SUMMER WILL PERHAPS BE FOREVER associated with long days under the scorching sun and leisurely walks along the beach. Many consider it to be the ripe season to learn and explore new crafts--mostly those leaning to performing arts such as dancing, singing and acting. However, these five girls chose to venture to a slightly different path to honor the summer sun.
Creative Writing does not require lavish costumes, not even wide spacious halls—none of the fancy instruments that catches our attention. They say, enrolling in a writing class is boring and not necessarily a good way to enjoy the summer. This may very well be the opinion of most people as they observe a writing class. But one has to know that amidst the monotonous atmosphere, something is happening—perhaps something like a pelican whose wings are wondrously beginning to unfold or something sinister like an owl hooting under the moonlight. Indeed these things do happen, and can only be witnessed by the writing student from her mind’s eye.
This is possible because of the thing called imagination, the abandoned magical toy of our childhood. This is the primary ingredient of all creative work. Imagination jumpstarts a person to unleash a creative passion that is so impossible to ignore or hinder, almost like a growing itchiness. And so I find myself teaching Creative Writing. And so also these girls find themselves learning to harness the power of their imagination.
Learning how to write, one realizes that it entails a process, a careful purging of the imagination so that something beautiful on paper will come forth. It is in fact a laborious discipline that requires practice so that skills will be sharpened. It is hard to imagine that a writer must sweat catching elusive yet colorful butterflies from his imagination like a butterfly collector dying to complete his gallery of preserved species. Better yet, the writer is like Paikea—that enigmatic Maori whale rider.
While studying the craft of storytelling, the class had the opportunity to celebrate the story adapted by the film, The Whale Rider. The legend is that Paikea rode on the back of a whale and led his people to New Zealand. Since that time tradition decreed that the first-born male descendant would become chief of the tribe. Then Pai is born—and she is a girl. She grows up within a closely-knit village which retains the tribe’s traditional relationship with the sea and their warrior values. Although loved by all, Pai faces rejection from her grandfather who is brokenhearted that there is no grandson to carry on the line. But Pai is indeed blessed with the spiritual and leadership qualities of her ancestors and, in her own way, struggles in a male-dominated world to prove herself to her grandfather, the chief, and win his respect. Then the community is forced to come together in order to save a pod of whales that is stranded on its beach. Pai’s spiritual affinity with the whales and her courage finally proves that she is the true leader of her people.
The class remembers the film so well as it became for us a model, a pattern of a good story. We can still see Pai’s hand slowly caressing the unmoving bulk of a whale, the water that soon after spouts from its back announcing its approval to be led back to the depths of the ocean. We realize, how such an enormous task falls on Pai’s person and how it is the same case with the very craft of writing stories.
Words are unmovable as a whale on a shore. This is a hard truth I learned as a struggling writer. I am very sure these girls have started to discover this truth as they scribbled for the right words to come up with stories. But as with Pai, courage holds the key to move the unmovable.
The following stories are young voices, summoning the whales of the imaginative mind, written by young courageous girls. So perhaps, a good transition needs to be placed after a particular paragraph, or an awkward preposition needs to be replaced by an appropriate one. That does not matter now. Suffice to say we shall see that through their stories these girls are learning how to befriend the whales of their imagination.
Enrolling in a creative writing class had confined these girls to a silent, chilly room. Reading their stories, one cannot help but realize that they in fact, have gone to honor the summer season by swimming into the depths of their imagination and above all, by riding whales.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Life in Orbits
"I live my life in growing orbits," a poet once said. I guess this is also the way I am living my life now. I seem to be spinning in circles of unending work, limited hours of sleep, excessive food cravings, endless frustration in front of a blank page and a lovelife that has been growing molds.
When are you going to break free fom your chosen life, Blair?
When are you going to break free fom your chosen life, Blair?
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Images Along the Corridors of Memory: How I Came to Write Stories
Thinking about how I came to write hurls me to the bright and colorful summers of my youth.
I remember listening to Mawa’s soft and gentle voice as she led me along the hallowed corridors of our parish church in Tiwi, Albay.
“Stop running about on sacred ground and follow me. I’ll show you something”, she said to me during one of those bright summer mornings. “Mawa”, for some reason, was my erroneous version of “lola”—a name I never bothered to correct for it had already become a term of endearment.
And so I followed Mawa or at least the sounds of her bakya—the sound of wood tapping on the cold marble floor that echoed inside the church. I hopped, skipped and tiptoed, trying my best to imitate the tapping sound with my own rubber slippers but I never got close to the sound of her musical bakya.
The sound finally came to a halt and I saw Mawa’s figure. I went beside her and realized that we were both under the shadow of what seemed to be a very tall and strange man.
It wasn’t a man, not even human. It was a saint, I was told—or a statue of a saint.
I gripped Mawa’s hand and hid behind her. The statue really resembled the Bombays in our neighborhood in Makati—stern people whom I believe to be traders of delinquent children.
Mawa knew my fear. She smiled.
“He’s not what you think he is…”
I held Mawa’s hand with tighter grasp and looked up. I saw an image of man—bald and with such a tall nose. Despite his baldness, he got thick eyebrows, a thick moustache and a forest of a beard. He had deep set eyes that looked down on both of us with such intense ferocity.
He was wearing long and strange clothes. No different from the Bombays I held with so much dread. Except that this man did not have a turban and his robes were green and yellow instead of white.
In his hand were two keys, bigger than the ones we ever owned. He had a very big and thick black book on his other hand. Near his left foot was the figure of a rooster—its eyes and beak were hideous, its feathers like sparks of red fire.
“That’s San Pedro…”, she said.
Her voice, gentle and soft, was a real relief and comfort. Mawa was not afraid of the figure before us. Mawa knew the Bombay!
“The book in his hand is a list of names. Names of people who ever lived on this earth…” she continued.
“You mean like the yellow pages that we have in Makati?,” I asked.
Her eyebrows twitched a bit. She smiled and said, “Well, yes. Except that the names are listed under two columns—the good ones and the bad ones.”
Before I can even let out a question to clarify what she just said, she had already pointed a finger to the keys that the man was holding.
“Those are keys to the gates of heaven and hell. He was a trusted follower of God and those keys were entrusted to his care. When we die, our souls will go directly to his office. He will then look for our names on the book. If you have lived a good life, one that followed God’s commandments, your name will be listed under the column of good people. The gates of heaven will only be opened for these people. Otherwise, your name will be on the other column and this will merit life in hell,” she explained with gentle seriousness.
I don’t know if what she said really changed my perception of the figure before us. What she said was an important lesson for me for it made me understand some of the popular jokes I’ve been hearing on san Pedro and the souls of the Amerikano, Hapon and Pinoy who all tried to outwit each other.
What she told me made me guilty of the marbles I stole from my cousin’s trousers as he was sleeping. And the vase that I broke, whose shattered pieces I hid under the sofa.
This man had so much power. I tried to muster enough courage and tried to meet his gaze with mine. I looked past the hideous rooster, past the book in his hand, past the glistening keys. And so I met the stern gaze from his deep-set eyes. The feeling was terrifying; I began to sweat with cold beads of perspiration. Behind his head was a ring of gold. There I was, a small frail kid hiding behind his grandmother’s skirt.
It took me a minute or two before I realized that no matter how terrifying the figure in front of me was, it was just a statue. Yes, it looked stern but it was frozen. It may had eyes that seemed to penetrate my very soul, but it did nothing but remained standing in its corner—adorned with flowers and accompanied by the chirping of the church birds.
I did let go of my hand from Mawa’s and wiped the sweat off my palms. I felt Mawa smile and let out a deep breath of relief. Then I heard the music from her bakya once more. I followed it again with my rubber slippers and on to the other figures that stood along the long corridors of memory.
The following day, I was awoken by the sound of bells and murmurs. I was alone in bed and the lights were on. I went out of the room, searched the house and looked for Mawa. She was outside near the front porch with my cousins. It was still dark. They were holding candles.
“What are you doing?” I asked wiping the morning star in my left eye.
“A procession will come our way in a few minutes…Now, hold this…” she then carried and me and asked me to hold the lit candle.
And then I saw a flock of people in the streets. Some of them were carrying torches as the old women of the village began to howl their songs like werewolves. Soon, there was a cart of flowers and lamps. On top of it was figure that seemed so familiar—It was San Pedro!
Mawa seemed to look at me and studied my face. Perhaps, she was trying to see if I still had fear for this man. I saw his keys—ever glistening from the torchlights … and the thick book… symbols that really led me to believe that this man was for real.
I am mentioning this story as I trace the roots of my writing. It was when I first learned to make frozen saints move in my mind’s eye. It was when I first learned to look at things as symbols, as prompts to would lead to a story.
The figure went past our house. There were other figures too. I saw a man with a bag of coins and knew that it was Judas. I saw a beautiful maiden with a handkerchief bearing an imprint of a man’s face. I knew her—she was Veronica!
“Is that Zsa Zsa Padilla?” I asked Mawa, referring to a very beautiful woman with long golden locks and a bottle of perfume in her hand.
“That’s Maria Magdalena, ijo.”
And so the caravan of images went on and passed by our front porch. As I saw each statue, they seemed to began moving in my head—each telling their story, their own part in the big story of Jesus’ passion.
At the end of our street was a makeshift altar. The procession will end there in time for the Salubong. Mawa went down the azotea with me and followed the caravan. We heard mass as the sun began to slowly peek behind the morning clouds. The slopes of majestic Mayon can now be seen in the horizon.
The people beside us began to sing the alleluias. I heard a rooster crow.
That must be San Pedro’s pet, I thought.
I remember listening to Mawa’s soft and gentle voice as she led me along the hallowed corridors of our parish church in Tiwi, Albay.
“Stop running about on sacred ground and follow me. I’ll show you something”, she said to me during one of those bright summer mornings. “Mawa”, for some reason, was my erroneous version of “lola”—a name I never bothered to correct for it had already become a term of endearment.
And so I followed Mawa or at least the sounds of her bakya—the sound of wood tapping on the cold marble floor that echoed inside the church. I hopped, skipped and tiptoed, trying my best to imitate the tapping sound with my own rubber slippers but I never got close to the sound of her musical bakya.
The sound finally came to a halt and I saw Mawa’s figure. I went beside her and realized that we were both under the shadow of what seemed to be a very tall and strange man.
It wasn’t a man, not even human. It was a saint, I was told—or a statue of a saint.
I gripped Mawa’s hand and hid behind her. The statue really resembled the Bombays in our neighborhood in Makati—stern people whom I believe to be traders of delinquent children.
Mawa knew my fear. She smiled.
“He’s not what you think he is…”
I held Mawa’s hand with tighter grasp and looked up. I saw an image of man—bald and with such a tall nose. Despite his baldness, he got thick eyebrows, a thick moustache and a forest of a beard. He had deep set eyes that looked down on both of us with such intense ferocity.
He was wearing long and strange clothes. No different from the Bombays I held with so much dread. Except that this man did not have a turban and his robes were green and yellow instead of white.
In his hand were two keys, bigger than the ones we ever owned. He had a very big and thick black book on his other hand. Near his left foot was the figure of a rooster—its eyes and beak were hideous, its feathers like sparks of red fire.
“That’s San Pedro…”, she said.
Her voice, gentle and soft, was a real relief and comfort. Mawa was not afraid of the figure before us. Mawa knew the Bombay!
“The book in his hand is a list of names. Names of people who ever lived on this earth…” she continued.
“You mean like the yellow pages that we have in Makati?,” I asked.
Her eyebrows twitched a bit. She smiled and said, “Well, yes. Except that the names are listed under two columns—the good ones and the bad ones.”
Before I can even let out a question to clarify what she just said, she had already pointed a finger to the keys that the man was holding.
“Those are keys to the gates of heaven and hell. He was a trusted follower of God and those keys were entrusted to his care. When we die, our souls will go directly to his office. He will then look for our names on the book. If you have lived a good life, one that followed God’s commandments, your name will be listed under the column of good people. The gates of heaven will only be opened for these people. Otherwise, your name will be on the other column and this will merit life in hell,” she explained with gentle seriousness.
I don’t know if what she said really changed my perception of the figure before us. What she said was an important lesson for me for it made me understand some of the popular jokes I’ve been hearing on san Pedro and the souls of the Amerikano, Hapon and Pinoy who all tried to outwit each other.
What she told me made me guilty of the marbles I stole from my cousin’s trousers as he was sleeping. And the vase that I broke, whose shattered pieces I hid under the sofa.
This man had so much power. I tried to muster enough courage and tried to meet his gaze with mine. I looked past the hideous rooster, past the book in his hand, past the glistening keys. And so I met the stern gaze from his deep-set eyes. The feeling was terrifying; I began to sweat with cold beads of perspiration. Behind his head was a ring of gold. There I was, a small frail kid hiding behind his grandmother’s skirt.
It took me a minute or two before I realized that no matter how terrifying the figure in front of me was, it was just a statue. Yes, it looked stern but it was frozen. It may had eyes that seemed to penetrate my very soul, but it did nothing but remained standing in its corner—adorned with flowers and accompanied by the chirping of the church birds.
I did let go of my hand from Mawa’s and wiped the sweat off my palms. I felt Mawa smile and let out a deep breath of relief. Then I heard the music from her bakya once more. I followed it again with my rubber slippers and on to the other figures that stood along the long corridors of memory.
The following day, I was awoken by the sound of bells and murmurs. I was alone in bed and the lights were on. I went out of the room, searched the house and looked for Mawa. She was outside near the front porch with my cousins. It was still dark. They were holding candles.
“What are you doing?” I asked wiping the morning star in my left eye.
“A procession will come our way in a few minutes…Now, hold this…” she then carried and me and asked me to hold the lit candle.
And then I saw a flock of people in the streets. Some of them were carrying torches as the old women of the village began to howl their songs like werewolves. Soon, there was a cart of flowers and lamps. On top of it was figure that seemed so familiar—It was San Pedro!
Mawa seemed to look at me and studied my face. Perhaps, she was trying to see if I still had fear for this man. I saw his keys—ever glistening from the torchlights … and the thick book… symbols that really led me to believe that this man was for real.
I am mentioning this story as I trace the roots of my writing. It was when I first learned to make frozen saints move in my mind’s eye. It was when I first learned to look at things as symbols, as prompts to would lead to a story.
The figure went past our house. There were other figures too. I saw a man with a bag of coins and knew that it was Judas. I saw a beautiful maiden with a handkerchief bearing an imprint of a man’s face. I knew her—she was Veronica!
“Is that Zsa Zsa Padilla?” I asked Mawa, referring to a very beautiful woman with long golden locks and a bottle of perfume in her hand.
“That’s Maria Magdalena, ijo.”
And so the caravan of images went on and passed by our front porch. As I saw each statue, they seemed to began moving in my head—each telling their story, their own part in the big story of Jesus’ passion.
At the end of our street was a makeshift altar. The procession will end there in time for the Salubong. Mawa went down the azotea with me and followed the caravan. We heard mass as the sun began to slowly peek behind the morning clouds. The slopes of majestic Mayon can now be seen in the horizon.
The people beside us began to sing the alleluias. I heard a rooster crow.
That must be San Pedro’s pet, I thought.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Waiting for the Storm
Here I am again, trying to squeeze my brain for literary juices: a comprehensive presentation on Rilke and his masterpieces, a scholarly work on A.S. Byatt’s Possession, two short story manuscripts and heaps of readings to devour. Outside, the skies are not so merry.
Tasked to discuss my issues and problems as a specialist in literature makes me feel drained. I have never considered myself a specialist in literature until I realized that I was already doing graduate work on literary studies, writing prose and poetry, reading good books and teaching high school students to appreciate Jose Garcia Villa.
As a student, I know I have to read a lot. I guess one cannot really learn without reading. I come to class every Saturday and participate in the discussions. Afterwards, I go home with a long reading list and this list grows by the week. I really don’t complain about these readings. In fact, I enjoy reading all of them. But because I have to attend to many things in life other than literature, I feel that I don’t give each book or reading the attention it deserves. How I would long for quiet afternoons—sitting on a couch, the smell of coffee inside the room and the companionship of a good book. But this had always been, as with Butch Dalisay, a “postponed pleasure.”
As a writer, I feel threatened with the unspoken mandate to write something new and original because of the canon. The canon somehow tells me what good writing must be. If I follow the canon’s promptings, if I consciously think that I need to conform my writing to certain standards of good writing, I feel that my work will be good and accepted but not really original. But the canon can be dynamic. It can expand its own borders to new, uncharted territories soon. If one wishes to write something original, one must not only be daring but brave enough to explore the unfamiliar, dark territories of writing and there wait for countless storms and ages before the light of the canon can reach that territory.
But this is all ambitious rambling when in fact I have not yet written anything substantial to attract the canon-makers.
I also feel that I am not a credible “window” to showcase the Filipino culture to the world. I have too much Western influence and not enough depth on Philippine Literature and Filipino classics. I feel an aversion to speak of the disheartening political and economic situation in this country. Maybe because I don’t have a clear grasp of the whole picture. Maybe because I feel that there are other things to talk about, and that does not make you less of a Filipino. Maybe because I feel that as a writer, I need to devote myself to the universal issues of human existence and Nature as a whole, not fleeting circumstantial problems. Or maybe I have yet to find what is universal in all of this?
These are some of my concerns today, as a budding “specialist in literature.” David Damrosch, in his essay “What is Literature?” discusses the general problems in the literary world. These problems are indeed present and are worthy to be brought out in the open. And yet, this is still grand talk to me. Not that I do not realize how classics are treated nowadays, or how the canon evolves, or how modern masterpieces thrive, or how translations can be both beneficial and harmful or how a certain culture can impose its dominance over all the others. These are grand talk to me, because I know I have my own concerns to deal with to call myself worthy to stand among the literary greats. I know I need to work with greater intensity, despite my own petty troubles. I know I have to read diligently. I realize I need to start scribbling down lines for my short stories. I see the need to breathe the fresh air and polish my verses. Damrosch talks about a storm that looms over the skies of literature. I do not wish to find myself right in the eye of this storm, unprepared like a twig on the ground.
Here I am again, trying to squeeze my brain for literary juices: a comprehensive presentation on Rilke and his masterpieces, a scholarly work on A.S. Byatt’s Possession, two short story manuscripts and heaps of readings to devour. Outside, the skies are not so merry.
Tasked to discuss my issues and problems as a specialist in literature makes me feel drained. I have never considered myself a specialist in literature until I realized that I was already doing graduate work on literary studies, writing prose and poetry, reading good books and teaching high school students to appreciate Jose Garcia Villa.
As a student, I know I have to read a lot. I guess one cannot really learn without reading. I come to class every Saturday and participate in the discussions. Afterwards, I go home with a long reading list and this list grows by the week. I really don’t complain about these readings. In fact, I enjoy reading all of them. But because I have to attend to many things in life other than literature, I feel that I don’t give each book or reading the attention it deserves. How I would long for quiet afternoons—sitting on a couch, the smell of coffee inside the room and the companionship of a good book. But this had always been, as with Butch Dalisay, a “postponed pleasure.”
As a writer, I feel threatened with the unspoken mandate to write something new and original because of the canon. The canon somehow tells me what good writing must be. If I follow the canon’s promptings, if I consciously think that I need to conform my writing to certain standards of good writing, I feel that my work will be good and accepted but not really original. But the canon can be dynamic. It can expand its own borders to new, uncharted territories soon. If one wishes to write something original, one must not only be daring but brave enough to explore the unfamiliar, dark territories of writing and there wait for countless storms and ages before the light of the canon can reach that territory.
But this is all ambitious rambling when in fact I have not yet written anything substantial to attract the canon-makers.
I also feel that I am not a credible “window” to showcase the Filipino culture to the world. I have too much Western influence and not enough depth on Philippine Literature and Filipino classics. I feel an aversion to speak of the disheartening political and economic situation in this country. Maybe because I don’t have a clear grasp of the whole picture. Maybe because I feel that there are other things to talk about, and that does not make you less of a Filipino. Maybe because I feel that as a writer, I need to devote myself to the universal issues of human existence and Nature as a whole, not fleeting circumstantial problems. Or maybe I have yet to find what is universal in all of this?
These are some of my concerns today, as a budding “specialist in literature.” David Damrosch, in his essay “What is Literature?” discusses the general problems in the literary world. These problems are indeed present and are worthy to be brought out in the open. And yet, this is still grand talk to me. Not that I do not realize how classics are treated nowadays, or how the canon evolves, or how modern masterpieces thrive, or how translations can be both beneficial and harmful or how a certain culture can impose its dominance over all the others. These are grand talk to me, because I know I have my own concerns to deal with to call myself worthy to stand among the literary greats. I know I need to work with greater intensity, despite my own petty troubles. I know I have to read diligently. I realize I need to start scribbling down lines for my short stories. I see the need to breathe the fresh air and polish my verses. Damrosch talks about a storm that looms over the skies of literature. I do not wish to find myself right in the eye of this storm, unprepared like a twig on the ground.
Friday, May 28, 2004
The morning started with coffee, of course. And that moving film documentary by Ditsi Carolino. Entitled Riles, it showed me family life as it unfolds near the tracks. It was a breakfast for thought. A hearty meal to warm my frozen sensibilities: blind to poverty and insensitive to the plight of others.
After lunch, our group convened a workshop meant to draw out a thrust for the school year. A reading of the day's Gospel was reread and we were asked to immerse ourselves in an atmosphere of reflective silence.We were to draw out a word or a phrase that would seem to be a perfect thrust for the coming academic year. And then the group will deliberate until a perfect phrase would come out. We will draw out a few words, take in a few and then discard a whole new idea. Eventually, we came up with these:
1. Yes, Lord.
2. "Come follow Me." "Yes, Lord."
3. Yes, Lord we love you... we will follow.
4. To love, to serve, to follow... Yes, Lord!
What followed were suggestions to take of a word or two, proposals to merge an idea with this sentence, deliberations on the appropriateness of the chosen punctuations and many more. Until we came up with these two:
1. Yes, Lord we love you. We will follow and serve you.
2. Yes, Lord I love you. I will follow and serve you.
This went on to be the most heated of the sessions. While some would emphasize on the strength of the "I" (advocating the personal calling and the personal response in one's vocation), others would emphasize on "We" (advocating the social dimension of service).
I had my share in the pouring out of opinion -- really very afraid that as a new member of the group, I might create an impression. Nonetheless, each of us were compelled to speak out our convictions. And each defeated conviction will have to succumb and surrender with a spirit of detachment.
The thrust workshop ended out with a perfect thrust. But it was clear that it did not come out the easily. We had an hour and a half of heated debate on the importance of "I" and "we" in the following of the Lord.
Finally, it was the thrust with a rich social dimension that won. But not I know it did not come out final without us realizing that the "I" is a crucial part of the following and will always be part of the "We."
This was a moving day for me. I experienced firsthand how the Spirit murmurs and whispers. My unbelieving heart finally yielded. The hard clay in me began to be flexible. I realized, I do not need coffee to be awake.
After lunch, our group convened a workshop meant to draw out a thrust for the school year. A reading of the day's Gospel was reread and we were asked to immerse ourselves in an atmosphere of reflective silence.We were to draw out a word or a phrase that would seem to be a perfect thrust for the coming academic year. And then the group will deliberate until a perfect phrase would come out. We will draw out a few words, take in a few and then discard a whole new idea. Eventually, we came up with these:
1. Yes, Lord.
2. "Come follow Me." "Yes, Lord."
3. Yes, Lord we love you... we will follow.
4. To love, to serve, to follow... Yes, Lord!
What followed were suggestions to take of a word or two, proposals to merge an idea with this sentence, deliberations on the appropriateness of the chosen punctuations and many more. Until we came up with these two:
1. Yes, Lord we love you. We will follow and serve you.
2. Yes, Lord I love you. I will follow and serve you.
This went on to be the most heated of the sessions. While some would emphasize on the strength of the "I" (advocating the personal calling and the personal response in one's vocation), others would emphasize on "We" (advocating the social dimension of service).
I had my share in the pouring out of opinion -- really very afraid that as a new member of the group, I might create an impression. Nonetheless, each of us were compelled to speak out our convictions. And each defeated conviction will have to succumb and surrender with a spirit of detachment.
The thrust workshop ended out with a perfect thrust. But it was clear that it did not come out the easily. We had an hour and a half of heated debate on the importance of "I" and "we" in the following of the Lord.
Finally, it was the thrust with a rich social dimension that won. But not I know it did not come out final without us realizing that the "I" is a crucial part of the following and will always be part of the "We."
This was a moving day for me. I experienced firsthand how the Spirit murmurs and whispers. My unbelieving heart finally yielded. The hard clay in me began to be flexible. I realized, I do not need coffee to be awake.
Friday, May 21, 2004
Mga Talong at Gabi sa Sinigang
Sabi nila, mahalaga ang matutong magluto. Kadalasan, binubulyawan ako ni Nanay—hindi daw ako pwedeng mag-asawa o magkapamilya kung hindi daw ako marunong magluto. Noong paslit pa ako, hindi daw ako maaring kumain kung hindi ako tutulong sa pagsaing o paghain. Ito marahil ang aking suliranin: lumaki akong takot sa kusina.
Ngunit sa kung anong pagkakataon ay natagpuan ko ang aking sarili sa kusina ng Don Bosco Pugad Center. Naatasan kasi kami na maghanda ng simpleng tanghalian at meryenda para sa otsentang kabataan, Sila ang mga batang natagpuan sa kalye: mga palaboy, gutom at nangungulila sa pagkandili ng mga kapamilya.
Masaya naman ako at napabilang ako sa isang masayahin at masipag na grupo sa gawaing ito. Hindi na kailangang magbilangan ng kani-kaniyang gawain at ambag. Sa pagkakaalam ko, mayroong ilan sa amin ang namili ng mga sangkap at rekado isang araw bago ang makabuluhang hapon na ito. Dapat nga daw tinola ang lulutuin. Pabiro nga naming naisip na mga sisiw ang aming gagamiting pang tinola. Masustansya kasi ang tinola at kumpleto na—mayroong ulam, sabaw at gulay. Ngunit, nadatnang paubos na ang manok sa groseri. Wala ring sisiw. Siguro nga, may kung anong disenyo ang nag-atas na sinigang na lang sa halip na tinola ang aming ihahain. Napagisip-isip ko, mas kumpleto pa nga ang sinigang. Mas malaman ang baboy at mas marami ang sangkap na gulay. Malasa pa ang sabaw.
Nagsimula kami sa paghahanda ng mga sangkap. Kasabay ng pagsaing ng kanin, pinalambot na namin sa dalawang malalaking kawa ang pinaghiwa-hiwang karneng baboy. Sa isang dako ng kusina, may naghihiwa ng sibuyas, kamatis, gabi at talong.
“Sinigang ang lulutiin, ‘di ba?, ” tanong ko sa isang guro na tila motor kung maghiwa ng gabi.
“Oo, sinigang, ” sagot niya.
Napakunot ako ng mukha.
“Bakit may talong? Bakit may gabi?, ” hindi ako makapaniwala na meron palang ganitong sangkap ang sinigang. Palibhasa, kain lang naman ako ng kain kung ano ang hinahain sa harap ko.
“Oo naman. Pampasarap nga ito eh, ” sambit niya sa akin habang nakatingin sa akin, ang kanyang mga kamay ay patuloy pa rin sa paghihiwa.
Dahan-dahan na lamang ako lumayo, hiyang-hiya. Mas makabubuti na lang kung duon na lang ako tumulong sa mga naghuhugas at nagsasaing. Sa labas, nagsimula na ang pagbuhos ng ulan. Hindi naglaon at kasabay ng malakas na hangin, nagsilapitan na ang mga bata.
Masining pala ang pagluto ng sinigang. Naaliw akong panoorin ang mga kapwa kong guro sa pagluluto ng sinigang. Hindi naglaon, amoy na amoy ko ang bango ng pinagsamang baboy, kamatis, sitaw, kangkong at kung ano pang mga sangkap kabilang na siguro ang talong at gabi.
Naunang kumain ang mga bata. Sumunod na rin ang ilang staff ng Don Bosco Pugad Center kasama ang mga pagod na guro. Pinagmamasdan ko ang buong paligid sa pagitan ng mga nguya at paghigop. Bakit kaya magaan ang loob ko sa lugar na ito?
Disiplinado, magagalang at masisinop ang mga bata. Hindi baleng malalakas sila kumain. Hindi bale kung tila pinapala ang kanin. Masasayahin sila. Hindi sila nag-aagawan. Pagkatapos nilang kumain, agad nilang iniimis ang mesa. Syempre, hindi nila nakalimutang magdasal bago at pagkatapos kumain. Marahil hindi sila magiging mga matitinong bata kung hindi dahil sa pagkupkop ng Pugad Center at sa mga pagkukusang gawa ng ilang tao na handang tumulong. Malamang kung wala ang pagkupkop na ito, ay makikita ko na lamang ang mga batang ito na humihithit ng rugby o di kaya’y nagnanakaw ng wallet. Galit sa mundong minsa’y silang tinalikuran ang mababakas ko siguro sa kanilang mga mukha.
Mahirap ngang magturo ng kabutihan lalo na sa mga batang matindi ang galit sa mundo. Mahirap magturo ng pagmamahal sa mga batang hindi naransan ang pagmamahal. Ano ba ang kabuluhan ng samu’t saring mga teoriya at konsepto kung hindi ito nababakas o nadarama sa pang araw-araw na buhay?
Habang hinihigop ko ang sabaw, iiniisp ko ang mga bagay na ito. Sa paghubog ng mga batang ito, kinakailangan talaga ng tunay na pagbibigay ng sarili. Kinakailangan ang pagmamahal na hindi kinukuwenta ang pagod at hirap, makatulong lamang sa kapwa. Ang mga ito ang mga tunay na sangkap sa paghuhubog ng kabataan. Ito ang tunay na pampalasa na tuluyan nang natunaw at humalo na sa lasa ng sabaw. Hindi ko na nakita kung saan napunta ang gabi. Hinahanap ko ang mala-ubeng kulay ng talong. Pero ngayon alam ko na kung bakit masarap ang sinigang.
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I wrote this as a report to cover the recent Faculty Outreach by Assumption College to the young adolescents of Don Bosco Pugad Center. It was a rainy afternoon. And while the smell of sinigang joins the monsoon wind, my thoughts soar--bringing along the intense longing for a kiss-- to the one whom I trully got dissolved into.
Sabi nila, mahalaga ang matutong magluto. Kadalasan, binubulyawan ako ni Nanay—hindi daw ako pwedeng mag-asawa o magkapamilya kung hindi daw ako marunong magluto. Noong paslit pa ako, hindi daw ako maaring kumain kung hindi ako tutulong sa pagsaing o paghain. Ito marahil ang aking suliranin: lumaki akong takot sa kusina.
Ngunit sa kung anong pagkakataon ay natagpuan ko ang aking sarili sa kusina ng Don Bosco Pugad Center. Naatasan kasi kami na maghanda ng simpleng tanghalian at meryenda para sa otsentang kabataan, Sila ang mga batang natagpuan sa kalye: mga palaboy, gutom at nangungulila sa pagkandili ng mga kapamilya.
Masaya naman ako at napabilang ako sa isang masayahin at masipag na grupo sa gawaing ito. Hindi na kailangang magbilangan ng kani-kaniyang gawain at ambag. Sa pagkakaalam ko, mayroong ilan sa amin ang namili ng mga sangkap at rekado isang araw bago ang makabuluhang hapon na ito. Dapat nga daw tinola ang lulutuin. Pabiro nga naming naisip na mga sisiw ang aming gagamiting pang tinola. Masustansya kasi ang tinola at kumpleto na—mayroong ulam, sabaw at gulay. Ngunit, nadatnang paubos na ang manok sa groseri. Wala ring sisiw. Siguro nga, may kung anong disenyo ang nag-atas na sinigang na lang sa halip na tinola ang aming ihahain. Napagisip-isip ko, mas kumpleto pa nga ang sinigang. Mas malaman ang baboy at mas marami ang sangkap na gulay. Malasa pa ang sabaw.
Nagsimula kami sa paghahanda ng mga sangkap. Kasabay ng pagsaing ng kanin, pinalambot na namin sa dalawang malalaking kawa ang pinaghiwa-hiwang karneng baboy. Sa isang dako ng kusina, may naghihiwa ng sibuyas, kamatis, gabi at talong.
“Sinigang ang lulutiin, ‘di ba?, ” tanong ko sa isang guro na tila motor kung maghiwa ng gabi.
“Oo, sinigang, ” sagot niya.
Napakunot ako ng mukha.
“Bakit may talong? Bakit may gabi?, ” hindi ako makapaniwala na meron palang ganitong sangkap ang sinigang. Palibhasa, kain lang naman ako ng kain kung ano ang hinahain sa harap ko.
“Oo naman. Pampasarap nga ito eh, ” sambit niya sa akin habang nakatingin sa akin, ang kanyang mga kamay ay patuloy pa rin sa paghihiwa.
Dahan-dahan na lamang ako lumayo, hiyang-hiya. Mas makabubuti na lang kung duon na lang ako tumulong sa mga naghuhugas at nagsasaing. Sa labas, nagsimula na ang pagbuhos ng ulan. Hindi naglaon at kasabay ng malakas na hangin, nagsilapitan na ang mga bata.
Masining pala ang pagluto ng sinigang. Naaliw akong panoorin ang mga kapwa kong guro sa pagluluto ng sinigang. Hindi naglaon, amoy na amoy ko ang bango ng pinagsamang baboy, kamatis, sitaw, kangkong at kung ano pang mga sangkap kabilang na siguro ang talong at gabi.
Naunang kumain ang mga bata. Sumunod na rin ang ilang staff ng Don Bosco Pugad Center kasama ang mga pagod na guro. Pinagmamasdan ko ang buong paligid sa pagitan ng mga nguya at paghigop. Bakit kaya magaan ang loob ko sa lugar na ito?
Disiplinado, magagalang at masisinop ang mga bata. Hindi baleng malalakas sila kumain. Hindi bale kung tila pinapala ang kanin. Masasayahin sila. Hindi sila nag-aagawan. Pagkatapos nilang kumain, agad nilang iniimis ang mesa. Syempre, hindi nila nakalimutang magdasal bago at pagkatapos kumain. Marahil hindi sila magiging mga matitinong bata kung hindi dahil sa pagkupkop ng Pugad Center at sa mga pagkukusang gawa ng ilang tao na handang tumulong. Malamang kung wala ang pagkupkop na ito, ay makikita ko na lamang ang mga batang ito na humihithit ng rugby o di kaya’y nagnanakaw ng wallet. Galit sa mundong minsa’y silang tinalikuran ang mababakas ko siguro sa kanilang mga mukha.
Mahirap ngang magturo ng kabutihan lalo na sa mga batang matindi ang galit sa mundo. Mahirap magturo ng pagmamahal sa mga batang hindi naransan ang pagmamahal. Ano ba ang kabuluhan ng samu’t saring mga teoriya at konsepto kung hindi ito nababakas o nadarama sa pang araw-araw na buhay?
Habang hinihigop ko ang sabaw, iiniisp ko ang mga bagay na ito. Sa paghubog ng mga batang ito, kinakailangan talaga ng tunay na pagbibigay ng sarili. Kinakailangan ang pagmamahal na hindi kinukuwenta ang pagod at hirap, makatulong lamang sa kapwa. Ang mga ito ang mga tunay na sangkap sa paghuhubog ng kabataan. Ito ang tunay na pampalasa na tuluyan nang natunaw at humalo na sa lasa ng sabaw. Hindi ko na nakita kung saan napunta ang gabi. Hinahanap ko ang mala-ubeng kulay ng talong. Pero ngayon alam ko na kung bakit masarap ang sinigang.
----------
I wrote this as a report to cover the recent Faculty Outreach by Assumption College to the young adolescents of Don Bosco Pugad Center. It was a rainy afternoon. And while the smell of sinigang joins the monsoon wind, my thoughts soar--bringing along the intense longing for a kiss-- to the one whom I trully got dissolved into.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Thank God there were no Christian Leadership Talks today. Not that I find it boring and irrelevant. I just hated the way the module was set,and i dont really agree with some of the statements. I have no problems with the module's central metaphor and motiff (although, its a give-away and would really bore me). God as Potter and the human race as clay being shaped to his design. Highly biblical and rich in tradition. Good metaphor too. Perhaps a short meditation and a reflection on it would do to strike a point. But to actually discuss the stages of actual pottery and giving a very lengthy assignment on how we can compare the stages of pottery to our lives-- that's too much!
Maybe i just hate the idea of stretching the metaphor too much. Sometimes, and especially if its very good,a metaphor can stand on its own and strike the point. Maybe i just don't want to recall my life again and note its details.
So I found myself leaving the department and rushed to enroll for my grad studies.I realized,I will be taking Literary Masterpieces of the Western World under Marjorie Evasco. Beacuse of this, the hunt for the required reading anthology became an unconquerable itchiness.
I returned to my table and recalled the things I was supposed to do. I was again reminded of this crazy pottery stuff. Instead of listing down certain events in my life and relate it to the pottery metaphor, I listed down in mind the many reasons why i found this activity such a pain. I realized, maybe i have been a hard clay for so long now that I refuse to be shaped.
Maybe i just hate the idea of stretching the metaphor too much. Sometimes, and especially if its very good,a metaphor can stand on its own and strike the point. Maybe i just don't want to recall my life again and note its details.
So I found myself leaving the department and rushed to enroll for my grad studies.I realized,I will be taking Literary Masterpieces of the Western World under Marjorie Evasco. Beacuse of this, the hunt for the required reading anthology became an unconquerable itchiness.
I returned to my table and recalled the things I was supposed to do. I was again reminded of this crazy pottery stuff. Instead of listing down certain events in my life and relate it to the pottery metaphor, I listed down in mind the many reasons why i found this activity such a pain. I realized, maybe i have been a hard clay for so long now that I refuse to be shaped.