Those ROTC Days

While I may not remember with fondness my ROTC (Reserved Officers Training Corps) course, I could say it was not always a useless exercise.

 Aside from that time when we paid for 20 rounds of rifle bullets and received just five during live firing, I could not forget the light moments that made the glum days, well, lively.

 And I am not just referring to jokes, like confessing having the almost irrepressible urge to shout “fire at will” while the commandant was still inspecting the target sheets, but also on the gaffes he committed just to bring “joy” to the miserable cadets.

One instance was when there was this empty can of powdered milk labeled "Piso Para sa Pasig" (A peso for Pasig) being passed around.  We were wondering why we had to shell out a valuable peso for the Pasig River when Guadalupe River (in Cebu City) is equally filthy and is really already dead.

The big can, we were told by reliable sources (a.k.a cadet officers), did not even reach Pasig City. Not by a long stretch. The collected money allegedly went to a bakery for the snacks of guests visiting the commandant.  Lucky Tita Julie.

Another lucky individual was a guy the commandant recommended for us to order our fatigue uniforms from.  Maybe the man, who was waiting at the stands, was one of those “Non-Commissioned Officers?”  Being an NCO has nothing to do with tailoring, I later learned, but on a soldier’s place in the hierarchy of the police or military service. But that is another story.

Then there was this ROTC formation where the commandant, in a solemn voice (which was rare), addressed the battalion of bored cadets that the next day they must bring “trees” because, of course, we would be tree planting.  (He would have called it seedling planting, I suppose, if what he wanted was for us to bring seedlings.)

Thank God no one obeyed him to the last word, and he did not show any hint of annoyance when we brought sprouts and saplings, not trees, which was easier to do. Seeing cadets struggling with all their strength in showing a felled tree, trunk and leaves and all, to him would have brought the house down.

He was, however, incensed when he learned that there were some of us who skipped an inspection because we had to attend to school paper editors participating in a seminar hosted by our College’s student publication.

 “You seminarians thought you can get away with this?!” he fumed, and had the entire platoon do push ups as punishment.  

So all of us, seminarians and non-seminarians, who by that time could already do 30 pumps without stopping, heeded the lord.

Of course we fought hard not to giggle, afraid that we might earn a punch from him (which an obstinate cadet did get for another offense.) 

I am sure others have long tales and horror stories on their ROTC experiences.

But, seriously now, one thing I can profoundly agree on for its return as part of college life is that, if not for the discipline, at least for the good laugh.

My Wife, My Only Girlfriend

 (The following is a short article I wrote last February 28, 2008 about my wife and about our love. I came across it while I was going over my old files.  It says a lot about how love makes us blind, and how being blind because of love is not really such a bad thing. You just have to stand for it.)


THE wife is my first and only girlfriend, and I am proud of it. 

We were in college when we met and fell in love. But afraid of her strict parents, we had to keep our relationship a secret. I agreed, although I was bursting to tell the world of such an awesome lass who saw beyond my frailties and shortcomings, because it was her choice.


We kept the love hidden even after college, her family believing we were just “close friends.” That was until we had to break to them the news that she was carrying our child.


They tried to keep her away from me, but gave me the chance to say goodbye before she leaves for Manila.

I shed copious tears and knelt before the whole family, begging that the love of my life should not be parted from me because it will break my heart, and hers too.  

Boy, many would say I was a rare man, because if others would even try to hide from their responsibility, there I was, on my knees, imploring her parents to keep us together. 

It was to no avail. Now, don't misconstrue, her family's intention was to give me time to think over it; after all, I was just 22, and she, 24.
 
But my mind and heart were set. Even when she was in Manila, I never failed calling her each morning, noon and evening, telling her how much I love her, more than my life.
 
I guess they eventually got feed up having to answer my calls because she was brought back to my arms.
 
We now have three beautiful children.  And though I am no saint, I tried to live up to my promise: to love her more than my life.

Grammar Critics: The Hypocrites

Filipinos are really good at stepping on each other and at finding faults in others, at pushing the face of somebody who is down deeper into the muck.

Just look at what happened to Hon. Emmanuel Dapidran Pacquiao of the lone district of Sarangani, Philippines.

He almost shut down his Twitter account (as of this writing) because of grammar critics who mercilessly ganged up on him like vultures to a carcass over his less than stellar knowledge on the crazy language called English.

Sad, pathetic bunch; they flog people over inadequacies in the command of a foreign language, yet I am sure they are not up to it in terms of mastery of Tagalog. (Okay, okay, “Filipino.”)

We are really good at criticizing, particularly when it is about speaking English exactly the way Americans pronounce the words.  That smacks of hypocrisy, with the lack of civility a mark of a degenerate “citizen.”

During the time of Jesus, He described Pharisees and Sadducees as “white-washed tombs.”  It is because they spoke about purity and immaculateness, but like tombs, though painted white to look so neat and clean on the outside, they are still full of worms inside, their souls already rotten by self-righteousness.

These grammar critics are our modern Pharisees and Sadducees.

Having interacted with various people from the ASEAN region, I have seen that it is only us, Filipinos, in Southeast Asia who are such sticklers for the "right" English grammar and diction.

While majority in Southeast Asia does not have outstanding English to boot, people understand each other perfectly well, which is really the purpose of language.

It is only us, Filipinos, who are so particular at how people must make the right pronunciation, preferably with the right British accent or the American twang; and the right verb tenses, subject-object sentence construction, active voice over passive voice, etcetera.

That is why these grammar critics, who unashamedly ridiculed Pacquiao, are representatives of our collective tendency to disparage those who are less proficient in English; they are reflections of our inclination, inherent or not, to laugh derisively at those who fumble over its usage.

By their acts, these grammar critics dared Pacquiao to cross swords with him in terms of their command of English. 

Hon. Pacquiao took the higher moral ground by not dignifying their nastiness with harsh words of his own; instead, he replied, in never-flawless yet understandable English, that we must love and use our own language.

My unsolicited advice: He can dare back by asking those hypocrites to tangle with him at what he does best. 

“How about a boxing match?” he may shoot back at them.

 Pacquiao can give them a fighting chance by using just one hand, particularly the left with its vicious hooks and straights.

After what would surely be a one-sided affair, he can then gloat that grammar critics are, in reality, such wimps.  

The Sinulog is in Us All

I WAS not born to dance the Sinulog, but it is not what matters; it is not even the pomp and the grandeur associated with the celebration. It is something much more personal, which I realized through my work.

For years I had been covering the Sinulog writing for a Cebu paper, often going home at past one in the morning so readers would know the next day the result of the Grand Parade.

I must say it was a tough task. Not only that I had to keep a sharp eye for sidelights to pen a sidebar story on, I also had to endure watching the whole spectacle unfold, starting from the opening speeches in the early morning to the fireworks in the night.

It is a whole different experience if you are there at the grandstand just enjoying the presentations compared to actually keeping attention to all the details, including which contingent recycled costumes and which mimicked the steps of another, so I can write a more engaging story despite time being not on my side.

I was not there as a tourist or mere spectator but as a chronicler.

That is why it was normal after all the dancers, floats, higantes and puppets have paraded before me to see dizzying colors when I close my eyes.

The work does not stop there, because we had to huddle, dead tired, in a room below the bleachers late into the night to wait for the judges to hand down the verdict.

We had to ask them why this contingent won and not this, as it happened to be the crowd favorite and not another. We had to ask questions we think readers might have, and this requires a clear mind despite the fatigue.  

Afterwards, coupled with the exhilaration of being among the handful who knew firsthand the results, was the euphoria of finally having the day end, so I can cover the awarding ceremony the next day. 

I had endured it, though, for half a decade or so. And it was not about being compelled due to the demands of the job. It was not about not having the option to say no.

It was because I had come to see it as my tribute to the Sto. Niňo-- as my little way of showing gratitude for the blessings.

An interview with the chairman of the panel of judges one time made it so. What he most wanted to see and pay attention to more importantly is how each dancing contingent display the reverence for the Holy Child.

“I like to see them dance in genuine homage to the Sto. Niňo, and not execute their steps flawlessly with the image merely as part of their props,” he said.

That was enough to give me pause and look into the meaning of all that I was doing every third Sunday of January; and from that moment on, my whole perspective of the job changed.

I was no longer bothered by the dizzying colors, by the heat and by the long hours of sitting there like a librarian cataloguing masterpieces.

Writing for the newspaper became my own way of venerating the Baby Jesus, my opportunity to show devotion, my thanksgiving.

Being there was no more about seeing and writing, or watching and enjoying, but of helping glorify the Child Jesus through the Sinulog.

In the same vein, those who dance the Sinulog said it is neither about staging a show nor winning the top plum.  Past winners could attest they spent much more compared to the cash prizes they received.

Dancers I spoke with, while there may be those who say it was required of them by their school, likewise said the Sinulog is like a personal journey through the heat and the rain, like a cleansing of sort after a ritual of praise through the dance.

It is because the Sinulog is really about offering what you do to glorify the Holy Child, no matter how small or insignificant you may think it is.

I have left my job early last year to embark on another calling outside the country and will miss the Sinulog this year. 

But I will have my own in this foreign and unfamiliar country I found myself in.

I still cannot dance the Sinulog, but I know by heart what it is, and in my mind I am already doing the trademark two steps forward, one step back, shouting “Pit Senyor!”  

I am a Coward

I am too cowardly to take my own life.

This is what I told myself after reading an article about a Cebu, Philippines policeman who killed himself over, according to initial reports, family and financial problems.

The homicide investigator said the poor guy's woes must have stacked up so much that he felt he had no other recourse.

Many would say it was a cowardly act.  For me, though, taking your own life takes great courage, a whole lot of it.  

If it boils down to taking a life just to defend myself and my family, I can do it. I would willingly and obligingly do it.  

But to send my soul to hell with my own hands?  I am too much of a coward to do so, and it is not because I do not want to be roasted alive with the lawyers. (Or was it "with the liars?" Not sure which.)

I would rather face those tribulations than knife myself to death, or shoot a bullet into my temple, or jump from a bridge, or suddenly dash into the path of an oncoming car or a train, among other ways to putting an end to a pathetic existence.  

I am just too much of a coward to do any one of them.

I just could not imagine how excruciating the pain can be, when that knife plunges into your gut, or when that bullet carves a path from one side of the head to the other, or when your bones break into pieces after the fall, or when your face is smashed to a pulp by the hood of the car or the front of the train. I shudder even at the thought of it.

I am just a coward; and I  cannot even put a brave face and pretend I am one courageous fellow.

Because I am a coward, not fearless enough to face the pain when suicide presents itself as the only action to take, I instead believe that all problems have their solutions, and that there is a rainbow always after the rain (even if it is not really the case).

I have my own share of aches and heartbreaks, of failures and downfalls, when the world seemed to be conspiring against me, when it seemed there is no one to turn to. 

Heck, my wife even has to frantically look for someone to borrow money from for our children's tuition because I have nothing to send them from abroad and exams are already tomorrow.

I agonized over the fact that my so wonderful wife had to go through the experience, which is in addition to the fear that anytime somebody will come and demolish the whole neighborhood back home, because a private claimant won the court battle over ownership of the land.  

I always fear for my family, and the feeling is eating on me each waking moment.

I am, however, too much of a coward to jump from the 19th floor of the building I am currently living in to make that feeling go away.

That is why I salute that policeman and other suicides for having the courage to kill themselves.

One thing I don't understand, though, is why they do so when, in my experience, the problems I faced always, in the end, have their way of sorting out?

Maybe, I am just one lucky coward.