C'est Moi

presenting... three of my four sections my first semester of teaching after 5 years!






R03 --- the Lit 14 class i honestly dreaded when i met them on the first day. i thought i would not know how to handle such a precocious bunch... they adopted me instead and showed me that all i needed to be was be myself... they were the only class who asked me why i had not been there on the first week of class and the only class to whom i admitted that i wasn't really away to "accompany my elderly mother" but that i was "fulfilling my lifelong dream of watching live tennis in shanghaiiiii!!!"... it was a love story that never ended... 8.30-9.30 in CTC 304

i have nearly 120 students --- give or take a few --- this semester. before i met them, i created two course websites for the two courses i was going to teach. in both sites i labeled my then-future students as "Lara's Angels".

in the nearly six months that i have been back in the country (it's officially 6 on the afternoon of march 31st) i have tried to gain my seafaring legs in life manila style, and it has been one helluva bumpy ride. not a rollercoaster ride naman, but one filled with twists, turns, brambles, and what painful journey isn't complete without its glades of honeycomb and nectar, streams of gurgling silver, and endless fields of golden joy?

the frantic pace of life is still on the bargaining block. the louder volumes that pinoys use to communicate still jars. but i'm getting the hang of it and my practice ground has been in the interaction with our school security personnel, especially the young-faced and good-looking ones assigned to de la costa building where my workspace is located. it's no secret that i am more relaxed speaking to the "common" tao. maybe because i feel i'm common, too? of no special or significant stature in this new order of things? the few times i dabbled in power play and conflicts were few times too many and ill-advised for my blood pressure. i can't stand by the hardline stance of "how dare you cross a faculty member of this university, you good for nothing idiot?" there is some relief but it doesn't last very long. what lingers is the appalling taste of a misplaced ego. i have to get away from that mode of thought, i often tell myself.

then there is the lack of green in the metropolis which chokes the very life from my waning spirit. where before i could always just leave my ultra comfortable perch in front of the pc, throw on a coat, grab a bike key from the hook and churn my way around leuven or dive into the sports centre pool for 500 metres or so, now i have to carefully plan my way through the concrete jungle that is manila. our university pool is not as socialised as leuven's was, and i have to beg artfully to get 1 hour of much-needed swimming in. the moro lorenzo gym is a dump with its rusty machines, sticky mats, and even stickier dumb bells. the only safe places to bike are UP and ateneo, and getting from our apartment to any of the two puts a strain on mental (and physical) resources. that i am earning in pesos now rather than euros is also a big factor --- i am simply not as flexible with my options any longer.

i have a job. a purpose in life. i feel i am of use to people. 120 or so of them.

and how i love them. yesterday, after my last class with R03, several of them approached me and sang out, "thank you so much, ma'am!" my R21 students had already filed into the room and taken their seats but the R03 stalwarts were still in the room, chatting, posing for some last photographs, throwing in a last word or two to me. when some of them embraced and kissed me, it's as if i were no longer there but in a very happy place.

to be needed and loved is one of the most beautiful things in life.

to not be understood by two of the closest people in my life is hell beyond pain and the lowest circle of dis. it always throws me off my stride, it breaks my rhythm (and these days it takes hours before i establish one, especially in checking papers, like now, i should be doing that but i have to write this to grab an elusive moment of zen, before i can put on my english teacher helmet once more), a part of me dies. of late, when i'm with family or best friend, only a numbness hovers in the air, and it often turns to steel before it squeezes my chest, inch by excruciating inch.

somewhere along the way, in the last five years, lara shed her skin. maybe more times than i cared to count, but this version of me today is different. and sometimes it is tiring to keep repeating myself to people i thought would know this more than the rest.

but even those closest to you can miss the subtle shifts.

and as usual, where i least expect to find solace, a big french window has been thrown open to let in the overwhelming exuberance of 17 & 18 year olds. i will miss them.

thank you, lara's angels, for touching my life. i love you.

here it only moves from hot to hotter days and then not too hot nights. 6 time zones away in my beloved europe, spring has finally arrived.. and in sporting lingo... that means that all hell is about to break loose!

miami's atp/wta tour will end on april 4 and we'll be in the spring claycourt swing of the tennis calendar! french open and wimbledon... my favourite part of the year... no more all-day BBC coverage at SW 19 with all the rain delays... no more all-day France 1 & 2 coverage at roland garros...

formula one revs off with an all-new set of cars and KERS! no more sporza and la une or la deux coverage of qualifying and actual races!

champions league heats up towards the finals! no more in-the-zone watching from 20.45-22.30 of the knockout stages... i remember skipping aikido training just to watch my barca or chelsea slug it out on the pitch...

see that beautiful gorgeous smile. a 22 year old boy from an island in the mediterranean, 6 grand slam titles to his name, 13 masters shields, 33 atp titles in all. after winning his first hardcourt grand slam title last january in melbourne, the world didn't notice. not really. everyone was talking about the crybaby that was roger federer and his waning moon in tennis nightdom.

finally, against a gracious red-haired scotsman who owns that swiss crybaby, my rafa got the attention he deserved from fans and media alike.

down-to-earth, hard-working, self-effacing, charming, matter-of-fact, simple, and silly.

rabid roger fans will never know how it feels to rejoice with someone who works so hard to be the best, to celebrate the victory of someone with an unparalleled work ethic, to be happy for someone they snobbishly dismiss as "just a clay court specialist". roger fans can be blind to the virtues of other players, disdainful snobs who might not even know their tennis at all. (i sat in a noisy shanghai stadium of roger-only screaming fans who couldn't even recognise roger's impeccable placement skill in serving --- they were disappointed that his serve speed didn't go upwards of 180 kph --- and they called themselves fans of roger. be fans of the game!)

as for rafa, well, he's for down-to-earth folk. not to mention lascivious, promiscuous, and salivating over the comely sight of biceps and buns.

vamos rafa the king!


(my son has started his tennis lessons and i've never seen a happier boy on the court. for him and his dreams i would do anything. anything. i will not make him adjust to my schedule nor make him feel he has to fly to the moon and back in order to deserve a chance to be happy.)

the time is nigh. and no matter how much you want to distance yourself from their lovely faces, with eyes that see nothing beyond the cares of this weekend and next, you know you are doomed.

*in photo: moi pinning down 1st kyu dojo-mate and good friend gunter. he was the gentlest of the lot who i knew would make me look good. did he?

when the anger has floated away and you still miss them, the apology refuses to be vulcanised.

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.

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.