man on the street has always fascinated me. As a child, I’d imagine myself having my own talk show (as every child would dream to be on TV), interviewing every Juan about anything and everything.
Tales of cosmic miracles about finding “the one” have always been a personal favorite. I am such a sucker for mush, you can say. But there is a whole lot more out there… Even the strangest stranger can host popcorn night and fill you with stories of adventure, heart brokenness, struggle, triumph…anything! There’s just so much of life to rant, scream and narrate about.
Please allow me start with my own story—
I am just another wide-eyed wanderer. I love the beach. I run. I am an orphan, the youngest of a wonderful bunch of 7, aunt to 2 of the most beautiful boys ever. I believe Rafael Nadal is my soulmate. I cry a lot but I am unbreakable. I have a nasty scar of my right leg which I got in the summer of ’96 when my cousin and I were trying to be noticed by the cutest boys on the block. I know, someday, I'm gonna fly :)
Seriously though, I don’t know what makes a good story. Is it when it is relatable to more people? Is it when it touches hearts and sends shivers down the spine? Does it have to be an ROFL-kind? I have no freaking idea, really. All I know is that more than just hearing a good story, it’s also about connecting with another person, another life. It’s also about scratching beneath the surface…
I believe that each one of us has a story to tell, and a life to share. As mundane or revolutionary as it may be, every story deserves to be told. And it deserves an audience… even if it means an audience of one.
With that, I’d like to welcome you to the chronicles of everyday people. In here you will find a smorgasbord of stories-- allegories, anecdotes, tragedies, and whatnot. But most of all you will find here your story.
They say that the oldest story is written in the stars. I say yours is the best story that might not have ever been told. Yet.
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