A September to Not-Remember

This month is my birth month. Sadly, September 2010 wasn't a joyful one. On August 31, 2010, I had the thrill of redeeming my prize, a DVD-CD combo of James Taylor and Carole King's concert at the Troubador in 2007, which I got by joining a promo of the Lifestyle Network at ABS-CBN. When September slowly tiptoed in, it brought a lot of anxiety to me and the whole family.

First, Tim had to be up on her toes for the month long bar, which ended bloodily and violently for some students.( Pilipinas kong mahal, bakit ka nagkakaganito?).Then, the hubby had an accident the details of which are painful to recount. Then, there are the previous transactions with our office that are not moving in the concerned government offices, which make our clients impatient. The list goes on and on. It makes me want to just sleep and wake up when the month is finally over.

Tomorrow, October comes in. I hope it brings with it the cold wind that can calm down my nerves. Need it so desperately.

Men in Blue

PROLOGUE: This article will be published in the author’s personal blog not to initiate a never-ending debate on the police’s perceived incompetence. This is a ventilation of her ideas, sentiments and opinions on a lot of matters concerning law enforcement in the country. This piece contains both matters-of-fact and matters-of-opinion and is never intended to hurt any relative of a police officer, whether known or unknown to the author.

My family was once a victim of police abuses. That gives me the right to write this piece. I would rather not deal on the gory details of those tense, agonizing hours and the days and months following that first Sunday of May in 2008, for they are now water under the bridge. But believe me, the ghosts of that night still haunt me, thus making it hard for me to move on to more productive endeavors. I cringe whenever I imagine how a police officer pointed an armalite on my very precious, kind and adorable son just because he was getting the names of the police that detained my husband and his companion, an uncle. I cry when I recall that my daughter, present then to help my husband, was pushed down to the ground by burly police officers. My knees jerk when I recall the witnesses’ account that my husband, a lawyer, was hit by one of the police officers while in detention, because he kept on asking why they were being detained. (Incidentally, I always kiss the hand of this police officer’s mother when I see her in church, before and after the incident, since we know each other's family.) On Thursday following that Sunday, men armed with long firearms were in my next-door neighbor’s house, making sure they were visible to us, allegedly investigating the loss of their cell phone. Very funny. The events of that night caused my blood pressure to shoot up to 230/110 and I had to be confined in a hospital. The charges and countercharges filed have since been dismissed after a settlement initiated by the public prosecutor. The main reason we agreed to it is the safety of our family, relatives and friends. But to this day, when I see policemen whether in uniform or in civilian clothes, I can’t help but become tense. Then I realize that after this encounter with them, my life will never be the same again.

The events of Monday, August 23, 2010 at the Quirino grandstand over-emphasized what was obvious all along- that there is something very wrong in the country’s police institutions. The hostage crisis proved that many of our police officers are inept and that they lack the necessary system, training and equipment to deal with crisis situations. But what struck me the most about last Monday’s crisis was that point when the brother of the hostage taker, another policeman, refused to go with the team that will take him to the police district’s office. On national TV, he said to media people, “ Tulungan ninyo ako. Wala akong kasalanan. Idadaan nila ako sa likod. Wala akong tiwala sa mga yan! Mga pulis yan.” The police afraid of the police? Wasn’t it absurd? Or does it tell us we are correct in our perceptions?

If we go back a few weeks and months earlier, we will recall how the whole police force of Ampatuan, Maguindanao allowed themselves to be used in murdering more than 50 persons. Then, the Ted Failon episode showed us the kind of police work that is available to us. A few days ago, a torture video, featuring a police official and his victim, a supposed criminal, was released on television. The best word I can use to describe it is karimarimarim. The morning after the hostage crisis, two policemen were being investigated in connection with the rape of the wife of a man they were investigating. In this case, one of the officers had the guts to say that he has never met the woman before- which made her hysterical. What woman would say on national TV (Bitag) that she was raped if she wasn’t? Many years ago, police officers were the ones who took and brought a female UP Los Banos student to their town mayor who raped her. Afterwards, they took turns raping her again. When their lust was satisfied, they killed her and her companion and dumped them in a garbage site. The mayor and some of the policemen may still be in jail now but I am convinced that the lives of the families of those UP Los Banos students have been turned upside down. I can only wish that they have now accepted their fate and somehow forgotten their ordeal. The list of police abuses and brutality is very loooong. And it doesn’t seem to end, even after a very much trusted person is elected president of this country. This situation is both frightening and terrifying.

Many things have been said about last Monday’s hostage crisis. There was a blame game in the aftermath. Finger-pointing was soon followed by the washing of the hands of those perceived to have contributed to the tragic end of the daylong drama. As I write this, I am listening to the Senate investigation on both the torture video and the hostage crisis. I hear so many issues. But I believe, with full conviction, that the tragedy which put the Philippines to shame in the international community, should be blamed only in the hostage taker himself- a captain who is soon to retire. His relatives and his colleagues have described him as a kind man. Praises for his person and the awards he has received were enumerated for whatever purpose may serve his supporters. But I beg to digress. What virtuous policeman would get himself embroiled in an extortion case that led to his dismissal from the service? If he were really kind, where in the world did he get such an idea as to take hostage foreign tourists and later kill them? Kind? Sorry, the Holy Bible tells me those were not the acts of a kind person. It is very clear that this man, wanting to regain the powers he lost through his dismissal from the service, wants instant reinstatement. As for his awards, a retired policeman-friend (almost a relative) of ours says, they can be bought. In fact, he says, during their Sunday runs, those who did not want to go the distance because they are not capable (bulging stomachs, etc.) or they simply didn’t want to can have their way- if the price is right. This policeman-friend of ours even tells the story of how their superior police officials would demand weekly amounts that lead the subordinates to engage in illegal acts to raise the money. To avoid doing this, our policeman-friend decided to be just a 15-30 public servant, with a certain percentage of his salary going to his superior. A lesser evil, I suppose, but it is tantamount to stealing public funds. (We are not brave enough to tell our friend this, because his acts may not be too pleasant, but he is well mannered compared to others.)

But come to think of it, what is it that move many police officers to do such horrible acts? A brief review of our history gives us some insights on how we Filipinos handle power. We have been under Spanish rule for exactly 333 years and under American rule for more than 50 years. Our republic is relatively young. It’s not even a century-old. Filipinos are hungry for two things as an aftermath of being colonized- freedom and power. Hunger for freedom is a good thing. Hunger for power only becomes good depending on the purposes for which it is sought. The nouveau riche, having acquired enough wealth would soon become a politician. Having both money and position, he is now assured of power. Even a poor man who barely eats three square meals a day aspire to have power so much so that the relatively easiest position, such as being a barangay tanod is very attractive to him. Most Filipinos are power trippers because there is something in our blood that desperately wants to come out after being suppressed for more than three and a half centuries. Having a firearm makes a person powerful. Having a firearm wearing a uniform makes a person doubly powerful. The powers vested by law unto policemen obviously make them powerful to the point that they extend these powers beyond limits. Martial law in the early 70’s aggravated this hunger on the part of the law enforcers. As they say, power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Many people say there are more upright and decent policemen than there are unprincipled and corrupt ones. I agree. I know of a policeman whose daughter was molested by a young man in their community. Instead of taking the law into his own hands, which he can very well do, he took the case to the courts of law. Very commendable. But I ask, where are the rest? Why are they failing us? If there were more good ones, how come the institution is as indecent as it is now? Can’t they do something? Can’t they overpower the bad eggs in their ranks? I wish they would do the right thing to serve and protect the people truly, justly and faithfully.

My father was a member of the Philippine Constabulary for most of his life as a man in uniform. When it was integrated into the national police, he chose to transfer to the army, where he started. I am very glad of his decision. For if he stayed in the police force, then I will become one of those who are hurt by the many criticisms generated by the bad eggs in the basket that is the national police.

We need the police. We need law enforcers. We need peace keepers. We do not need torturers, rapists, extortionists, murderers and hostage-takers in uniform.

Last Saturday, I attended the class reunion of Batch ’94 St. Mary’s Academy, Baliuag. I learned that two of my former students became police officers- a young man and a young woman. Before I went to sleep that night, I thought about them and I prayed that they may always be guided by the Catholic, Marian and Ignacian teachings that they got from their alma mater. I prayed that they may always find what they need in discharging their duties faithfully to their fellowmen. Some good things are really easy to find. We do not need to go far. They are in our hearts.

Picture taken from militaryphotos.net.

The Fourth Sorrowful Mystery

A story was told about a man who persistently prayed to God to ease him of the cross he has been carrying for years. One day, St. Peter appeared before him and said he is being summoned by God who has heard his prayers. The man went up the gates of heaven with St. Peter who later brought him to a roomful of crosses. There they were, in different colors, materials, sizes. Some were very simple and some were ornate. Some were as huge as the trees in a virgin forest and some were as small as the palm of one's hand. Then, St. Peter told the man that because God was a just and fair God, he can take a look and choose the cross which he thinks he can carry without much difficulty. The man went around the room. He paused when he saw one that caught his attention. It took a while before he chose one, got it and showed it to St. Peter. The gatekeeper asked him if he was sure it was what he wanted. After giving his assurance, St. Peter instructed him to look at what's written on the back of the cross. The man was astonished to find his name engraved thereat.

I always recall to mind this story whenever I have choices or decisions to make at this point in my life. I know it pleases my God to know that I have accepted my cross long ago, and though I sometimes feel burdened heavily, I always look forward to the promise of resurrection which would lead me to everlasting life.

I am no Bible-carrying nor Bible-quoting Christian. I just know that the story of the man who refused his cross and ended up with the same is repeated several times over in all parts of the world. Being an orphan at a very young age is a cross. Difficult mathematical equations are themselves a cross. A vicious husband, a nagging wife, a special child and sickly parents are each a cross. So are a parasitic friend, an unproductive sister and a gossipy neighbor. Even a low-paying job, a know-all-boss and an inefficient assistant are crosses one must have to bear. There are as many crosses as there are people on earth. Sometimes, a person feels s/he has a lot of burdens on his/her shoulders. It would take a lot of self-searching to discern which of the crosses we bear is the one for us. I believe this means that like the man in the story, we can bargain with God, but only on His terms.

I can't recall how many times I turned down someone in need because I know that it is a cross I shouldn't have to bear. (The times when I carried this cross far outnumbered the times I didn't.) Or the times when I refused to heed the messages sent by listen-to-me-I-know-it-will-be-good-for-you fellows, who only wanted to pass their crosses to me so subtly, they think I wouldn't know.

It is very clear to me what my cross is in my lifetime. Sure it's heavy. But I know it's mine. It manifests itself in different forms at different points in time, and when it does, it weakens and debilitates me. Good thing I am a half-full glass of milk-person. It helps a lot to carry that weight. Plus, I get a lot of help from the One who carried His cross to Calvary, and His mother, who did not leave His side.

Image lifted from yakub_israel flickr.com

Kind Hearts

KIND HEARTS ARE THE GARDEN; KIND THOUGHTS ARE THE ROOTS; KIND WORDS ARE THE BLOSSOMS; KIND DEEDS ARE THE FRUITS.- John Ruskin

They are all over. Kind spirits who inspired me as I was growing up until this time when I am already growing old. There are people I have met at some point in my life who have left such an impact in me for only one reason- they are all kind and benevolent.

First among them is my Ninang Noring ( my readers have met her in In Loving Memory). She dutifully performed her duties as my confirmation godmother during my formative years. My eyes water whenever I remember her efforts to guide me during my early years as an orphan. If only for her, I would have believed that really, all men are by nature, good. But the realities of life taught me otherwise. There are people with mean bones alongside the good ones.

My Tia Agring, one of my father's sisters, is another very kind soul. All of my father's siblings are kind and compassionate. However, it is my May Agring's life that I witnessed as it unfolded. She is everything a biblical wife should be and I'm glad I have her as a role model for her fortitude and serenity. The same is true with my Nana Subring, an elder sister of my mother. One heartache after another, she still remained strong, resilient and zealous. She has faced challenges head-on and emerged a victor. Perhaps her long life is God's reward for her steadfastness and unwavering faith.

Outside of the family, there is Tata. His first name escapes me at the moment but we initially called him Mr. Guerrero and later Tata for the duration of our stay in his cottage. He was the lessor of the first boarding house my high school classmates and I stayed in at the UP in 1970. It was a run down cottage in Area 2 within the UP campus. I remember him being an Ilocano. He was already a widower then, with four or five children. He had a very calm demeanor inspite of the palpable problems in his family at the time. Whenever I go back to his cottage from a week-end in Bulacan, I always took his hand and bring it to my forehead asking for his blessing. Sometimes, his daughters would laugh at what I did, but it has become my way of showing him my respect since he was the only authority figure I have in that house I called home for over a year.

Then there is Mrs. Nenita Ocampo, Math professor at the AS, also in UP, who owned an apartment unit in the same area, where I lived for more than three years. It was perhaps part of God's plan that I met her (and the other women mentioned previously) since she was also another biblical wife, who longed and worked for a strong marriage against all odds. Ma'am was hands-on in taking care of her three children at the same time that she taught at the university. She always had kind words for everyone. Although it was obvious that she had a lot on her mind those days, she kept to herself and never did once display rude behavior before us her boarders. She's overflowing with understanding for everyone around her. It's a pity I didn't try to reconnect with her these past years.

When we lived in Baliuag in the late 80's, Tita Elsa Sauco became our next-door neighbor. Perhaps it is better to say we became her next-door neighbor. We were the transients in the place, anyway. It did not take long for my kids to be the playmates of her children, Mayet and Hans. Tita Elsa would call on my children to go to their house during week-ends. They were there all day long and she didn't mind all five loud and lively children all over the place. At first, my husband would be hesitant because Tita Elsa wont allow them to go home to eat and instead will prepare meals for them. Every now and then, she would ask me how we are doing and at times, sensing that there is a dilemma, she would graciously offer some help. Her graciousness and congeniality was manifest throughout our more than three years stay in Baliuag. Today, we still communicate and I am glad that I have all the chances now to reciprocate all her kindness.

When I was still teaching at St. Mary's in Baliuag, I met several RVM sisters who deserved to be remembered for their compassion and kindheartedness. I met S. Cely Amper, RVM, in 1986. She was one of those who interviewed me when I applied for a teaching position in that school. I did not show up when she called for me to report for another conference sometime in February, 1986, because my husband and I were then in a mass action in Luneta to support Cory Aquino who won in the snap election against Marcos. When I reported to S. Cely a few days after, I explained the situation and she understood. That was the first of the many other incidents when I needed her understanding, the one thing she was always ready to give to anyone. Another sister, S. Paula Adaoag, RVM, was appointed as the school cashier when she was given the Baliuag assignment. At that time, I was the only one earning for my family since my husband was still in law school- an option he took after quitting a small grains business. One day, she summoned me to her office and pointed out that my pay slip reflects a very small amount every payday, owing to the many deductions, especially the tuition fees of my three children. She asked me how I am able to make ends meet and I had to let her in into my private life as a sole breadwinner with four students to support. S. Paula asked how she ( and the school) can be of help. She broached the idea of relieving me with the twice a month deductions and instead, my two months summer vacation pay shall all go to the children's tuition. Of course, I agreed. S. Paula's gesture was meant for me to regain a little more dignity as a teacher by making my pay slip a little thicker than it used to be. S. Cely's and S. Paula's names are forever engraved in my heart.

A Greek philosopher once said that kindness gives birth to kindness. In so doing, it will forever be reborn and therefore will never die. In today's world, new technologies somehow changed the landscape of social relationships. There are now fewer occasions for people to develop deep and lasting connections . We call someone a friend if s/he is in our list of friends on Facebook or Friendster. Even a close relative is now simply a friend if s/he lands on that list. But having such a list of friends can be a good start in nurturing deep affection. The first step could be a kind word thrown here and there.

How I wish my children will all encounter kind souls with kind hearts as they go through their individual lives. These souls are what maybe called models- for they say and do things that must be emulated. In contrast, fate lets us meet people whose words and deeds should never be replicated, for as Kahlil Gibran said, "they are vexations to the spirit". Between these two groups of souls, those with kind hearts should rule our lives for they live according to the rules.

Have you had a kindness shown? Pass it on; 'Twas not given for thee alone, Pass it on; Let it travel down the years, Let it wipe another's tears, Til in Heaven the deed appears - Pass it on.- Rev. Henry Burton

* Heart image taken from Free-Extras.com

Everybody's Fine

Yesterday afternoon, I wanted to have a few laughs before going back to the unfinished house chores, so I chose to watch a movie that looked funny- Everybody's Fine, which stars Robert de Niro, Drew Barrymore and one of my favorite Kates in Hollywood- Kate Beckinsale. ( How I love looking at pictures of Kate Moss, Kate Hudson, Cate Blanchett and Mary Kate Olsen). Ten minutes into the movie, it turned out I won't have a good laugh. Instead, I had a good cry.

The movie moved me to tears as I imagine my family in the same situation- without me, their mother. Frank, De Niro's character, was a new widower and in the movie, he tried to reconnect with his four children who have gone on their own in different places. He took a road trip to New York, Chicago and Las Vegas with the intention of surprising his children with his visit. Instead, it was he who was surprised at the discovery of concealed truths about the lives of all his children.

There were universal truths about family life depicted in the movie. Like- why do children speak truthfully to their mothers but not to their fathers? And why do parents find it hard to let go of their children? Perhaps, Kahlil Gibran's admonition to parents in The Prophet can give some enlightenment to us parents. He said-

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

When the time comes that the arrows have flown swiftly and afar, I wish that everybody's gonna be fine.

Letting Go and Moving On

My world has stopped moving normally for a while since Monday, May 24th.

Suddenly, I got sick- minus the usual symptoms that accompany any malady. I had to always move and do something, despite the scorching heat and the cough and cold that I caught. There has to be no idle moment to stop and think, even for a while. When every chore is done, I had to click on the television, or the computer. There had to be a sound or an image at anytime so that I will forget that my dear Bugaki is gone.

A few weeks ago, when it became clear that she will soon leave us, I told my husband that she will forever be alive as long as my blog is in cyberspace. After all, this site was named after her. But then again, it was only her name and her memory that may live forever. She is gone and so are the joys that she gave all of us since she was a small puppy.

Bugaki did not die naturally. We had to decide to put her to sleep upon recommendation of our veterinarian-neighbor. That was the most difficult part of her passing. What I suspected all along was true- Bugaki had cancer. When she was still stronger, I noticed a big, wide lump on her breasts whenever I give her a bath. From then on, I make it a point to make her clean and comfortable always. We built a fence in the back garden so she can have the place all to herself. The other dogs were not allowed in her new territory. Then, the lump became an open wound. We treated her with antibiotics but had to stop when no sign of cure was manifested. A few days before she passed away, she lost appetite and her wounds became difficult to manage. That Monday, the vet said her wounds' condition has gotten worse such that it can cause harm to the other dogs and even to humans. He was of the opinion that Bugaki's remaining days will be difficult for her and for us. We had to make a decision in a matter of minutes. And because we love her so much we do not want her to suffer anymore, we agreed it was her time to go. Finished.

Or so i thought. When I broke the news to Timmy, she was preparing to go back to Manila. I was on the verge of tears but I had to show strength in order for her to calm down. But she was inconsolable. Tim loves Bugaki. I texted Poy who is in UAE and he was crying uncontrollably when he called back. Poy loves Bugaki. I texted Nad to tell him that Bugaki's gone and all he said in reply was "Bakit?" Nad loves Bugaki.

Everyone in my family loves Bugaki as if she were another human being. She was a constant in our lives. She was born in 1998 when we were still renting a house while our own was being built. Bugaki had the habit of following me around wherever I go. Once, she was nearly ran over by a jeepney along the highway since I didn't notice that she was following me on my way to work one early morning. Every afternoon in the latter part of 1998, she would lead us to the lot where we were building our house. She always wanted to be the leader of the pack that included our other dogs and our children. She would be the first to enter the premises and later, the first to come out to lead us back to our rented home. How she acted like a precocious child then.

Bugaki's life ( long, in terms of dog years) is a lesson in loving and caring. I was never fond of dogs before. I had fixed my attention to my growing children and I didn't think it was such a good idea to have dogs in the house. I was raising a family by my lonesome self and I thought it was not only a distraction but also impractical then to spend for dog food and other dog necessities. My children taught me to be more dog friendly and from that time on, I was hooked on these canine creatures. It didn't matter if they have a pedigree ( Bugaki is an aspin), as long as they are four-legged and knows how to bark, especially at strangers.

Bugaki's death, on the other hand, is a lesson on letting go and moving on. Her passing made it clear to me that there are two kinds of death. First, the kind that gives one a sigh of relief and a taste of freedom, and therefore does not hurt as much. The second, the kind that renders one immobile, unthinking, shocked, traumatized and shaken up, thus, translates into more pain as the early shock wears down. Bugaki's death is of the second kind.

Someday, I will have another dog in the house. Just not now. The space in my heart reserved for Gaki shall be there for hers alone, for sometime. When I am ready to make space in my heart for another doggie, I will make sure that I will love it the way I loved Gaki. I can imagine Rotty, our dalmatian, Bonnie, our siberian husky, Puti, Bugaki's mother and Bugaki, our dear aspin, all together playing in dog heaven today.

Meantime, I will relish and delight in the joys brought to us by our remaining five amazing and wonderful dogs- Cotton ( aka Kotong), Purlak, April, Chuchay and Bitoy. Life goes on.

My Story

Journaling is not new to me. Since my teen-age years, I have always made very good friends with a pen and a notebook. I always felt the urge to write what happens to me- whether they are sad or joyful didn't matter. A quick look at my high school journal reveals a lot of happy, delightful and jovial events, either with my hometown buddies or with my school friends. In college, there was not much time to write since I was a working student and college life, while very productive, was quite dull and boring. (The only colorful events are those leading to the First Quarter Storm.)

The years from 1976 were quite eventful, as they covered my life as a young married woman and later on, as a young mother. Early on, I deemed it necessary to write a journal since I had no one (literally) to run to when news, good or bad, had to be shared. One heartbreak after another, my life story unfolded in my journal. There were entries that made me smile ( like my descriptions of my little children while asleep) when I read them again. But there were many which made me teary eyed, no matter how long ago they transpired. Perhaps these were the same entries that made my daughter Timmy cry when she discovered that journal when she was still a young girl. While it broke my heart that she was affected at such a young age, I recognized the fact that sooner or later, I will have to tell her my story.

My story is about people, places, events, choices, regrets, pains and pleasures. I am very thankful of the many blessings I have been greatly showered by the Great Provider- blessings that helped me survive an otherwise difficult existence. It was easy to revisit those memories but when it comes to my regrets and pains, it was a different story altogether. One advantage of revisiting such memories, however, is that it puts me in a vantage point where I can be an observer of my own life, thus, I get new perspectives and I gather new messages. More than exploring my creative side, I am more interested in healing and exploring myself.

When a woman has experienced being shaken to the very core of her foundation by a set of circumstances she had no control of, she undergoes a degree of woundedness that needs to be healed. Writing one's story is a way back to sanity and sensibility; it is a mode of sorting through the conflicts and the pains alongside the delights and the bliss. I want to take this route a little further. I need to take this route a little further. For even if my life experiences have made me stronger, I doubt if they have made me better.