Last night, I had a series of dreams, but only one I can remember distinctly.
There was a mass of people, and it was raining. The people are asking for “her” resignation. There was this lady who took to a platform, stood infront of a microphone, and shouted “She has resigned!” The people roared in delight. Then I woke up.
Maybe the dream was influenced by that pardon thing. For the record, I am not under medication, and I ate lomi and maja blanca at dinner.
I was reading an old copy of the Reader’s Digest. There was this anecdote where a child asked his father how a baby appears in a mother’s tummy. The father muttered incomprehensible words, leading the child to exasperatedly say, “It is ok to admit you don’t know anyeverything.” Or something like that.
Anyway, I can distinctly remember not asking my parents about “the birds and the bees.” (Yes, we even have euphemisms for sex.) It must be the culture. After all, this country was held by Spanish Catholic Taliban for more than 300 years. Heck, a new form of Catholic Taliban is in control of this country, opposing artificial family planning methods, teaching sex education in any level, giving Joseph Estrada pardon (oooppss, that is another story). Like censorship, every attempt to suppress is futile.
When I was in high school, saucy tabloids were the rage. I know of someone who bought two different tabloids everyday. I get to read them from time to time, and that is how I found out about the birds and the trees. However, there was something strange. These are mere words, and if you don’t have an idea what was being talked about, you wouldn’t understand, right? But how come it had an effect on the reader?
Nowadays, the Catholic Taliban is losing the fight to the Internet. They even entered the ISP business just to control what Catholic students see over the Web. That venture failed. Now, every one can learn about the bird and the bees. Google is your friend, he he.
When did you learn about the bird and the bees? How did you found out?
TIP: If you have minors at home, don’t leave your pron lying around.
Today being the National Thank-You Day, and to counter-balance the pathetic post, I am now giving some link love and express my thanks for those who greeted me on that explosive Friday (remind me that I have to issue a strong condemnation to the bombers, first for killing and injuring people, and second, for making this year’s birthday infamous).
Blogger (in alphabetical order)
Chuck
Dhon Jason
Dra. Tess
Ice
Joyfulchicken
Jhay
Mam Janette
Mam Noemi
Misterhubs
Niki
Rocky
Schumey
Shari
The Nomad
Friendster friends
Avegay
Dennis G
Dennis S
Lea
Ley An
Jason
Paul
Rassel
Sir Danny
Suzette
Wilbert
Coworkers (Current and former)
Jovi
Kat
Kit
Marie
Mark
Former Students
Elisse
Insan Joey
James
Joyce
Ohnie
Oyet
Wilson
If I forgot to mention your name, yell “Holla!” at the comment.
Note: Yesterday I twittered about not posting this pathetic reflection. Mam Noemi in a reply told me to post it anyway. So here it is, read at your own risk. You have been warned.
When I was in high school, my fervent wish then was to get old soon. Thank the accelerated program for that.
When I was in grade three, someone must had been impressed with my academic performance (heck, I was out of school for more than a month because I was confined in a hospital somewhere in Sta. Cruz). After the school year was over, I was enjoying my vacation with my aunts at Caloocan, culminating with a trip to the beach. Sadly, after the beach, I was sent back home. Waiting for me was a letter asking me to take an exam at an elementary school near our house. I had no idea what it was for, and I can’t remember now what the letter said.
So, with mom in tow, I went to that school, met a teacher, and took an exam. Without even reading books before that; that was how arrogant I was back then. After the exam, the teacher told us to come back in a few days to find out if I passed or not. I was lucky, I was told; it was the last day for the exams.
We came back after a few days, and saw my name on the list of 30 names. Then another teacher explained to us what was it all about. I was to take grades four and five within one school year, effectively accelerating my elementary years. That June, I left my school and acquaintances (I was not friendly back then) and entered a new one.
What an experience it was. We were in a new building together with the blind, the deaf, the mute, and those with Down’s syndrome. Welcome to special education, kiddo. Now don’t blame me if I feel that I’m abnormal. I can’t help it, and I don’t blame the blind, the deaf, the mute, and those with Down’s syndrome, either. That’s just how I felt then, and how I feel even today.
Back then, elementary students are expected to stay at school for five hours; we “accelerated” people stayed for almost eight hours. Aside from the usual textbooks (one per subject), we got a lot of workbooks and supplementary reading books (that’s why I knew Rizal’s life from cover to cover). Heck, we were even asked to make a compilation of “juvenile literature”; had a showdown of songs with the lowerclass men (I was in grade six by then, second year in sp-ed); and we boys were made special police.
So I entered high school, and it was troubling to be in the same year with your older brother. More troubling was the fact that two-thirds of my classmates were older than me. I met an accident during the first month of the school year, so once again I was out for a month. (That was the year of the Great Earthquake, where Cabanatuan and Baguio were almost reduced to rubble. My right leg was in cast, and I was on the third floor of the building. I was lucky, real lucky I am still alive.)
Returning to school was no means less troubling; I found out that I was moved in the section where my brother was in. And that’s where the story really begins. (Sorry about the long introduction.)
Here I was, a whole year younger than most of the guys, recently came from convalescence and still in crutches; and there they were, a year older than me, never been in an accident, happily playing sipa; and here I was, sitting at the shed, watching them play. With me was a classmate, a polio victim, condemned to live forever in a wheelchair and with limited mobility in the limbs. I felt so crippled, and I don’t blame the classmate, either.
They never took me seriously. My brother had a group of friends, while I was in the fringes of the group, a semi-friend. I was an outsider all throughout high school; and them letting me in the group whenever they like was like settling for bread crumbs that fall from the table. Don’t get me wrong – I was thankful for the gesture. But I was an outsider still. My brother continues to be friends with them; I am still an outsider.
Maybe it was loneliness – maybe it was despair – that drove me to make that wish. Or maybe it was the fact that I was yanked away from my own age group. Or maybe it was the fact that I was forced to mature quickly.
College started innocently, feeling as if it was just an extension of high school. After a semester, that innocence was broken, mutilated, raped – it made me face my problems, but I ran away from them. It went downhill from there on, and the period I termed Dark Age of My Life began. And nope, I won’t tell you what happened during those times; that period was well-documented with four volumes of journals and some letters.
The nadir of that Age was reached was when I had to leave college; then began my long, torturous journey in purgatory. Understandably, I was depressed; everything I saw was a reminder of what a failure I was, what a cripple I was, how abnormal I was.
I was employed as a tutor to two kids shortly thereafter. They live in Sampaloc, and to go there I had to pass by the University Belt. It was pure torture, passing by that area. Seeing groups of students was torture. Seeing them reminded me what a dismal failure I was.
Luckily, I was able to get into another college, and the reverse of what had happened in high school had happened. My wish had come true. Most of my classmates were way younger than me, and they took me seriously. Too seriously, in fact, that once again, I was an outsider. I couldn’t relate to their likes. I felt like I was an old grandfather when I was with them.
How I wished I was young again.
But unlike before, they took me in, but not as completely as I liked. It was impossible; I was generations away from most of them. I respected that. It was a compromise that lasted until, after eight years since high school graduation, I graduated from college.
Even before graduating, I was already applying for jobs. I did not even attend the baccalaureate mass because I had an exam that day. Makati beckoned, but I was sidetracked into teaching instead. And I don’t know if it was a mistake or not. After all, I would be dealing with people who are younger than me. As in people younger by more than five years.
After my final interview with the school director, I was immediately asked to attend my first subject. I was half-afraid that I would be seeing kids straight out of high school; half-excited because, after all, it was my first day at work. When I saw the students, I was surprised that they are not as young as I had thought. Only a two-four year age differential.
Then I had students who are about my age, shave some months or a year. Finally, my age group! However, I was a teacher, and being in that role limited my interaction with them. From them a core group of students, most of whom played for my team during school intramurals, was formed. These students treated me like a friend after school; they waited for me when it was time for me to go home after school. We ate tokneneng almost every day, and played basketball during weekends (nope, I was just a spectator). They tell me their problems, they find my jokes corny, they attended my classes regularly, and they usually sat in my classes even if they were not enrolled in those subjects.
Then, they all left, either because of graduation or because of money problems. Another school year, another new batch of students. And this time, they were much younger, and it showed. I was again a grandfather amongst kids.
It was also the time that I fell in love; it was also the time when love left me. It was the time when I was no longer alone; it was also the time when, once again, I was alone.
Now, I am 29 years old. My generation has left me behind – they are either married, committed to someone, or dead. The generation before me left me behind, too – married, committed, or dead. The generation after me – well, some are married, most are committed, and I don’t know if some of them are dead, too. And they will leave me behind, too. After all, who would be interested in an ugly, crippled, pushover?
Anyway, it must be in the blood. In the father’s side, there’s an old maid aunt; in the mother’s side, there’s an old maid aunt and an old bachelor uncle. Besides, we are five brothers, so there’s no pressure to get married and have kids. I’ll be just a doting uncle, and I’ll have to get rich, quick. Yes, AWB Holdings. That’s my goal from now on. And oh, new friends here and there.
Send me bittersweet greeting cards. Yep, no one has given me a greeting card. Ever. (Except from a godmother/aunt, when I was about two years old. But that doesn’t count.) As I was rummaging through the box where I place letters sent to me, someone did send me a birthday card. Wow. My memory’s failing me.
PS: Why year 2? Year 1 was a locked entry at LiveJournal. This post is basically the same, with some additions.
Article VII, Section 5 of the 1978 Philippine Constitution states:
Before they enter on the execution of their office, the President, the Vice-President, or the Acting President shall take the following oath or affirmation:
“I do solemnly swear [or affirm] that I will faithfully and conscientiously fulfill my duties as President [or Vice-President or Acting President] of the Philippines, preserve and defend its Constitution, execute its laws, do justice to every man, and consecrate myself to the service of the Nation. So help me God.” [In case of affirmation, last sentence will be omitted].
Question: What if an atheist won as president?
PS: THIS IS ACTUALLY A STUPID QUESTION BY A VERY STUPID ME. GEESH.
How hard is it to engage in road rage?
Simple: just go with the flow.
Last night, I did what I thought I could (and would) never do – shout at an MMDA traffic enforcer.
Traffic can really be frustrating, specially if you see the cause of the snarl. For the past 3 weeks or so, traversing EDSA from Boni to Shaw takes about 30 minutes, which is normally 5 to 10 minutes. There are two reasons why, both of which I will tackle in another post at the serious blog.
Anyway, last night, after enduring more than 30 minutes of hell from Boni to Ortigas, there was a 10-minute slowdown at P. Tuazon area. Normally there is no traffic in the area.
The EDSA service road from P. Tuazon to Aurora Blvd. was divided by the MMDA into three lanes. The left-most lane is the express lane, the middle one for buses bound for Fairview/Novaliches buses, and the right-most for MCU/Malabon/Bulacan buses. I always take the express lane bus because it is faster.
So last night, the Letre bus that I took was to take the express lane when this MMDA enforcer decided to make his body as a roadblock. He refused to let the pass bus, and the driver argued with the roadblock. Annoyed, I shouted to the driver, “sagasaan mo na”. Since the bus was bound to Malabon, he should take right-most lane, right? Well, as we say in Tagalog, alanganin na. The lanes were separated by pink railings, and the bus was dangerously close to the railings, making the maneuver from the left to the right lane impossible (it could be done if there were few buses, but as it was the rush hour, it was impossible). So logically, since the roadblock refused to budged, the bus took the middle lane.
So after a few meters, another MMDA enforcer mutated into a roadblock, this time trying to take the driver’s licence because he took the wrong lane. Again, I shouted “Sagasaan mo na”, since these guys were obviously after some dough. Then, knowing that he was wrong, the roadblock number 2 gave way, but not without grace. He kept on shouting expletives, which forced me to retort “Gago ka pala, eh”.
I treat men in uniform with respect, but with these kind of idiots in uniform, I am happy (in retrospect) that all I could do was shout in frustration. Also, I really am not meant to drive, with morons like those MMDA enforcers on the road.
I understand perfectly now what road rage is. It is ugly. It forces you to do what you haven’t done before, what you thought you will never do.
How I wish I had a photo, but since it was always night time and I was on the bus, I couldn’t.
Anyway, along the Camp Aguinaldo stretch of the north bound lane of EDSA, I always pass by two huge screens. On good days, both screens display ads; on not-so-good days, they both have static displays. To be honest, I don’t find the ads attractive and impressive. They are just two Powerpoint slides, one a static text slide, and the other a slide with video.
What’s so annoying about these screens?
One: one version of the static ad says ‘Multimedia display’.
Two: another version of the static ad says ‘Home are the fallen heroes’, with a buttefly emerging from a hand on one side, and a picture of a coffin on the other. Below everything is the text ‘Advertise here [phone number]’. How tacky can you get.
Also, as a filler, sometimes the ad goes like this: Support your AFP, advertise here. You know, there’s an implied statement there: if you don’t advertise here, you are a destabilizer.
It seems I have another card to cancel. Wee.
Yesterday, I got my BPI credit card bill. Do you know how much I owe them?
Yes, five gazillion pesos. Actually, four pesos and thirty-five centavos, to be exact.
So I called BPI Express Phone to ask if it is possible to just add this amount to next month’s bill (since they are going to charge me for the annual anyway this month).
The phone banker said no, you have to pay it on or before the due date, otherwise you will be charged interest and you will be considered in default.
What gets my goat is that the jeepney fare to be incurred just to pay the freaking bill is greater than the bill itself.
So now that makes two cancelled cards. Two more left.
PS: I will have my revenge. Sometimes, when you pay in banks, the teller will ask you if you want to pay the exact amount or not. For example, if your bill is 469.35 and you pay 500, you can choose to pay the exact amount or pay 500 in full. So, for this bill, I’ll pay five pesos and ask for change. Heh.
Previously, I blogged about AIG sending me a rejection letter when I already have a credit card from them since almost a year ago.
Well, it seems nothing has changed ever since.
Earlier today, at around 1PM, I received a call from someone from AIG. Heck, she couldn’t even pronounce my name correctly – I had to spell it for her. Then she asked about my BPI card and if I have other cards aside from that. In my mind, I know where this phone call is going.
Then, she dropped the bomb.
“Sir, are you interested in getting an AIG card? You see, you are qualified, and besides, it is free…”
Before she could go on much longer (and before I start rotfl), I told her that I already have an AIG card.
She said OK and ended the call. Geesh, I should have told her about the rejection letter.
I’m so going to cancel my AIG card. Next month, promise.
One of the perils of being a teacher in the tertiary level is the possibility of having a relationship with a student. The temptation is very strong. A teacher is in a position to exploit the power structure.
For a single, young teacher, it is perilous indeed.
I survived teaching for almost three years. I must say that temptation was there and everywhere. Sometimes it taunted me, sometimes it tantalized, sometimes it was subtle, and sometimes it was the student who showed intent. I am glad (some will say I am unfortunate) that I withstood temptation. I will not deny that, within some part of me there is regret, but I think it is for the better.
Two years later, I am not so sure.
One morning, I twittered that I saw my crush on the AUV. Jeff was kind enough to reply that I am too old to have crushes (no offense taken, of course). Yes, turning a year older 18 days from now, and I am too old for crushes, as social convention tells us. Society assumes that in my age, I should be in a happy and steady relationship. Yet here I am, single.
To be honest, I believe that some people have all the luck, specially when it comes to love and relationships. Some can change partners like chewing gum, some have been in a relationship for more than a decade (average length of relationship: who knows?), some will never lack companionship during their lifetime. They are the lucky ones, I guess.
Anyway, this post came in because of AJ’s predilection for having young people as crushes. Someone told me that falling in love with/having crush for people way younger than you is a sign of desperation. In my case, I have to agree. That’s one reason for leaving the academe, and that’s one reason for keeping me from from going back to teaching. I fear that as I grow older, I am not so sure if I can fight temptation.
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For the past few days, I have been hearing/reading words that made me cringe. It is easy to say those words. But they don’t apply to everyone.
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Some people have all the luck.