sampul - issue01

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Series 1 | Year 2011

166shades of gray

sampul



What this is.

I’ll pretend that I’m moved by boredom and that this is aproduct of a mind that has nothing to do during weekends inKuwait. The truth is: It’s an itch that needs to be scratched.The other truth is: I’m a show off! I created this in the hope

that I get recognition. So recognise me, please.

(I plan this as a series. New series, new topic. No timelineyet -- perhaps when the itch becomes too unbearable?).

What is inside.

Me thinks I’m good so I (bravely, haughtily, vainly) created

all the patterns, ‘art’works, graphics and photos in this litera-ture. The articles were all lifted from my blog Isla de Nebz .For brevity and layout, some articles were edited, reworded,slashed and burned.

What you can do.

You can distribute this online, quote from it if you want, talk

about it with your friends, post it in your social network ac-counts, make a goth card out of my graphics or use it to scaresome mice, but I would implore you not to alter any of its con-tent or use it, in parts or in whole, commercially.

Environmentally, I would also encourage you not to print thisespecially if you’re in a country where there are not muchtrees around.

Finally, enjoy.

1 we are what

we... 2 unforget-ting 3 wedding vow 4 memoriesof anao 5 deathsin the family 6 a

language for thethings i couldn’tsay 7 annuallybeing with myfamily 8 certain

rules 9 fear isinversely propor-tional to faith 10forty three yearsof this



Think.

Eat.Wear.Read.Enjoy the most.Watch on tv.Crave for.

Do during our spare moments.Write, talk and blog about.Secretly hope for.Laugh at more often.Smile about during our silentmoments(and scratch during our itchy

moments).

Published in Isla de Nebz on 15 August 2008.

W ha w...

1



One day, you asked us to practice writing ournames on a piece of paper. I lled my notebookwith my rst name. I glanced at a classmate’swork next to me and I envied her. Why would hername be a paper-width long? And who on earthcould have such a long name? I felt like crying be-cause I totally envied her name. She wrote neatly,I thought. And then you came to me, pat my headand said it’s okay. You took my work and aftersome time returned it to me. On my notebook is

my full name neatly written on top of the page.I’ve never forgotten the day you let me discoverthat I own not just a single name; that I too, likemy seatmate, have a full name: rst, middle andlast.

You were talking to someone when I approachedyou. You smiled and you spoke my name. I askedyou if I can be excused. I wanted to use the loo.

And to my surprise, you introduced me to yourfriend and said: this boy has the best handwrit-ing in my class. I beamed with gladness and Ishowed my toothless grin. I didn’t even knowthat my handwriting was good. Year afterwards,in a conversation with a classmate, I learned thatyou spoke of all of us, your wards, with fondnessas having ‘the best handwriting’, the ‘most disci-plined’, the ‘best leader’, etc. The truth is: I be-lieved you -- that my handwriting is good, that I

am special, that I can achieve something becauseyou believed in me.

U n f r n

2

You said you think I can act and you included mein a cast of a moro-moro play -- as a Christiansoldier. I, again, beamed with pride and I proudlytold my playmates about it. They promised towatch and they did. We practiced for a month longand you made sure we didn’t forget our lines andwe didn’t miss our blockings. At the show proper,although I had a hard time pulling the sword fromits sheath so instead I just raised my hand, Ithought we all did well.

You held my hand. You introduced me to forty other children.Mostly craned their necks out of curiosity. Some smiled. Oth-ers snorted. Mostly didn’t even gaze at us. You said my name.They repeated after you. And that started our relationship.



One day you just looked at me blanklywhen a classmate came to you cry-ing because I hit him. I was very afraidthen and I prayed hard that you will nottell my parents about it because I’msure my father will be very mad and Iwill get a beating. You made me apolo-

gize in front of forty other children andyou made me promise never to do itagain. And then, as a punishment, youlet me clean the whole room alone. Theboy whom I hit that day, collared me onmy way home but I didn’t ght back. Iwent home with a bruise on my cheekbut I told my mother a can hit me whileplaying tumbang preso. Of course sheknew I were in a ght but all she lov-ingly said was: Whatever your reasonis, never, ever be in a stght. I learnedthat day that bad deeds don’t go un-punished and that anger will get menowhere.

We were together for what, six years?I didn’t even ask how many kids youhave nor where your house was.

Now, so many years later, I foundthings about you. That you had fourkids, one of them the same age as I.That you were a wife of a jeepney driv-er. That, throughout your career, youhad a total of four thousand childrenunder your wing. That out of those fourthousand, one of them became a priest,mostly became fathers and mothers,

some became OFWs, others migrated

elsewhere and never returned to ourtown.

You taught me so many things; fromyou, I even learned how to cook rice --how to wash them, how many times towash them, when to lower the ame.

When my family transferred town, Inever got the chance to see you again.Too bad, I didn’t even get a chance tothank you personally. But I know thatyou’re seeing me now and you knowthat I am very grateful for what youdid and what you said to me and whatyou taught me.

But it sure is uncool that I can’t takeyou to your last trip. You’re in myprayers tonight and tomorrow nightand the many nights after that.

This was personal ode to a teacher who passed away. It was published in Islade Nebz on 12 September 2010.



To be with you until my last breath;To love you until I can.To continually teach my heart when it de-cides to stop feeling for you.

To place my trembling hand in yours whenwe sleep.To feel your heart each morning that wewake.To make your coffee just like you wantedwhen we rst met -- more coffee, less sug-ar, more milk.

To try hard to be honest and try harder tobe true.To cook the best soup when you’re ill

Wedngv

3



I promise to bring you owers everyday, something I pickfrom our garden.

I promise to not talk back when you’re angry and mad. Evenif I know that it’s your fault.

I will love the soaps you watch even if I could easily second-

guess what will happen next (because I’ve seen the tritetwists and turns in other soaps). I will keep mum and will ap-pear interested at your after-the-show analysis while wonder-ing why in the world were you in love with that trashy drama.But because I love you, I will teach myself to love the thingsthat you cherish.

And that includes your mother who bickers at every thing I doand who always nds fault in me. Because she’s your mom, Iwill forever regard her as my mother, too.

We’ll watch the sunset together as we sit in the porch.To read to you when your eyes grow dim,To go along with your repititious stories when you go sinile.To laugh with you even if there’s nothing to laugh about.To hold your spoon when you’re too old to eat alone,To remind you of our past when Alzeihmer’s hits you.

And this I promise, my love...

I will forever be here for you even if times get rough or theprices of commodities sore high to heaven above.

I will stand by you through thick and thin, through sicknessand in health, until death -- or whatever is there beyonddeath -- parts us.

Published in Isla de Nebz on 10 October 2008.



To look backward for a while is to refreshthe eye, to restore it, and to render it themore t for its prime function of lookingforward.

[Margaret Fairless Barber, 1869-1901, author of

The Roadmender].

M

m i e

A

n a o

4

Of the strand of momentsthat I want to go back toagain and again, one is thememory of Anao.

Of the strand of moments that I want togo back to again and again, one is thememory of Anao.

Even if I spent only our summers there,it held more memories that the rentedhouses we had in Antipolo. I guess be-cause Anao is where my roots are or

maybe because that’s the only place thenwhere we felt we - my sister and I -- be-longed.

Or maybe because that’s where I devel-oped my full senses. Up to now, there’s acertain summer warmth or light breeze ora silent music at the back of my mind that

return me to Anao.

Anao is where we discovered the joy of playing (sha-tong, a Chinese baseballwhere instead of ball, we use bamboosticks), being responsible (diligan n’yokaagad ang mga halaman at baka dumat-ing na si Auntie Celia n’yo), the rst com-petition we’ve been through (a singingcontest where we cousins had to sing oneby one before we could watch television;the winner gets a chocnut or something),the simple-but-lling sinangag and bananafritter over coffee. Masaya. It’s where Irst tasted Milo chocolate drink.

I also miss Apong (kinukudkod n’ya ‘yongbalat ko palagi o kaya ‘yong buhok ko ha-bang nakahiga kami ), Auntie Orang (hertoothless grin), Auntie Reming’s puto (stillthe best for me), the former house of AteNor (before they moved to Manila whichfor me was a bad, bad move; I never saw

them better than in Anao).

I still remember how thedusk looked that very day:reddish, ghostly. That’s thefrst time I realized how cruel

people can become.



Of course, Apong’s house is the only house Iknow which has the plentiest of fruits: santol ,cherry, pineapple, guyabano, sampaloc, sineg-uelas, ratiles, kaimito, bayabas (no one daredeat the guava because it’s rooted near the posonegro).

I also saw the changes Apong’s house had beenthrough. Still the best is the oldest model: may silong, kawayan na sahig, toilet that’s connectedby a small bridge. And there’s my ever-favoritedulang. (I still prefer to eat there than in a for-mal dining table. I don’t know. I felt people aremore talkative, more open, funnier and informal

when seated in a dulang).

I had my rst nightmare in Anao. Someone waskilled in Sta Inez: a man charred beyond recogni-tion, gunned down in the head, his decapitatedpenis forcibly stucked in his mouth. I didn’t seeit. But I heard people talk about it.

I still remember how the dusk looked that veryday: reddish, ghostly. That’s the rst time I real-ized how cruel people can become.

As all things, those memories of Anao -- one badand whole lot of good -- came to pass.

(Dedicated to Tita Cel and Mama -- the two remaining

daughters of my Apong.)

Published in Isla de Nebz on 23 September 2009.



Scattered papers on my desk.

Sharpened pencils lined up(quite) neatly.Twirls and curls on a sheet of paper.A magnifying glass across thekeyboard.

Sesame seeds from a breadI just nished eating.Language for the things Icouldn’t say.

Published in Isla de Nebz on 24 January 2010.

A l n

u a f

h

n g

I

c l d ’ t s y

5



When my mom’s oldest sister died, I want-ed to lovingly kid her that, as the new el-dest in her siblings, she may be next in line,but I held my tongue. She’s too old to takemy humour. And it’s cruel -- no matter howlovingly I put it.

My aunt’s death made me re-realize howshort life is; how ephemeral everything is.

Below is an old post I wrote in 13 July

2008.

Deah fm

6

A rst cousin died today due to breast cancer. She wasonly in her mid-40’s. She died poorly and suffering.

This morning when someone texted me about it, I real-ized that my family members (the maternal part) aredying a slow, long-suffering death.

My maternal grandmother had an injury at the age of 80-something and she was bedridden for more than oneyear before she succumbed to death. I know for a factthat she suffered.



The eldest of my mother’s sisters died of abreast cancer too. Because she was well-off, shemanaged to last for two years electing to haveher two breasts taken off her body. She, too,suffered, I know.

My closest cousin (whom I regard as my sis-ter) had a stroke but managed to recover (al-though not that well). Her speech was garbled,she walked limply and spent her remaining days joining a religious group. She died poor and suf-fering, I know.

My other aunt (whom I regard as my second

mother) died of cancer. She too suffered be-cause of poverty. I was still fresh out of collegethat time and was just starting to earn money.Her death made me realize the difculty of dy-ing poor. I wailed when she died because I washoping I could give her a decent life that shedeserved. She failed to wait for me. What sad-dened me most is that I failed to give her a de-

cent burial because I lack money. A year after, Iwent to Saudi. She really should have waited.

This is scary. All the people that I love and carefor (especially the women) died in similar man-ner: long, suffering, painful. I barely know myroots to make me conclude that my family’s pastis haunting our future.

What was it that my ancestors did that burdensthis generation of women in my family? Or wasit something that they didn’t do?

Or maybe that’s how all people die nowa-days because of things that we do which weshouldn’t; because of things that we should dobut we wouldn’t.

Here’s a welcoming thought: I shouldn’t fearpain in death because, as Christians, it’s my ownfamily’s share of God’s sufferings on the cross.This I believe: God waits for us in heaven.

Published in Isla de Nebz on 11 March 2008.

only God can make a tree and a dead bird...



I’m leaving on a jetplane but, un-like what the song says, I knowwhen I’ll be back again. I y onthe 8th this month and return onthe 3rd of January.

This is my nth vacation since Istarted work in Saudi. This isalso the saddest,the busiest andhopefully, the most joyful.

Anung i

m fm

7My mother is still sick. She has gone out of the hos-pital now but when I last spoke to her, her medicinesare still giving her constant dizziness. Her doctor hasalready lowered the dosages. I told her maybe sheneeds to stop taking those medicines (for heart ail-ment, for her weakening bones and lungs, etc), but

she said she’s afraid that her condition will worsen if she doesn’t take them. She’s getting old now. Althoughher will remains strong, her body’s frail now and slowlyweakening. I’m certain one of my future vacations willbe the last time that I’d see her. (I pray not this time,Lord, and the next and the next...).

I will be extremely busy at home this vacation. Since

my sister lost her job, she’s been constantly in chargeat home -- budgeting, doing errands, taking care of her two daughters and two elders and a husband. Shewasn’t used to that. She worked for 15 years and wasused to being a ‘career woman’. Although she has ac-climatized with her new ‘home career’ (as I kiddinglytell her), I know deep inside that she’s suffering andwould gladly wanted to nd a job soon. During thisleave, I’d be taking from her some of her menial ob-ligations -- cleaning the house, marketing and, yes,cooking. (My sister’s a registered Dietician and she al-ways tells us that a dietician doesn’t necessarily meanshe’s a good cook. Because, honestly, she isn’t).

Finally, I need to assist my father whose penchance isbuilding (his) houses. He is neither an architect nor anengineer, but he’s the one who supervised the building

of our house in Angono, our for-rent house in Manda,



and now his ‘bahay-kubo’ in his small farm land.(His third house, the ‘bahay kubo’, is not a sim-ple bahay kubo at all. He has architectural plansmade for it! I don’t know where he thinks we’llget the money to build the house but I alwaystell my sister: Don’t contradict an old man’s

claim or you’ll end up in a bigger ght).

My father was a factory supervisor all his life andeven after his retirement (some fteen yearsago!), he still wants to perform a lot of supervi-sion. The two previous houses he built have thatsimilar problem: leaking rooftops. My father said:it’s his workers’ faults. Again: old man’s claim,

big ght, shut up.

We ended up losing our tenant because of thatleak. In this my Christmas vacation, my sisterand I will have to nd new workers to x thatrooftop. We can’t re-roof of course but an en-gineer friend told me to re-apply a waterproof paint over the cemented roof. Sounds costly and

scary!

Some OFW’s take their vacation as a rest pe-riod. The truth is: my body is more well-restedwhen in Saudi (what’s there to be tired about inSaudi when my daily routine is work-home-work-home!). In the Philippines, while on vacation, Inever rest.

Published in Isla de Nebz on 12 June 2008.

The joy from that is that I get tobe with my family and they get tobe with me. A tired body, a peace-

ful heart and my family’s smilingfaces, they’re my spirit’s balm fortrue joy. Once a year, at least.



This post’s title was from Friends showI saw some Fridays ago. I was so boredthat I ended up not doing anything ex-cept watch whatever was on free-to-airchannels.

And then I saw this Friends’ episode(which I later learned as Season 5, Epi-sode 12) where Ross linked up with Janis(Owwh-mmmmy-Godddd!) who wasChandler’s on-and-off-and-off-and-off girlfriend.

This episode let me realize what mycertain rules are (those that I certainlyabide in and would certainly impose onothers too).

C e

8Relationships, like any games, must

have rules. Before chaos, order -- sort of

a cushion to avoid misunderstanding.

bu lain pn



GP rules

1. If it’s necessary for you to take something fromthe fridge and you’re certain that that something isnot yours, you should immediately replace it;2. You always return what you borrow no matter how

small the value is i.e. a bulb of onion, a light bulb, apack of Mamasita Tamarind , a pitcher of water, etc.3. We always get what we pay for (also reads: youalways get what you deserve, you get back whateveris that you give, etc);4. You are always judged by your skin so you shouldalways moisturize.5. It pays to be honest. Anywhere. All the time.

R-18 rules

6. Don’t fool around with any of your friends unlessyour friend wants to fool around with you (and evenif it’s mutual, you should both be unmarried or unat-tached);7. Same goes with your ofcemates. (If you can’thelp it, re-read your employment contract to makesure that there’s not a clause included which relatesto inter-ofce trysts. And again, you should both beunmarried and unattached);8. Don’t commit yourself to a relationship if you’reonly after sex. Be honest if it’s just a one-nightstand.

Originally published in Isla de Nebz on 18 October 2009.



Jesus said: Peace be with you.And then he asked for food(the disciples thought they were seeing a ghostand so to prove them wrong,Jesus asked for something to eat)and the disciples gave him a sh.

After the reading, the priest said:“Fear is inversely proportional to faith.You fear because you’re faithless.You’re brave because you’re full of faith. And you can only have peace in your heart if you don’t fear.If you have faith.”

I fear a lotI fear of losing my job.I fear about my parents’ dying.I fear my own death.I fear about losing money.I fear the Saudi police.I fear about getting old.It’s endless.

Fe i rs

rpoin to fi

9

Now, there’s that one thing I fear the most.Losing my faith -- in God, in myself, in others.And so I continually pray thatno matter what the future brings,no matter what hardships I encounter,may God continually give me that giftof faith. Give us that gift of faith.

And that gift of hopeand that gift of love, as well.So I can be in peace.So we can be in peace.Amen.

Published in Isla de Nebz on 27 April 2009.



He is Bert; she is Nita.Both were young when they venturedManila. Thus began my personal odeto my father and mother.

Originally published on 27 November 2009.

10

He’s from Carles, Iloilo; she’s fromAnao, Tarlac. Both came from poorfamilies,He took some vocational coursesin electricity;she dreamt of being amidwife.Dearth poor, both ended up in a cot-ton factory in Makati.

There they met; there they fell inlove.After a long courtship, they wed inLoreto Church in Sampaloc.I asked my mom why her gownseemed short.She said: “I was on slippers whenthe sewer measured me;She forgot that I’d be wearing highheeled shoes.”

It sounds funny now, but I realizedhow my mother must have been us-tered, that her gown was ‘bitin’.Yet in her wedding photos, she nevershowed her desperation.

She was aglow and beaming inher wedding gown. So does myfather in his rented tuxedo --

handsome in his 60’s look.

They taught us well.We called everybody ‘tito’ and ‘tita’,and always used ‘ po’ and ‘opo’ .We were always bathed cleanly andour clothes, although hands-me-down from relatives,were always freshly-laundered andpressed.

Until high school, my fatherwas my personal barber.

I thought he dreamt of being a bar-ber;I realized later that although he hasmoney to buy us food,he really had none to pay for myhaircut.

Life’s been kind for both of them.He is double seven now; she seven-ty-three.And I’m certain there’ll be moreyears to come to both of them.Oh, there’s so much to tell aboutthem. And I’m sure they too havelots of stories to tell too. I promise

when I get home again, I’ll listen.

After two years, they bore me. Andthen another -- a girl. And thenthree more who all died prematurely.I thought we were well off becausewe didn’t rent our house in Man-daluyong. We owned it.

Only later did I realize how dif-

cult it was for them -- althoughboth employed -- to keep bothends meet.

When the factory transfered opera-tion in Antipolo;we too transferred abode.Three times did we change houses.I used to wonder why it was always

at night that we transfer house andwhy we leave some of our belongings(‘we’ll return for them tomorrow ’, myfather used to say).I realized later that we transferredhouse only at nightbecause we can no longer pay therent;and we leave some of our belongingsas payment to our debts.

Fo



yer i



I promise that the next sampuL Issuewill be more exciting and a little lessdrab.

See yow.

Nebz28 July 2011

sampul - issue01

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