Thursday, February 26, 2009
23 years ago...
i was shivering in anticipation, wanting to throw myself in front of a tank and give mrs badoy's rosary to the young-faced soldier whose face looked stern under his tight helmet. i walked down edsa between cubao and ortigas avenue, there were no ugly MRT tracks and dingy flyovers to cut my view of sky and stars.
today i can remember the smell of fishballs, ice water, and ninoy aquino fans. everywhere we walked, my kuya, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's cute brother who would never give me the time of day, and i, we heard june keithley's voice over radyo veritas, updating us on what was happening in fairview, in crame, in malacañang.
how our hopes were pinned on pin-faced ramos, that treacherous general who could sense the tide turning, and riding on that crest of opportunity. parchment-faced enrile looked then as he still does, pinched, languid, and cunning. i can never trust that man. even when he's six feet under. he makes my blood turn cold.
when we got home two nights later, mommy and chuchi were weeping, embracing anyone their arms could enfold. as my face was squished against my father's jumping chest, i could hear mommy singing --- or was it sighing? --- "he's gone! he's gone! the dictator's gone!!!" the tears glistened on their cheeks and i was moved, swept in the moment and seconds later i was crying, too.
i was there, i thought. no tanks, no excitement, no chance to lay down my life for the country.
the filipino is worth dying for, ninoy had said, and the image of his bloodied face lying in the casket three years before, when cory had refused to have him cleaned up, so that everyone will see what they did to my man, she said, her voice breaking as she crackled into the mike in her garish yellow dress.
i would go into the province of service after college with ninoy's words echoing in my sternum, but would be sick and tired of hearing about the woes of the poor and oppressed even before i was 30.
but today, looking back, i can remember the rush of wanting to be of significance, to make my life mean something in the tapestry of the nation's history.
i was there. 15 years old. a young woman who would always be a late bloomer. there, on edsa, standing with other fervent filipinos who carried a dream: that this great country would be great with us, for us, because of us.
i will never forget that idealism of long ago. it's what keeps me alive, the memory of a long ago love and passion. it's what pierces the mist of indifference to the present administration, that reminds me that no matter how hard i pretend, i will always care.
if blood should spill, i will be there, in the middle of it all, trying to make my mark still. and for always.
today i can remember the smell of fishballs, ice water, and ninoy aquino fans. everywhere we walked, my kuya, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's cute brother who would never give me the time of day, and i, we heard june keithley's voice over radyo veritas, updating us on what was happening in fairview, in crame, in malacañang.
how our hopes were pinned on pin-faced ramos, that treacherous general who could sense the tide turning, and riding on that crest of opportunity. parchment-faced enrile looked then as he still does, pinched, languid, and cunning. i can never trust that man. even when he's six feet under. he makes my blood turn cold.
when we got home two nights later, mommy and chuchi were weeping, embracing anyone their arms could enfold. as my face was squished against my father's jumping chest, i could hear mommy singing --- or was it sighing? --- "he's gone! he's gone! the dictator's gone!!!" the tears glistened on their cheeks and i was moved, swept in the moment and seconds later i was crying, too.
i was there, i thought. no tanks, no excitement, no chance to lay down my life for the country.
the filipino is worth dying for, ninoy had said, and the image of his bloodied face lying in the casket three years before, when cory had refused to have him cleaned up, so that everyone will see what they did to my man, she said, her voice breaking as she crackled into the mike in her garish yellow dress.
i would go into the province of service after college with ninoy's words echoing in my sternum, but would be sick and tired of hearing about the woes of the poor and oppressed even before i was 30.
but today, looking back, i can remember the rush of wanting to be of significance, to make my life mean something in the tapestry of the nation's history.
i was there. 15 years old. a young woman who would always be a late bloomer. there, on edsa, standing with other fervent filipinos who carried a dream: that this great country would be great with us, for us, because of us.
i will never forget that idealism of long ago. it's what keeps me alive, the memory of a long ago love and passion. it's what pierces the mist of indifference to the present administration, that reminds me that no matter how hard i pretend, i will always care.
if blood should spill, i will be there, in the middle of it all, trying to make my mark still. and for always.
23 years ago...
i was shivering in anticipation, wanting to throw myself in front of a tank and give mrs badoy's rosary to the young-faced soldier whose face looked stern under his tight helmet. i walked down edsa between cubao and ortigas avenue, there were no ugly MRT tracks and dingy flyovers to cut my view of sky and stars.
today i can remember the smell of fishballs, ice water, and ninoy aquino fans. everywhere we walked, my kuya, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's cute brother who would never give me the time of day, and i, we heard june keithley's voice over radyo veritas, updating us on what was happening in fairview, in crame, in malacañang.
how our hopes were pinned on pin-faced ramos, that treacherous general who could sense the tide turning, and riding on that crest of opportunity. parchment-faced enrile looked then as he still does, pinched, languid, and cunning. i can never trust that man. even when he's six feet under. he makes my blood turn cold.
when we got home two nights later, mommy and chuchi were weeping, embracing anyone their arms could enfold. as my face was squished against my father's jumping chest, i could hear mommy singing --- or was it sighing? --- "he's gone! he's gone! the dictator's gone!!!" the tears glistened on their cheeks and i was moved, swept in the moment and seconds later i was crying, too.
i was there, i thought. no tanks, no excitement, no chance to lay down my life for the country.
the filipino is worth dying for, ninoy had said, and the image of his bloodied face lying in the casket three years before, when cory had refused to have him cleaned up, so that everyone will see what they did to my man, she said, her voice breaking as she crackled into the mike in her garish yellow dress.
i would go into the province of service after college with ninoy's words echoing in my sternum, but would be sick and tired of hearing about the woes of the poor and oppressed even before i was 30.
but today, looking back, i can remember the rush of wanting to be of significance, to make my life mean something in the tapestry of the nation's history.
i was there. 15 years old. a young woman who would always be a late bloomer. there, on edsa, standing with other fervent filipinos who carried a dream: that this great country would be great with us, for us, because of us.
i will never forget that idealism of long ago. it's what keeps me alive, the memory of a long ago love and passion. it's what pierces the mist of indifference to the present administration, that reminds me that no matter how hard i pretend, i will always care.
if blood should spill, i will be there, in the middle of it all, trying to make my mark still. and for always.
today i can remember the smell of fishballs, ice water, and ninoy aquino fans. everywhere we walked, my kuya, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's cute brother who would never give me the time of day, and i, we heard june keithley's voice over radyo veritas, updating us on what was happening in fairview, in crame, in malacañang.
how our hopes were pinned on pin-faced ramos, that treacherous general who could sense the tide turning, and riding on that crest of opportunity. parchment-faced enrile looked then as he still does, pinched, languid, and cunning. i can never trust that man. even when he's six feet under. he makes my blood turn cold.
when we got home two nights later, mommy and chuchi were weeping, embracing anyone their arms could enfold. as my face was squished against my father's jumping chest, i could hear mommy singing --- or was it sighing? --- "he's gone! he's gone! the dictator's gone!!!" the tears glistened on their cheeks and i was moved, swept in the moment and seconds later i was crying, too.
i was there, i thought. no tanks, no excitement, no chance to lay down my life for the country.
the filipino is worth dying for, ninoy had said, and the image of his bloodied face lying in the casket three years before, when cory had refused to have him cleaned up, so that everyone will see what they did to my man, she said, her voice breaking as she crackled into the mike in her garish yellow dress.
i would go into the province of service after college with ninoy's words echoing in my sternum, but would be sick and tired of hearing about the woes of the poor and oppressed even before i was 30.
but today, looking back, i can remember the rush of wanting to be of significance, to make my life mean something in the tapestry of the nation's history.
i was there. 15 years old. a young woman who would always be a late bloomer. there, on edsa, standing with other fervent filipinos who carried a dream: that this great country would be great with us, for us, because of us.
i will never forget that idealism of long ago. it's what keeps me alive, the memory of a long ago love and passion. it's what pierces the mist of indifference to the present administration, that reminds me that no matter how hard i pretend, i will always care.
if blood should spill, i will be there, in the middle of it all, trying to make my mark still. and for always.
Monday, February 02, 2009
the year that zipped past
today i turned 38. i lamented, jokingly, to my high school friend and co-scholar yesterday when she rang me on my mobile: "iris!!! we're nearing the big four-oh and i still haven't had my reflections on turning a year older yet!!! oh no!" to which she responded in mock despair, "shaddap! i'm in denial! i'm not even thinking of such big numbers anymore!"
when i turned 36 in 2007, i (mistakenly) thought that it being my chinese astrological year (year of the pig/boar), it was an auspicious time in my life at that point, having lived three full cycles of animals stopping by buddha's bedside to get assigned their own constellations. i entered that year with so much confidence and happiness, impervious to so many things that could possibly go wrong. i felt invincible even if i wasn't. i was on top of the world even though it would be a brief precursor to a dizzying spiralling crash to the bottom of an abyss that took me a year and a half to climb out of. i was brimming with happiness and unbridled possibility. i felt young and vibrant.
i don't feel any of those this year, two years hence. although i celebrated a most wonderful birthday last year in the company of people i consider lifetime friends made in belgium, this year i find myself more subdued and thoughtful, even. but not in any forced way. it's just the case for me, coming from a weekend ago when i was so drunk i had to park my car on the shoulder of C-5 while trucks, vans, and what-have-you sedans honked their irate horns at my weaving trunk, and my eyes were puffy from too much lacrimosal activity induced by excessive inebriation, that i approached my coming of the age of three-eight with more than an ounce of prudence and wariness.
that rafa won the australian open for the first time in his first trip to the final was not lost on me. he had made history in tennis terms and yet i was lost in an ocean of indifference at home where no one except my oldest son shared a thread of passion for the sport. i had trudged through the past four months without any internet connection at home, living off the opportunities at ateneo, in between checking papers and consultations to get moments of cyber-love that i had taken for granted all my 4 years and 9 months in leuven, where i had 24/7 high-speed cable/LAN access to anything my heart desired, and it was most often live streams of my favourite sport, tennis tennis and even more tennis. from davis cup to atp events to non-masters events, i was not to be denied.
yet since landing on these shores, i've had to go without my usual dose of sports forums, blogging, and news about my favourite athletes. i've lost my way as far as my football knowledge is concerned while over in formula one land, the global recession and the off-season training that have changed the sport at such a dizzying pace have slipped by me, unnoticed, as the weeks marched past.
and today, just like that, i am 38.
and joyously, wondrously so.
i can't explain why, exactly. maybe it was having fun at last saturday's dinner party at my parents, a party they threw in sonny's honour for his finally becoming a doctor of theology? the easy banter with my parents, my siblings and their spouses, my nephew and nieces? the flowing wine and beer? the jokes? i did not feel any of the painful issues of the past hurt me in any way. all i can remember was having fun. lots of it. a first in my long search for happiness as far as immediate family are concerned. a source for inner celebration and jubilation.
maybe it was rafa winning his third grand slam in 8 months on a third different surface? trumping roger federer, he of 13 slam titles to his name, in achieving this amazing feat? that he did it with so much authority, barely 48 hours after a thrilling 5 hour and 14 minute semifinal against fernando verdasco?
maybe it was my bestest friend inviting me to dinner at this lovely, ambience-filled restaurant near tomas morato called a touch of l.a. with its beautiful wood interiors, amorsolo paintings, pugon oven, and warm candles, over platefuls of seafood and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon that contributed?
or was it the surprise videoke party at music match afterwards with old friends? as ea told me not a little bit drunkenly during that super fun singing fest, "lara, the best thing you can do this year is to reconnect with your old friends. forget about making new friends (which has been the nagging advice of my best friend that has shaken my confidence of late); da best ang mag reconnect!" for no strange reason, ea's sisterly affection and loving words settled more comfortably in my gut last night. she also said that she liked the influence sonny had over me and not for the first time in my 7-year marriage did i agree wholeheartedly with her assessment. the man is truly a blessing, my secret weapon, my one true thing.
with sonny these words ring true: what does it profit a [wo]man to gain the whole world but to lose h[er] soul in the process? i will never be materially rich with my husband, but the wealth of love and peace he has gifted me in the last 7 years have mroe than given me multiple rebirths and endless wonderful self discoveries. he has made it more than possible to be happy with myself and to be happy with others and the world around me. i am most blessed by his presence in my life and not a day goes by without my reminding him of his beauty and loveliness.
and now, on the first day of my 38th year, i wish i could have less eyebags than i do, or less fat hanging from my arms for my royalty wave, and less puson for my skinny jeans... but i have also gained a warmer dynamic with my students that eluded me in my pre-belgium teaching days. i have gained so much insight from being the mother of two, precocious, sweet, funny, intelligent sons who teach me constantly, every single day, what truly matter in life. children are god's gift to humanity and it is in our best interests to care for their best interests. they are our ultimate salvation. my kids ultimately restored me to myself, to which my older son will tell me, "mama, you did it yourself. you're the best mama."
happy birthday to me, lara!
when i turned 36 in 2007, i (mistakenly) thought that it being my chinese astrological year (year of the pig/boar), it was an auspicious time in my life at that point, having lived three full cycles of animals stopping by buddha's bedside to get assigned their own constellations. i entered that year with so much confidence and happiness, impervious to so many things that could possibly go wrong. i felt invincible even if i wasn't. i was on top of the world even though it would be a brief precursor to a dizzying spiralling crash to the bottom of an abyss that took me a year and a half to climb out of. i was brimming with happiness and unbridled possibility. i felt young and vibrant.
i don't feel any of those this year, two years hence. although i celebrated a most wonderful birthday last year in the company of people i consider lifetime friends made in belgium, this year i find myself more subdued and thoughtful, even. but not in any forced way. it's just the case for me, coming from a weekend ago when i was so drunk i had to park my car on the shoulder of C-5 while trucks, vans, and what-have-you sedans honked their irate horns at my weaving trunk, and my eyes were puffy from too much lacrimosal activity induced by excessive inebriation, that i approached my coming of the age of three-eight with more than an ounce of prudence and wariness.
that rafa won the australian open for the first time in his first trip to the final was not lost on me. he had made history in tennis terms and yet i was lost in an ocean of indifference at home where no one except my oldest son shared a thread of passion for the sport. i had trudged through the past four months without any internet connection at home, living off the opportunities at ateneo, in between checking papers and consultations to get moments of cyber-love that i had taken for granted all my 4 years and 9 months in leuven, where i had 24/7 high-speed cable/LAN access to anything my heart desired, and it was most often live streams of my favourite sport, tennis tennis and even more tennis. from davis cup to atp events to non-masters events, i was not to be denied.
yet since landing on these shores, i've had to go without my usual dose of sports forums, blogging, and news about my favourite athletes. i've lost my way as far as my football knowledge is concerned while over in formula one land, the global recession and the off-season training that have changed the sport at such a dizzying pace have slipped by me, unnoticed, as the weeks marched past.
and today, just like that, i am 38.
and joyously, wondrously so.
i can't explain why, exactly. maybe it was having fun at last saturday's dinner party at my parents, a party they threw in sonny's honour for his finally becoming a doctor of theology? the easy banter with my parents, my siblings and their spouses, my nephew and nieces? the flowing wine and beer? the jokes? i did not feel any of the painful issues of the past hurt me in any way. all i can remember was having fun. lots of it. a first in my long search for happiness as far as immediate family are concerned. a source for inner celebration and jubilation.
maybe it was rafa winning his third grand slam in 8 months on a third different surface? trumping roger federer, he of 13 slam titles to his name, in achieving this amazing feat? that he did it with so much authority, barely 48 hours after a thrilling 5 hour and 14 minute semifinal against fernando verdasco?
maybe it was my bestest friend inviting me to dinner at this lovely, ambience-filled restaurant near tomas morato called a touch of l.a. with its beautiful wood interiors, amorsolo paintings, pugon oven, and warm candles, over platefuls of seafood and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon that contributed?
or was it the surprise videoke party at music match afterwards with old friends? as ea told me not a little bit drunkenly during that super fun singing fest, "lara, the best thing you can do this year is to reconnect with your old friends. forget about making new friends (which has been the nagging advice of my best friend that has shaken my confidence of late); da best ang mag reconnect!" for no strange reason, ea's sisterly affection and loving words settled more comfortably in my gut last night. she also said that she liked the influence sonny had over me and not for the first time in my 7-year marriage did i agree wholeheartedly with her assessment. the man is truly a blessing, my secret weapon, my one true thing.
with sonny these words ring true: what does it profit a [wo]man to gain the whole world but to lose h[er] soul in the process? i will never be materially rich with my husband, but the wealth of love and peace he has gifted me in the last 7 years have mroe than given me multiple rebirths and endless wonderful self discoveries. he has made it more than possible to be happy with myself and to be happy with others and the world around me. i am most blessed by his presence in my life and not a day goes by without my reminding him of his beauty and loveliness.
and now, on the first day of my 38th year, i wish i could have less eyebags than i do, or less fat hanging from my arms for my royalty wave, and less puson for my skinny jeans... but i have also gained a warmer dynamic with my students that eluded me in my pre-belgium teaching days. i have gained so much insight from being the mother of two, precocious, sweet, funny, intelligent sons who teach me constantly, every single day, what truly matter in life. children are god's gift to humanity and it is in our best interests to care for their best interests. they are our ultimate salvation. my kids ultimately restored me to myself, to which my older son will tell me, "mama, you did it yourself. you're the best mama."
happy birthday to me, lara!
