Because I Said So
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
WHAT TYPHOON EMONG DESTROYED IN BOLINAO
I was in Bolinao, Pangasinan for a long weekend. The drive took eight hours, but it was the last hour that was the most stressful, because aside from the fact that we have been cooped up in the car for almost the whole day already, my son had been barking
“Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? ” ---- non-stop, for the last twenty minutes. At his 500th “Are we there yet, “ I came close to snapping. Till I noticed that we were driving past a not so pretty sight.
Our car passed more than a dozen houses with no rooftops. Two or three houses were still standing but bereft of walls and ceilings. Big trees have been uprooted and countless coconut trees were shorn of their branches and leaves. What happened here? was the question my husband and I dared not voice out, so as not to infect our son with our growing discomfort.
The less intrepid would have turned back, and would have charged the whole trip, especially the booking’s full payment to experience.
But intrepid is my husband’s middle name. Rolling down his window, he asked a local how far it was to our resort and I was even surprised when the man cheerfully told us, just two more kilometers. So we pushed on. In light of everything we have just seen, I wondered how the resort we were headed for could still live up to its name that literally means “the door to the sun.”
When we arrived, it was 530 pm in the afternoon. We had left the city at 930 that morning. Worse, it started to rain.
But then, the downpour lightened into a soft drizzle, and left a mist over the whole place that then slowly revealed to us its beauty.
How surprising to find a piece of Mediterranean inspired heaven at the westernmost tip of Pangasinan. A dip in the pool easily washed away the exhaustion of the road trip. The people were especially warm, and the accommodations pleasing. For the entire 3 day holiday, we were surrounded by nature. The foliage was a sea of green, the sky cerulean, the beach soft beige, and the waters, shades lighter than sapphire. Serenity lives here, I thought. But reality took a bite every time we passed a cabana that used to be the game room. To say the least, it needed a rehab, and fast. I realized that this place was not spared after all, by whatever caused the wrecked homes we saw the first day we arrived.
To their credit, not one of the service staff made us feel the effects of the disaster they just survived. They were all cheery and welcoming. In fact, talking to the resort’s people was especially easy. Given that all Filipinos after all are a most hospitable lot---we readily smile and accept friendship with no qualms or misgivings--- still, the
resort’s people had more than the usual eagerness to please and serve. They readily explained why the road we passed was littered with toppled trees and roof-less shelters.
May cyclone po na dumaan dito, the girls at the resort’s café told us. First time po nagka-cyclone dito. But now they can talk about it, even joke about the experience easily. How their own walk- in guests were stranded for two days and how the cyclone literally wiped out the nightlife in this resort town, starting with the newly constructed restaurant at their beach. And how they have to go on without electricity to this date, far longer than they expected.
I know firsthand how it is to survive a typhoon, more so a cyclone. It is a life changing experience. While it’s happening, you literally feel that you can’t do anything about it, that you’re completely in the hands of God. The cyclone that descended on this community raged on for hours. As one of the staff told us, the cyclone stopped suddenly, and for the next few moments, the people of this resort community rejoiced that the worst was over. Only they rejoiced too soon , for the winds started howling again, and continued whipping past at the speed of over 150 kph for another hour or so. The wind not only whistled, the sound was like that a plane droning on and on. I can imagine them all praying for it to stop, and hoping that what was whizzing outside their walls was not the sound of their own rooftops , walls or ceilings.
In its wake, typhoon Emong left people dead, livelihoods demolished and homes in shambles. Can you imagine how stunned these people felt in the aftermath of this devastation?
I can. It’s how I felt when my family went through the same thing. But what hit us was Milenyo, and it happened in 2006.
I still remember what time it was when the rains poured and the wind started its own eerie dirge. It was a few minutes past eleven and the sky roof over my kitchen was the first victim, flying off noisily, only God knows where. I clambered on top of the kitchen counter and tried to nail a tarapal over the opening. But the wind whipped past and along with it flew the tarapal.
The rest happened so fast. Before I knew it, one of the help was shouting---illogically I realized even then, that “Mam, mam, pumapasok na po ang dagat !!!” Dagat ? How can that be, my rational brain asked, but then I realized that at the sight of that roaring flood water, the maid must have thought that the whole of Manila Bay was now flash flooding our village.
I had to wade through flood waters to deposit my son in our neighbor’s house.
I had to do everything because my husband was out of the country. Then the lines went dead and along with it, the electricity. With my cel phone drenched, I had no way of communicating with the outside world.
By some miracle I found an extra cel fone , only to discover that it had no load whatsoever, and I had to text my friend Gina who passed me 500 pesos worth.
With that load I was able to call my sister, the police, friends of the family and everybody else I thought would be able to come and help us.
When I saw that my house was completely submerged in a foot of dark flood water, I had to fight the urge to rant and rave. This thing can’t be happening to me, in this village, right in this house that was a gift from my in-law and my husband. I had to accept the truth that for the first time in my life, our house has been flooded and our properties destroyed. Before the sight of all the photo albums and picture frames swimming around overwhelmed me , before the realization that family tapes of my son’s childhood were soaked with water and dirt, and before I started counting the time, effort and money that went into the computers destroyed and the DVD players and the TVs and the other appliances and fixtures, I had to tell myself to look past this already, to realize that all these are just stuff. What’s done can no longer be undone . I should just let go.
I have let go. I am sure now too that I had lost less , so much less than some of the people of Bolinao who suffered from that cyclone.
On the day we left, the gamehouse of the beach resort has been fully restored. A sure sign that Bolinao has started rebuilding already.
It is resoluteness that started people rebuilding and recreating a new life. This is the resoluteness of a survivor…of one who has gone to hell and back, and lived to tell the tale. This is the kind of resolve that even a typhoon cannot destroy. It’s what I had , and it’s something I have in common with Bolinao and its people.
I know what will help put Bolinao back on its feet will be the generosity of friends and family, and the kindness of strangers. That was how it was for me, and they too will have such blessings. But more than anything else, the resoluteness enables and empowers them… to fully let go…to live through the disaster, move on, and believe and trust that by God’s grace, life can be beautiful again.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, SOCCER GROUPIE, ADVERTISING DIRECTOR & WRITER , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS , TEXT 09178411062.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
THE JOwLLIJEEP & THE JOwllibag
Because I Said So
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
LONG LIVE THE JOwLLIJEEP AND THE JOwLLIBAG
Even as more restaurants, cafes and canteens rise in Makati, a great majority of the working population is unmindful and unaffected by their birth.
And no wonder, for the ordinary office worker’s engine still has to run on the same amount of gas--- meaning his pocketbook is still lined with the same budget as last year’s and the year before that--- so you can’t expect him to even glance at new menus with prices that are twice what he’s accustomed to paying.
Obviously, the ones who can afford the tonier places where a person’s bill can cost anywhere from P200.00 upwards will not feel alluded to.( how did I decide that P200 is already expensive ? Well, I simply asked the working girls in the office ---they answered in unison that forking P200 for their midday meal is already too much). I also don’t include the Baon Gang (like myself) who bring packed lunches from home, whether to save their lunch money or simply because they can’t stand not eating their own home cooked meal.
I refer in general to them who are full fledged sometime, one time, or full time patrons of the aluminum colored carinderia on wheels, fondly referred to as the Jowllijeep, and their offerings for take out, nicknamed Jowllibags.
You and I know what the etymology of these names are. The reason they sound familiar, is yes, it’s because we all know who and what they were named after. Filipinos are famed for their puns after all.( The addition of the letter “w” is entirely my own whimsy, in tribute to an officemate’s fondness for pronouncing every word with an “o” with a long “o” (e.g., sowsyal, towgeh, lowmpyah)). All these little monickers are just an expression of the populace’s love affair with these wonderful lifesavers.
Their loyal patrons know these Jowllijeeps and their Jowllibags like the back of their hands.
In fact, to my surprise, after talking to my some-time patron friend Awie, I learned that not all Jowllijeeps are created equal. Awie insists that some Jowllibags are tastier than others. How do you know, I asked him, when you have baon everyday?
You only need to eat it once to know better, he wisely points out.
That opened my eyes to the many other finer points of dining, Jowllijeep style.
Jowlijeeps offer comfort food. A typical outlet offers a very familiar menu. On any given day , chances are they will have rice and adobo, fried chicken, pancit canton, pancit bihon, tocino, liempo, longganisa, fried daing na bangus---all served hot, dripping in vegetable fat and more often than not, real greasy good. You can also expect lumpiang shanghai, lumpiang toge, lumpiang prito, pinakbet, menudo, sinigang, tinola and nilaga and sometimes even kaldereta and pochero.
But no, Virginia, they do not serve sushi and cheesecake in Jowllijeeps. And don’t ask for pasta, you dork, ask for spaghetti and you’ll get it, just don’t be alarmed at how orangey its tomato sauce color is.
Here’s another tip : when you order a Jowllijeep pochero, don’t expect the pochero your mom used to cook for you. The whole business philosophy behind an average Jowllijeep and Jowllibag’s offering is for each dish to look, smell and taste JUST enough like the one we’re familiar with . Everything should JUST be within an inch of the real thing. Let’s use pochero again as an example. The pochero of a regular Jowlijeep has just enough, but never too much, of the required distinguishing ingredients. So you can expect just a token or two of diced carrots and potatoes perhaps, and just enough tomato sauce in there and beef morsels, just so this Jowllijeep version can get away with calling itself pochero.
If a Jowllijeep pochero does not fulfill this very rigid taste test, then that Jowllijeep in question can kiss their patrons goodbye, for working people want value for their hard earned money. They will not hesitate to bring their patronage somewhere else, and in the case of the Jowllijeep patron, to the next Jowllijeep just a few paces down the street.
But again, some Jowllijeeps are better than others. Meaning, their food tastes great, and you won’t care that they cut corners somewhere in the ingredients list or that their food color is on the lurid side.. Once a Jowllijeep has earned a patron’s loyalty, such patrons will defend its cuisine to the death. Do not try to cast aspersions on their dishes, for their loyalists will not stop until they have the last word with you. They will extol the deliciousness of their favorite dish and honor the others they particularly delight with. But in the end, if you refuse to be convinced, in your face will they hurl a statement of such undeniable , incontestible truth, the ultimate argument that will shut you up.
Ano bang nirereklamo mo eh forty pesos lang to? Helllow????
Hello indeed.
A Jowllijeep is very accommodating. You can choose to eat sitting down, standing up or take out (when you choose take out, that ‘s when the Jowllibags come into play). In fact, whether your Jowllijeep is standing next to the street gutter, or to the creek that crosses various Makati streets, you can expect a horde of customers patiently waiting in line to get their orders. Or probably already starting on their next course, standing up.
Para diretso sa tyan, as another Jowlijeep patron-friend told me.
A Jowllijeep can sustain you , from breakfast till dinner, and even your snacks in between. For alongside the huge vats of ulam and kanin are baskets hanging by the counter window, containing snack and junk food of almost every kind. You can also have coffee, soda, an energy drink and juices and iced tea in can, tetra or doypack. And as for dessert , they have jars of candy and chocnut, gum and freshly cut pineapple, and some other fruits in season. If you know how to pick ‘em, you can definitely come away with the sweetest and choicest cuts.
And Jowllijeeps are the most dependable food outlets around. You can depend on them to cook banana cue or camote cue every afternoon in time for merienda,and to have pancit palabok , that orangey colored spaghetti and guinatan . And whatever the weather or time of day, and whether there is a rally for the administration (or against it ), whatever is happening in Makati or even in Malacanang, it will not rock the Jowllijeep establishment. You can expect the Jowllijeep dining experience to go on, the same way you can expect to find a stalwart of every Jowllijeep hanging from its little corner….a little icon that no self-respecting Jowllijeep can be found without : that cigarette lighter tied to a string right where a smoker-patron can spot it, without arousing the desire in that same patron to pocket that cigarette lighter. Reassuringly, there has been no rash and rush of thefts anyway involving cigarette lighters in our Jowllijeeps, even if a piece of string is the only deterrent to the commission of such a crime.
The mother in me had to wonder aloud to my officemate though. How clean is the food offered by these establishments?
My resource person and friend Awie scratched the back of his head. After all, he’s only bought pineapple from these Jowlijeeps, and you can count on one hand the number of times he’s bought ulam from them.(he’s more a member of the Baon Gang like me). But then, he does know everybody in the office who is a Jowllijeep patron, and he points them out, real people I know who have many times indulged in partaking of Jowllibags from Jowllijeeps.
Eh, buhay pa naman kami lahat hanggang ngayon.
What can you say to that?
Now, for the best kept secret on Jowlijeeps in Makati. The one that offers the best liempo, in huge , generous portions for the same reasonable price of forty pesos…. is the Jowllijeep standing on T- - - - - - - - Street. Awie held out both his hands to show me how big that liempo is supposed to be , and I must admit that I gasped in amazement. He also swears they’re really lip smacking good.
My baon bag will take the day off then tomorrow. Race you to that particular Jowllijeep.
I intend to take my liempo out with a Jowllibag. Be sure to leave that cigarette lighter hanging where you found it. Or else you’d be banned by the Society of Jowllijeep Patrons forever and ever, amen.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING DIRECTOR AND WRITER, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS, TEXT 09205355053/09178411062.
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
LONG LIVE THE JOwLLIJEEP AND THE JOwLLIBAG
Even as more restaurants, cafes and canteens rise in Makati, a great majority of the working population is unmindful and unaffected by their birth.
And no wonder, for the ordinary office worker’s engine still has to run on the same amount of gas--- meaning his pocketbook is still lined with the same budget as last year’s and the year before that--- so you can’t expect him to even glance at new menus with prices that are twice what he’s accustomed to paying.
Obviously, the ones who can afford the tonier places where a person’s bill can cost anywhere from P200.00 upwards will not feel alluded to.( how did I decide that P200 is already expensive ? Well, I simply asked the working girls in the office ---they answered in unison that forking P200 for their midday meal is already too much). I also don’t include the Baon Gang (like myself) who bring packed lunches from home, whether to save their lunch money or simply because they can’t stand not eating their own home cooked meal.
I refer in general to them who are full fledged sometime, one time, or full time patrons of the aluminum colored carinderia on wheels, fondly referred to as the Jowllijeep, and their offerings for take out, nicknamed Jowllibags.
You and I know what the etymology of these names are. The reason they sound familiar, is yes, it’s because we all know who and what they were named after. Filipinos are famed for their puns after all.( The addition of the letter “w” is entirely my own whimsy, in tribute to an officemate’s fondness for pronouncing every word with an “o” with a long “o” (e.g., sowsyal, towgeh, lowmpyah)). All these little monickers are just an expression of the populace’s love affair with these wonderful lifesavers.
Their loyal patrons know these Jowllijeeps and their Jowllibags like the back of their hands.
In fact, to my surprise, after talking to my some-time patron friend Awie, I learned that not all Jowllijeeps are created equal. Awie insists that some Jowllibags are tastier than others. How do you know, I asked him, when you have baon everyday?
You only need to eat it once to know better, he wisely points out.
That opened my eyes to the many other finer points of dining, Jowllijeep style.
Jowlijeeps offer comfort food. A typical outlet offers a very familiar menu. On any given day , chances are they will have rice and adobo, fried chicken, pancit canton, pancit bihon, tocino, liempo, longganisa, fried daing na bangus---all served hot, dripping in vegetable fat and more often than not, real greasy good. You can also expect lumpiang shanghai, lumpiang toge, lumpiang prito, pinakbet, menudo, sinigang, tinola and nilaga and sometimes even kaldereta and pochero.
But no, Virginia, they do not serve sushi and cheesecake in Jowllijeeps. And don’t ask for pasta, you dork, ask for spaghetti and you’ll get it, just don’t be alarmed at how orangey its tomato sauce color is.
Here’s another tip : when you order a Jowllijeep pochero, don’t expect the pochero your mom used to cook for you. The whole business philosophy behind an average Jowllijeep and Jowllibag’s offering is for each dish to look, smell and taste JUST enough like the one we’re familiar with . Everything should JUST be within an inch of the real thing. Let’s use pochero again as an example. The pochero of a regular Jowlijeep has just enough, but never too much, of the required distinguishing ingredients. So you can expect just a token or two of diced carrots and potatoes perhaps, and just enough tomato sauce in there and beef morsels, just so this Jowllijeep version can get away with calling itself pochero.
If a Jowllijeep pochero does not fulfill this very rigid taste test, then that Jowllijeep in question can kiss their patrons goodbye, for working people want value for their hard earned money. They will not hesitate to bring their patronage somewhere else, and in the case of the Jowllijeep patron, to the next Jowllijeep just a few paces down the street.
But again, some Jowllijeeps are better than others. Meaning, their food tastes great, and you won’t care that they cut corners somewhere in the ingredients list or that their food color is on the lurid side.. Once a Jowllijeep has earned a patron’s loyalty, such patrons will defend its cuisine to the death. Do not try to cast aspersions on their dishes, for their loyalists will not stop until they have the last word with you. They will extol the deliciousness of their favorite dish and honor the others they particularly delight with. But in the end, if you refuse to be convinced, in your face will they hurl a statement of such undeniable , incontestible truth, the ultimate argument that will shut you up.
Ano bang nirereklamo mo eh forty pesos lang to? Helllow????
Hello indeed.
A Jowllijeep is very accommodating. You can choose to eat sitting down, standing up or take out (when you choose take out, that ‘s when the Jowllibags come into play). In fact, whether your Jowllijeep is standing next to the street gutter, or to the creek that crosses various Makati streets, you can expect a horde of customers patiently waiting in line to get their orders. Or probably already starting on their next course, standing up.
Para diretso sa tyan, as another Jowlijeep patron-friend told me.
A Jowllijeep can sustain you , from breakfast till dinner, and even your snacks in between. For alongside the huge vats of ulam and kanin are baskets hanging by the counter window, containing snack and junk food of almost every kind. You can also have coffee, soda, an energy drink and juices and iced tea in can, tetra or doypack. And as for dessert , they have jars of candy and chocnut, gum and freshly cut pineapple, and some other fruits in season. If you know how to pick ‘em, you can definitely come away with the sweetest and choicest cuts.
And Jowllijeeps are the most dependable food outlets around. You can depend on them to cook banana cue or camote cue every afternoon in time for merienda,and to have pancit palabok , that orangey colored spaghetti and guinatan . And whatever the weather or time of day, and whether there is a rally for the administration (or against it ), whatever is happening in Makati or even in Malacanang, it will not rock the Jowllijeep establishment. You can expect the Jowllijeep dining experience to go on, the same way you can expect to find a stalwart of every Jowllijeep hanging from its little corner….a little icon that no self-respecting Jowllijeep can be found without : that cigarette lighter tied to a string right where a smoker-patron can spot it, without arousing the desire in that same patron to pocket that cigarette lighter. Reassuringly, there has been no rash and rush of thefts anyway involving cigarette lighters in our Jowllijeeps, even if a piece of string is the only deterrent to the commission of such a crime.
The mother in me had to wonder aloud to my officemate though. How clean is the food offered by these establishments?
My resource person and friend Awie scratched the back of his head. After all, he’s only bought pineapple from these Jowlijeeps, and you can count on one hand the number of times he’s bought ulam from them.(he’s more a member of the Baon Gang like me). But then, he does know everybody in the office who is a Jowllijeep patron, and he points them out, real people I know who have many times indulged in partaking of Jowllibags from Jowllijeeps.
Eh, buhay pa naman kami lahat hanggang ngayon.
What can you say to that?
Now, for the best kept secret on Jowlijeeps in Makati. The one that offers the best liempo, in huge , generous portions for the same reasonable price of forty pesos…. is the Jowllijeep standing on T- - - - - - - - Street. Awie held out both his hands to show me how big that liempo is supposed to be , and I must admit that I gasped in amazement. He also swears they’re really lip smacking good.
My baon bag will take the day off then tomorrow. Race you to that particular Jowllijeep.
I intend to take my liempo out with a Jowllibag. Be sure to leave that cigarette lighter hanging where you found it. Or else you’d be banned by the Society of Jowllijeep Patrons forever and ever, amen.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING DIRECTOR AND WRITER, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS, TEXT 09205355053/09178411062.
Friday, May 22, 2009
article 22. sex is sacred
Because I Said So
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
(didn't want to wade into the same muck over the sex video scandal. didn't want to call people names ,too. hope i succeeded with this article.)
It was something my high school teacher told us, when we were but a group of very young impressionable teenagers, with newly awakened, raging hormones and with newly discovered, emerging sexualities. Most importantly, individually, we were all at the brink of having our very first taste of young love….and we were regaling our teacher with our singular experiences.
Which led her to make this very thought provoking statement.
What she said may have spelled the difference between us becoming promiscuous at a young age, or not. Maybe her words encouraged a lot of us into saving ourselves for our one true love, or again, maybe not.
But her words created such an impression on me.
And to this day, I voice it and I stand by it.
But don’t get me wrong. This article isn’t even about when one should have sex, whether young, old, single, married, etc.etc.etc.
The plain and simple fact for me is that the sanctity of sex stands by itself. It should be right up there with love, marriage, brotherhood, peace, morality, and everything else that should be given respect.
Of course we all know that both men and women have used sex as a weapon. Let he or she who is without fault cast the first stone.
I remember in particular one very worldly batchmate who even back then was already oozing with sex appeal. She had no compunction in using sex to get what she wanted with her boyfriends.
That was the first time I realized that literally and figuratively, sex does sell.
On a lighter vein, one aunt of mine even told me that a wife can withhold her husband’s marital privileges when he won’t see things the way the wife wants him to. My aunt even winked at me, whispering , have him realize that it doesn’t come with the territory. That it’s not a given. Hmmmmmm, I answered her.
(And we wonder why there is politics in the bedroom? As an aside, I must admit, I can never look at my aunt’s husband the same way ever again!!!)
Another male confidant of mine honestly feels that his girlfriends having sex with him is their only way of proving their love.
Huh?
That’s like holding a gun to someone’s head in my opinion, I told him. And even as he kept explaining that it’s a guy thing, I told him to his face that he is a Neanderthal, an idiot , immature and manipulative. He had the grace to look ashamed.
Sex figures in a major way in any relationship.
A lot of us take it lightly and use it as a crutch, a tool, an agenda, and when we do, we demean it and reduce it to the physical act.
We use sex as a crutch when we believe it to be some kind of a quick fix, a pick-me-upper, a means to be happy and feel good about ourselves.
This has some kind of scientific basis because we know that the physical act itself results in the body producing endorphins. Google endorphins in the web and you will read that they naturally help lower our stress levels , help boost our confidence,and can even calm the high strung and the angstsy among us. Remember that movie, Postcards from the Edge where Annette Bening’s character was talking to Meryl Streep whose role was that of a drug dependent actress-daughter of a fading star? Ms. Bening said something like how she loves getting that ENDOLPHIN RUSH, or as she laughingly corrected herself, ENDORPHIN. That was the first time I ever heard that word in a movie, but that is an example of how sex is used for instant gratification and nothing more.
Just to make you feel good. The whole point is you, your partner doesn’t even figure. End of conversation.
And don’t get me started on how sex can be a tool…the most important item on one’s agenda.
How many movie stars landed plum roles because of the casting couch? That’s sex at work again.
How many fat contracts are won in the boudoir ? You’re right , sex must have had a hand in a lot of them too.
But thankfully, without being smug or self righteous about it, we know that sex can be wonderful. Sex being the physical side of love enables us to make the intangible, tangible. Or vice versa.
It is precisely during these times when sex is treated as sacred does it become the most sublime expression of love.
As a married woman, rightly or wrongly I cannot help but speak of sex and love in the same breath. I totally believe that the purest kind of love is unconditional. It’s the love you give a baby. You have no expectations of getting anything in return, you just give it all you ‘ve got.
And unless you didn’t notice, pay attention to how that baby receives your love. With no qualms, no excuses, no doubts, no regrets. Taken totally at face value, completely, without question. That’s love in return.
And maybe that is the exact reason why sex is indeed sacred, it’s because love is in the picture. It’s only then that it becomes the most wonderful , uplifting , joyous union. It becomes a complete surrender of your self, it’s revealing your person at your most vulnerable, and you give---and get, total trust and commitment knowing fully well that your partner is as vulnerable, loving, trusting and committed as you are.
Poets and mystics have gone as far as saying that having sex and love is like seeing the face of God. My own husband simplistically says that the whole point to marriage is having children, a way by which we are blessed with the power to participate in God’s wonderful act of creation. (I took one look at him, and asked, who are you and what have you done with my husband ??? )
Which brings me back to my point: Sex is indeed sacred.
So sacred in fact that you do it to express your most profound feeling of love for another person.
So sacred in fact that you give yourself fully, completely, having no second thoughts nor doubts that the other person will keep the intimacy just between the two of you, and will never kiss and tell , never blab about your secrets or your weaknesses, and will never treat you as an object.
Sex is sacred.
It is the reason why it is the most intimate, private relationship , the most expressive way you can make another person feel your affection and love .Again, I cannot say it enough, it is a complete surrender of oneself, a testament of trust and commitment.
Debase it and you debase yourself.
And so far, the lowest form of debasement I’ve ever encountered is when just lately, someone ( or maybe there was more than just one person ) uploaded a supposedly sacred and private act on the internet--- for all the world to see, barring none, not even the young, the perverts, the holier-than-thou’s and the ambulance chasers. That person posted it and left it for everyone to ridicule, judge and ogle.
And only that person alone would know why he or she did it, whether to use it as a crutch, a tool, or a weapon. Certainly and obviously, it was not to make the point that sex is sacred.
I wonder if it’s too late for him (or her) to meet my high school teacher.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER TWELVE YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS, PLEASE TEXT 09205355053.
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
(didn't want to wade into the same muck over the sex video scandal. didn't want to call people names ,too. hope i succeeded with this article.)
It was something my high school teacher told us, when we were but a group of very young impressionable teenagers, with newly awakened, raging hormones and with newly discovered, emerging sexualities. Most importantly, individually, we were all at the brink of having our very first taste of young love….and we were regaling our teacher with our singular experiences.
Which led her to make this very thought provoking statement.
What she said may have spelled the difference between us becoming promiscuous at a young age, or not. Maybe her words encouraged a lot of us into saving ourselves for our one true love, or again, maybe not.
But her words created such an impression on me.
And to this day, I voice it and I stand by it.
But don’t get me wrong. This article isn’t even about when one should have sex, whether young, old, single, married, etc.etc.etc.
The plain and simple fact for me is that the sanctity of sex stands by itself. It should be right up there with love, marriage, brotherhood, peace, morality, and everything else that should be given respect.
Of course we all know that both men and women have used sex as a weapon. Let he or she who is without fault cast the first stone.
I remember in particular one very worldly batchmate who even back then was already oozing with sex appeal. She had no compunction in using sex to get what she wanted with her boyfriends.
That was the first time I realized that literally and figuratively, sex does sell.
On a lighter vein, one aunt of mine even told me that a wife can withhold her husband’s marital privileges when he won’t see things the way the wife wants him to. My aunt even winked at me, whispering , have him realize that it doesn’t come with the territory. That it’s not a given. Hmmmmmm, I answered her.
(And we wonder why there is politics in the bedroom? As an aside, I must admit, I can never look at my aunt’s husband the same way ever again!!!)
Another male confidant of mine honestly feels that his girlfriends having sex with him is their only way of proving their love.
Huh?
That’s like holding a gun to someone’s head in my opinion, I told him. And even as he kept explaining that it’s a guy thing, I told him to his face that he is a Neanderthal, an idiot , immature and manipulative. He had the grace to look ashamed.
Sex figures in a major way in any relationship.
A lot of us take it lightly and use it as a crutch, a tool, an agenda, and when we do, we demean it and reduce it to the physical act.
We use sex as a crutch when we believe it to be some kind of a quick fix, a pick-me-upper, a means to be happy and feel good about ourselves.
This has some kind of scientific basis because we know that the physical act itself results in the body producing endorphins. Google endorphins in the web and you will read that they naturally help lower our stress levels , help boost our confidence,and can even calm the high strung and the angstsy among us. Remember that movie, Postcards from the Edge where Annette Bening’s character was talking to Meryl Streep whose role was that of a drug dependent actress-daughter of a fading star? Ms. Bening said something like how she loves getting that ENDOLPHIN RUSH, or as she laughingly corrected herself, ENDORPHIN. That was the first time I ever heard that word in a movie, but that is an example of how sex is used for instant gratification and nothing more.
Just to make you feel good. The whole point is you, your partner doesn’t even figure. End of conversation.
And don’t get me started on how sex can be a tool…the most important item on one’s agenda.
How many movie stars landed plum roles because of the casting couch? That’s sex at work again.
How many fat contracts are won in the boudoir ? You’re right , sex must have had a hand in a lot of them too.
But thankfully, without being smug or self righteous about it, we know that sex can be wonderful. Sex being the physical side of love enables us to make the intangible, tangible. Or vice versa.
It is precisely during these times when sex is treated as sacred does it become the most sublime expression of love.
As a married woman, rightly or wrongly I cannot help but speak of sex and love in the same breath. I totally believe that the purest kind of love is unconditional. It’s the love you give a baby. You have no expectations of getting anything in return, you just give it all you ‘ve got.
And unless you didn’t notice, pay attention to how that baby receives your love. With no qualms, no excuses, no doubts, no regrets. Taken totally at face value, completely, without question. That’s love in return.
And maybe that is the exact reason why sex is indeed sacred, it’s because love is in the picture. It’s only then that it becomes the most wonderful , uplifting , joyous union. It becomes a complete surrender of your self, it’s revealing your person at your most vulnerable, and you give---and get, total trust and commitment knowing fully well that your partner is as vulnerable, loving, trusting and committed as you are.
Poets and mystics have gone as far as saying that having sex and love is like seeing the face of God. My own husband simplistically says that the whole point to marriage is having children, a way by which we are blessed with the power to participate in God’s wonderful act of creation. (I took one look at him, and asked, who are you and what have you done with my husband ??? )
Which brings me back to my point: Sex is indeed sacred.
So sacred in fact that you do it to express your most profound feeling of love for another person.
So sacred in fact that you give yourself fully, completely, having no second thoughts nor doubts that the other person will keep the intimacy just between the two of you, and will never kiss and tell , never blab about your secrets or your weaknesses, and will never treat you as an object.
Sex is sacred.
It is the reason why it is the most intimate, private relationship , the most expressive way you can make another person feel your affection and love .Again, I cannot say it enough, it is a complete surrender of oneself, a testament of trust and commitment.
Debase it and you debase yourself.
And so far, the lowest form of debasement I’ve ever encountered is when just lately, someone ( or maybe there was more than just one person ) uploaded a supposedly sacred and private act on the internet--- for all the world to see, barring none, not even the young, the perverts, the holier-than-thou’s and the ambulance chasers. That person posted it and left it for everyone to ridicule, judge and ogle.
And only that person alone would know why he or she did it, whether to use it as a crutch, a tool, or a weapon. Certainly and obviously, it was not to make the point that sex is sacred.
I wonder if it’s too late for him (or her) to meet my high school teacher.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER TWELVE YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS, PLEASE TEXT 09205355053.
article 7. What they don't show you in those soccer commercials...
BECAUSE I SAID SO
By BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON
Soccer is one of the most glamorized sports on TV, on ads and more so, in the movies. We have Beckham and company to thank for that, and way before them, there was Pele, who was actually a god amongst ordinary mortals. Pele reinvented soccer. He defied gravity way before even the term Air Jordan was coined. He could leap into midair, flip and twist and kick, delivering the “scissor” flawlessly ---a kick that my eleven year-old son gushes about and wishes he can already execute. I must admit I dread the day.
But he’s working at it. Has been since day one. For the fifth year running, my son has enrolled in soccer summer camp. During the school year, he juggles schoolwork and soccer varsity and a million other chores and projects. But still, after a long, hard year , when summer comes, instead of looking forward to long , lazy days of doing nothing, he lives for the day when summer soccer camp begins. And to top it--- as if waking up at 5am for training every morning from this day forward until the end of April is not enough --- he had to enroll in another soccer school too, so that his Wednesday and Friday afternoons are also spent playing his most favorite game. Two soccer camps --- ergo , twice the torture, twice the sacrifice, twice the pressure ---on us , his parents ( but then, on my son’s part, soccer can never be torture, sacrifice or pressure--- to him, playing soccer is pure joy).
But that brings me to my point. That’s what they don’t show you in those glamorous soccer commercials! During every young athlete’s training day, which always starts at unholy hours in the morning --- right there on the sidelines are his first true fans : his parents. They look sleep –deprived and harassed and even sweatier than the players, and some of them don’t even look like they can throw a ball even if their lives depended on it, but hey, they’re there. Everyday. Not just during the actual competition when it’s time to bring home the trophy.
That’s the easy part. It’s the everyday that ‘s harder, for that is definitely seven times the commitment.
And I have totally seen very committed parents.
Whether they are parents who may be living their own soccer dreams through their sons (like my husband)…or they are parents who may be imagining already the fame that their sons would have in the near future ( like myself), and even if these are the very same parents who maybe just a few hours earlier were praying for a miracle that would make their son change their minds about enrolling in soccer – again (like my husband and I) , these parents never waver in their commitment. As they gave in to the relentless cajoling, whining , pleading and bargaining that only a very determined young soccer player can unleash, knowingly they gave up hopes of ever having late morning breakfasts in bed again , or even of just sleeping in, or having a relaxed drive to work in the morning. It means rearranging your schedules like your meetings and your lunches ,it means even postponing your own birthdays and anniversaries in case a game falls on the same day. You moan and you complain ---for you definitely had your own ideas on how to spend your summer ---but still, there you are in the bleachers in front of the soccer field smiling at the sight of your kid, everyday.
One of us should always be there to drop him off , and another one should pick him up on time. We have to keep track of orientations, festivals, extra practices, socials, etc.etc. It means straining the budget if need be, so that there will be enough to spare for soccer shoes, socks, goalie gloves, shin guards. For alongside the commitment is the sacrifice.
You’re a soccer mom and dad. Accept it, deal with it.
Believe me, you don’t want to miss a minute of it. You just have to be there. To see him kick a goal ( or…not) …to see him make the slide that steals the ball ( or… not)…for you to see the moment when he catches the kick that wins his team the game (--- or not).
Win or lose , you should be there. Show up. That’s the role of the parent : to show up , cheer and root and yell yourself hoarse. You should closely watch your son and memorize every move he makes, whether a good one or a decidedly wrong one. Because right after the game, believe me, he will ask if you saw him do this and that and that and this and you better be able to say yes, of course: I had my eyes on you.
Think of the Tiger Woods and his dad. He started his son early. Think of Michael Jordan and his old man. What age did their dads and moms stop being just plain parents and added groupie to their job descriptions?
We’ve been my son’s soccer groupies for the last 5 years.
And we’ve been together with other parents with soccer playing sons like ours all these years.
We’ve relished the rewards together. And I’m not just talking about the times I saw my own son made a goal kick successfully. Twice.( My hair all stood at their ends). Or the time our soccer players valiantly rallied and finally won. And more so, the times when they left the field heartbroken for coming so close to winning , but not close enough.
The reward also comes in the realization that it is easy enough for kids to enjoy soccer, or any game for that matter. They only need an adult who cares enough to let them play. And I was privileged to have my realization confirmed when a group of soccer players from Tondo started coming to our school.
It just so happens that some of our coaches share their time with these kids by coaching them in soccer. So even if
during the week, a good number of these Tondo kids pick up trash, sell plastic bags, run after jeeps and buses perhaps to sell cigarettes and newspapers, still one day a week, these coaches bring them over… and they play their hearts out.
Sometimes they win and sometimes they lose. Some of them are really skilled. Which is food for thought already, because they can’t have enough time for practice. And it’s really harder to play when you don’t have the gear. Plus when you’re worrying that the time you spend playing can be spent somewhere else , like at work.
But still. On the days they came to play, at that exact moment, the game is all theirs. Win or lose, they live for the game. And guess who’s right at the bleachers in front of them, rooting and yelling themselves hoarse.
Their own parents.
Which shows you that there’s not much diff between their parents and my own circle of soccer moms and dads. Admittedly, the Tondo kids far outnumber their parents who attend their games. They have fewer parents who can really spare time to go with the kids all the way to our school. But what matters is that still, the few mothers and the one or two fathers, plus their coaches who came with them are precisely there to enable the kids to play. These adults, parents all---they showed up, and they let the kids play.
In Victor Hugo’s great book, Les Miserables, Jean Valjean paid the Thernadiers gold to let Cosette play. And while she played , he stayed by her and watched her. As a true parent does. As these parents of Tondo do. As we do, too.
That is definitely something that should figure one day in a great commercial.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON has been an Advertising Creative Director for almost two decades. It was her son Anton, an eleven year old budding copywriter and commercial talent , who thought of her column’s name.
By BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON
Soccer is one of the most glamorized sports on TV, on ads and more so, in the movies. We have Beckham and company to thank for that, and way before them, there was Pele, who was actually a god amongst ordinary mortals. Pele reinvented soccer. He defied gravity way before even the term Air Jordan was coined. He could leap into midair, flip and twist and kick, delivering the “scissor” flawlessly ---a kick that my eleven year-old son gushes about and wishes he can already execute. I must admit I dread the day.
But he’s working at it. Has been since day one. For the fifth year running, my son has enrolled in soccer summer camp. During the school year, he juggles schoolwork and soccer varsity and a million other chores and projects. But still, after a long, hard year , when summer comes, instead of looking forward to long , lazy days of doing nothing, he lives for the day when summer soccer camp begins. And to top it--- as if waking up at 5am for training every morning from this day forward until the end of April is not enough --- he had to enroll in another soccer school too, so that his Wednesday and Friday afternoons are also spent playing his most favorite game. Two soccer camps --- ergo , twice the torture, twice the sacrifice, twice the pressure ---on us , his parents ( but then, on my son’s part, soccer can never be torture, sacrifice or pressure--- to him, playing soccer is pure joy).
But that brings me to my point. That’s what they don’t show you in those glamorous soccer commercials! During every young athlete’s training day, which always starts at unholy hours in the morning --- right there on the sidelines are his first true fans : his parents. They look sleep –deprived and harassed and even sweatier than the players, and some of them don’t even look like they can throw a ball even if their lives depended on it, but hey, they’re there. Everyday. Not just during the actual competition when it’s time to bring home the trophy.
That’s the easy part. It’s the everyday that ‘s harder, for that is definitely seven times the commitment.
And I have totally seen very committed parents.
Whether they are parents who may be living their own soccer dreams through their sons (like my husband)…or they are parents who may be imagining already the fame that their sons would have in the near future ( like myself), and even if these are the very same parents who maybe just a few hours earlier were praying for a miracle that would make their son change their minds about enrolling in soccer – again (like my husband and I) , these parents never waver in their commitment. As they gave in to the relentless cajoling, whining , pleading and bargaining that only a very determined young soccer player can unleash, knowingly they gave up hopes of ever having late morning breakfasts in bed again , or even of just sleeping in, or having a relaxed drive to work in the morning. It means rearranging your schedules like your meetings and your lunches ,it means even postponing your own birthdays and anniversaries in case a game falls on the same day. You moan and you complain ---for you definitely had your own ideas on how to spend your summer ---but still, there you are in the bleachers in front of the soccer field smiling at the sight of your kid, everyday.
One of us should always be there to drop him off , and another one should pick him up on time. We have to keep track of orientations, festivals, extra practices, socials, etc.etc. It means straining the budget if need be, so that there will be enough to spare for soccer shoes, socks, goalie gloves, shin guards. For alongside the commitment is the sacrifice.
You’re a soccer mom and dad. Accept it, deal with it.
Believe me, you don’t want to miss a minute of it. You just have to be there. To see him kick a goal ( or…not) …to see him make the slide that steals the ball ( or… not)…for you to see the moment when he catches the kick that wins his team the game (--- or not).
Win or lose , you should be there. Show up. That’s the role of the parent : to show up , cheer and root and yell yourself hoarse. You should closely watch your son and memorize every move he makes, whether a good one or a decidedly wrong one. Because right after the game, believe me, he will ask if you saw him do this and that and that and this and you better be able to say yes, of course: I had my eyes on you.
Think of the Tiger Woods and his dad. He started his son early. Think of Michael Jordan and his old man. What age did their dads and moms stop being just plain parents and added groupie to their job descriptions?
We’ve been my son’s soccer groupies for the last 5 years.
And we’ve been together with other parents with soccer playing sons like ours all these years.
We’ve relished the rewards together. And I’m not just talking about the times I saw my own son made a goal kick successfully. Twice.( My hair all stood at their ends). Or the time our soccer players valiantly rallied and finally won. And more so, the times when they left the field heartbroken for coming so close to winning , but not close enough.
The reward also comes in the realization that it is easy enough for kids to enjoy soccer, or any game for that matter. They only need an adult who cares enough to let them play. And I was privileged to have my realization confirmed when a group of soccer players from Tondo started coming to our school.
It just so happens that some of our coaches share their time with these kids by coaching them in soccer. So even if
during the week, a good number of these Tondo kids pick up trash, sell plastic bags, run after jeeps and buses perhaps to sell cigarettes and newspapers, still one day a week, these coaches bring them over… and they play their hearts out.
Sometimes they win and sometimes they lose. Some of them are really skilled. Which is food for thought already, because they can’t have enough time for practice. And it’s really harder to play when you don’t have the gear. Plus when you’re worrying that the time you spend playing can be spent somewhere else , like at work.
But still. On the days they came to play, at that exact moment, the game is all theirs. Win or lose, they live for the game. And guess who’s right at the bleachers in front of them, rooting and yelling themselves hoarse.
Their own parents.
Which shows you that there’s not much diff between their parents and my own circle of soccer moms and dads. Admittedly, the Tondo kids far outnumber their parents who attend their games. They have fewer parents who can really spare time to go with the kids all the way to our school. But what matters is that still, the few mothers and the one or two fathers, plus their coaches who came with them are precisely there to enable the kids to play. These adults, parents all---they showed up, and they let the kids play.
In Victor Hugo’s great book, Les Miserables, Jean Valjean paid the Thernadiers gold to let Cosette play. And while she played , he stayed by her and watched her. As a true parent does. As these parents of Tondo do. As we do, too.
That is definitely something that should figure one day in a great commercial.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON has been an Advertising Creative Director for almost two decades. It was her son Anton, an eleven year old budding copywriter and commercial talent , who thought of her column’s name.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
ARTICLE 16. A Wedding in the Rain...
It’s my sweet friend Ca’s wedding today.
For months, with her closest friends behind her and her husband- to- be in tow, she had art directed and styled her own wedding, the way she’s always envisioned it to be. All the commercials she’s written in her 9-year career in advertising will not hold a candle to this, her own personal mega-production. She had everything scripted, and everything will wonderfully fall into place… from the stars in her hair… to the stars in her eyes. But still, even the most well- rehearsed plays get glitches, and it seems that summer has decided to bow out way ahead of time, depriving Ca of a sunshine-dappled garden wedding. Still , we her friends are still praying for the sun to make an appearance today. But in case it doesn’t, I will just tell ca that maybe the rains serve as a gentle reminder -- to us all, and to her especially, that into one’s life---and marriage, a little rain does fall.
I know that the rains will not make Ca less beautiful on her wedding day. The same way that a little rain cannot undo a marriage.
Weddings bolster my belief in love. It restores my faith in everyone’s desire to find that one person to whom one will pledge one’s love and life to. Someone to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, or to paraphrase two great songs, to have someone to watch over, someone to love and feed and shelter, when you’re both 64 —or better yet, 104.
Weddings reaffirm my faith in hope.
At that point in the ceremony when the bride and groom say their I do’s, believing that their shared life with this person will be wonderful ---even if at the back of their minds, they fully accept that bad times may come (for don’t they all happen to everyone?), I smile and say to myself that well, that’s hope.
Right in front of everyone, they both publicly declare their intentions, part of which is to build a home with this other person --- who may one day prove to be different from that person they married, or will grow to become the opposite of the person they loved in the first place. Still, that’s hope.
And when they both pledge their love for the other person, knowing that they themselves may become different people down the road, that more than anything else, is hope.
One knows all these after having been married for sometime. Been there, done that, yet still at it. Luckily, and wonderfully, still to the same person all these time, even if we’ve grown so much all these years----happily, not apart.
Hope is the thing with feathers after all. It gives wings to dreams--- and what better dream than to live together happily with your spouse ---at least most of the time ----for ever after ?
That’s why you also put in more than 100% of yourself to make not just a wedding work, but more so a marriage.
Long after the wedding bells have stopped ringing, marriage is a live thing that has to be fed and nourished.
In fact, like other brides, Ca has already put in so much into her marriage from the way she poured her heart into her wedding preparations. I remember how she came back from somewhere one time, all sweaty and stressed, for she herself rushed to a store where she could get her dream souvenirs. I took one look at that bulky, huge package ---that must at least have been 5 kilos ( and she’s but a slip of a gir!) , and I imagined her lugging that box up the MRT station and down.
Triple A for effort!
But then, the efforts of both Rex and Ca to make this wedding a success are of course Herculean. Like any other couple facing matrimony, they had a hundred and one other errands and chores and decisions needing their attention before the wedding. But that image of Ca in my mind, lugging that 5 kilo box is my personal favorite. That alone already shows you that she’s made of sterner stuff. Which is a wonderful gift for her husband to be , and even more for the children their marriage will be blessed with.
Alongside that gift, I humbly offer the thought that fittingly, it’s not just the bride and the groom who have invested in this coming marriage. I think of Ca’s dear friends who flew in from the other side of the globe to be with the couple on this day, and equally precious friends and family who bent backwards to make this day the most special of days. They they too then bless this marriage with their gifts.
Ca told me hours before the wedding that she’s having the jitters. In fact, I am positive that she used the words “ nasusuka ako.” Derive comfort from this Woody Allen quip then, my friend which I paraphrase :
“I knew I was in love. Why? Well, first of all, I was very nauseous”. Your nausea, Ca, is love. And together with hope, they are the best reasons to get, and stay married.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SISTER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
For months, with her closest friends behind her and her husband- to- be in tow, she had art directed and styled her own wedding, the way she’s always envisioned it to be. All the commercials she’s written in her 9-year career in advertising will not hold a candle to this, her own personal mega-production. She had everything scripted, and everything will wonderfully fall into place… from the stars in her hair… to the stars in her eyes. But still, even the most well- rehearsed plays get glitches, and it seems that summer has decided to bow out way ahead of time, depriving Ca of a sunshine-dappled garden wedding. Still , we her friends are still praying for the sun to make an appearance today. But in case it doesn’t, I will just tell ca that maybe the rains serve as a gentle reminder -- to us all, and to her especially, that into one’s life---and marriage, a little rain does fall.
I know that the rains will not make Ca less beautiful on her wedding day. The same way that a little rain cannot undo a marriage.
Weddings bolster my belief in love. It restores my faith in everyone’s desire to find that one person to whom one will pledge one’s love and life to. Someone to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, or to paraphrase two great songs, to have someone to watch over, someone to love and feed and shelter, when you’re both 64 —or better yet, 104.
Weddings reaffirm my faith in hope.
At that point in the ceremony when the bride and groom say their I do’s, believing that their shared life with this person will be wonderful ---even if at the back of their minds, they fully accept that bad times may come (for don’t they all happen to everyone?), I smile and say to myself that well, that’s hope.
Right in front of everyone, they both publicly declare their intentions, part of which is to build a home with this other person --- who may one day prove to be different from that person they married, or will grow to become the opposite of the person they loved in the first place. Still, that’s hope.
And when they both pledge their love for the other person, knowing that they themselves may become different people down the road, that more than anything else, is hope.
One knows all these after having been married for sometime. Been there, done that, yet still at it. Luckily, and wonderfully, still to the same person all these time, even if we’ve grown so much all these years----happily, not apart.
Hope is the thing with feathers after all. It gives wings to dreams--- and what better dream than to live together happily with your spouse ---at least most of the time ----for ever after ?
That’s why you also put in more than 100% of yourself to make not just a wedding work, but more so a marriage.
Long after the wedding bells have stopped ringing, marriage is a live thing that has to be fed and nourished.
In fact, like other brides, Ca has already put in so much into her marriage from the way she poured her heart into her wedding preparations. I remember how she came back from somewhere one time, all sweaty and stressed, for she herself rushed to a store where she could get her dream souvenirs. I took one look at that bulky, huge package ---that must at least have been 5 kilos ( and she’s but a slip of a gir!) , and I imagined her lugging that box up the MRT station and down.
Triple A for effort!
But then, the efforts of both Rex and Ca to make this wedding a success are of course Herculean. Like any other couple facing matrimony, they had a hundred and one other errands and chores and decisions needing their attention before the wedding. But that image of Ca in my mind, lugging that 5 kilo box is my personal favorite. That alone already shows you that she’s made of sterner stuff. Which is a wonderful gift for her husband to be , and even more for the children their marriage will be blessed with.
Alongside that gift, I humbly offer the thought that fittingly, it’s not just the bride and the groom who have invested in this coming marriage. I think of Ca’s dear friends who flew in from the other side of the globe to be with the couple on this day, and equally precious friends and family who bent backwards to make this day the most special of days. They they too then bless this marriage with their gifts.
Ca told me hours before the wedding that she’s having the jitters. In fact, I am positive that she used the words “ nasusuka ako.” Derive comfort from this Woody Allen quip then, my friend which I paraphrase :
“I knew I was in love. Why? Well, first of all, I was very nauseous”. Your nausea, Ca, is love. And together with hope, they are the best reasons to get, and stay married.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SISTER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
ARTICLE 20. a SPECIAL CHILD is a SPECIAL BLESSING. PART 2
A SPECIAL CHILD IS A SPECIAL BLESSING
PART 2
There were bigger surprises in store for us when we discovered that *Evan was autistic.
The biggest one was the fact that there were so many of us! There are millions of families with special children with very challenging, special needs. I think of us as a chosen people who must live lives less than ordinary.
Remember that movie of Marlee Matlin? The movie Children of a Lesser God. It presents the concept of a god who supposedly created deaf-mutes like the character Matlin played. I had to kill that thought. I had to believe that the same God who made children beautiful is the same God who gave us Evan.
I had to remember that Evan is a beautiful child, a special gift we are privileged to have been given.
And thankfully, even then and mucvh more today, my whole family believes this, nay , embraces this the same way we have embraced Evan’s special-ness.
At the beginning though, you can’t imagine how alone you feel when faced with the reality of your autistic child’s situation. In counseling and support group meetings for autistic parents in the US, I remember how one facilitator tells parents that according to statistics , 70% of them will get divorced in 3 years (or was it more ? I forget.). It’s just that hard to take care of an autistic child, especially during the early years.
Some couples grow apart. Some families break down. But Evan became the glue of the stickiest, toughest variety---think industrial strength--- that bound our family together.
As soon as we found the right doctor for him, we were on course, still with my sister at the helm.
Placing him in a special school was first priority. But I must admit, the waiting list was long. And one school we chose for Evan was a mistake because we discovered that one teacher there laid a hand on him. Of course we pulled him out of there, and when we finally found the best school for him, we felt that a major thorn on our side had disappeared.
Special education teachers are a special breed. My texter friend Krineza, an incoming college freshman , who is determined to become one herself will belong to this especially blessed tribe of people. And like them, she will have some pretty unusual experiences.
She will discover that the most basic things a regular child can do is a monumental task for a special kid..
Even the gentlest, most inspired parents are just not equipped nor trained for taking care of a special child. They had to be trained themselves, for they had to follow through, like how my sister and brother in law did with what Evan’s SPED teachers were training him.
Evan’s school did him a lot of good. Speech therapy worked wonders for him. He was picking up skills and much of his behavior was being modified. Alongside with ours.
It was a really tough uphill climb. Before Evan started school, his unacceptable behavior included smelling people ‘s feet, eating only one kind of food, snapping his fingers all the time, jumping up and down even on ledges, (autistic children have no sense of fear), and so many others more serious then, but thankfully today are but memories.But we were all there all the time. We were his cheering squad, his 911, his number one fans. We wouldn’t have missed it for the world, especially since a lot of the memories we gained were not at all unpleasant.
I remember attending one birthday party in Evan’s school Evan’s classmates were also special, and I remember thinking that you would not find anywhere else a more supportive, more loving set of parents than the parents in Evan’s class. They wanted their kids to have everything regular kids experience, and obviously a birthday party is top on the list. But in this particular birthday party, all the guests, even the celebrant , were all crying. All were bawling their hearts out for they wouldn’t eat the birthday food. You see, autistic children are creatures of habit. They remember what they eat, when they eat it, and the universe can implode tomorrow for all they care, they will still have rice and tocino on Monday, rice and tinola on Tuesday, etc, etc, you get my drift. It was the same with these kids. They wanted their own baon. In the spirit of the occasion, the parents bent the rules a little. They gave in and allowed the kids to eat their own “baon.” Guess what, the kid’s “baon” were mainly hotdogs, the same food as the “handa”. But did a single child touch the hotdog prepared on the party table ? Nah.
Evan has come a long , long way from that child who wouldn’t touch any other food but his own baon of hotdog, from that child who had speech problems, no social skills,
who threw tantrums and wept when any little change disrupted his life.
Evan is no longer alone in his own little world.
For starters, Evan is in high school. He has been mainstreamed for some regular subjects, he has friends, he loves going to the movies with his dad (but he hasn’t lost his penchant for memorizing : he has committed to memory all the movies he’s seen, when he saw them, and where, and he has also memorized the schedule of HBO). He also has his own favorite food these days---and you can be sure it’s not just hotdog. His world is no longer as “shut” as as it was before. One fine day, my son who has always complained that Kuya Evan never plays with him, tried for the 1000th time to throw a ball at Evan, in an effort to make him catch it. That one fine day, Evan did catch it, and even threw it back, not just once but thrice! We’re playing Mom, my son shouted with glee, and that is one family milestone which gave us such joy.
Evan has also learned to express himself and his feelings. One time when we were visiting him, my son was especially rowdy, making a ruckus while Evan was doing his Filipino assignment. Evan got so exasperated that he wrote two sentences that were “pasalaysay”: “Si Anton ay malikot. Si Evan ay mabait.”
I could have added to that. Si Evan ay matalino. Si Evan ay mapagmahal. Si Evan ay mahal namin dahil siya ang aming special child na isang special blessing sa aming lahat.
I know that the parents and extended family of special kids need greater patience, strength and perseverance. We all need bigger hearts, we all need bigger minds.
A new friend, a texter named Ted Ruiz shared that having a child with special needs could really be a challenge. But in the end, you need only remember that though their bodies are physically challenged and their minds limited, these bodies are only temporary. Their souls are intact and will live forever. And that is one thing for sure that special kids, like my high functioning autistic nephew Evan, have in their corner. Their souls are pure. They are angels on earth. They are innocent little children forever.
Definitely, they are not children of a lesser God, but a greater one who knew exactly to which parents He should give them. It makes such awful good sense, one wonderful realization that makes you exult at how smart the One up there really is.
There can be no one else, and no one less…but special parents for special children.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER , SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER TWELVE YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
FOR COMMENTS, KINDLY TEXT 0920535 5053.
PART 2
There were bigger surprises in store for us when we discovered that *Evan was autistic.
The biggest one was the fact that there were so many of us! There are millions of families with special children with very challenging, special needs. I think of us as a chosen people who must live lives less than ordinary.
Remember that movie of Marlee Matlin? The movie Children of a Lesser God. It presents the concept of a god who supposedly created deaf-mutes like the character Matlin played. I had to kill that thought. I had to believe that the same God who made children beautiful is the same God who gave us Evan.
I had to remember that Evan is a beautiful child, a special gift we are privileged to have been given.
And thankfully, even then and mucvh more today, my whole family believes this, nay , embraces this the same way we have embraced Evan’s special-ness.
At the beginning though, you can’t imagine how alone you feel when faced with the reality of your autistic child’s situation. In counseling and support group meetings for autistic parents in the US, I remember how one facilitator tells parents that according to statistics , 70% of them will get divorced in 3 years (or was it more ? I forget.). It’s just that hard to take care of an autistic child, especially during the early years.
Some couples grow apart. Some families break down. But Evan became the glue of the stickiest, toughest variety---think industrial strength--- that bound our family together.
As soon as we found the right doctor for him, we were on course, still with my sister at the helm.
Placing him in a special school was first priority. But I must admit, the waiting list was long. And one school we chose for Evan was a mistake because we discovered that one teacher there laid a hand on him. Of course we pulled him out of there, and when we finally found the best school for him, we felt that a major thorn on our side had disappeared.
Special education teachers are a special breed. My texter friend Krineza, an incoming college freshman , who is determined to become one herself will belong to this especially blessed tribe of people. And like them, she will have some pretty unusual experiences.
She will discover that the most basic things a regular child can do is a monumental task for a special kid..
Even the gentlest, most inspired parents are just not equipped nor trained for taking care of a special child. They had to be trained themselves, for they had to follow through, like how my sister and brother in law did with what Evan’s SPED teachers were training him.
Evan’s school did him a lot of good. Speech therapy worked wonders for him. He was picking up skills and much of his behavior was being modified. Alongside with ours.
It was a really tough uphill climb. Before Evan started school, his unacceptable behavior included smelling people ‘s feet, eating only one kind of food, snapping his fingers all the time, jumping up and down even on ledges, (autistic children have no sense of fear), and so many others more serious then, but thankfully today are but memories.But we were all there all the time. We were his cheering squad, his 911, his number one fans. We wouldn’t have missed it for the world, especially since a lot of the memories we gained were not at all unpleasant.
I remember attending one birthday party in Evan’s school Evan’s classmates were also special, and I remember thinking that you would not find anywhere else a more supportive, more loving set of parents than the parents in Evan’s class. They wanted their kids to have everything regular kids experience, and obviously a birthday party is top on the list. But in this particular birthday party, all the guests, even the celebrant , were all crying. All were bawling their hearts out for they wouldn’t eat the birthday food. You see, autistic children are creatures of habit. They remember what they eat, when they eat it, and the universe can implode tomorrow for all they care, they will still have rice and tocino on Monday, rice and tinola on Tuesday, etc, etc, you get my drift. It was the same with these kids. They wanted their own baon. In the spirit of the occasion, the parents bent the rules a little. They gave in and allowed the kids to eat their own “baon.” Guess what, the kid’s “baon” were mainly hotdogs, the same food as the “handa”. But did a single child touch the hotdog prepared on the party table ? Nah.
Evan has come a long , long way from that child who wouldn’t touch any other food but his own baon of hotdog, from that child who had speech problems, no social skills,
who threw tantrums and wept when any little change disrupted his life.
Evan is no longer alone in his own little world.
For starters, Evan is in high school. He has been mainstreamed for some regular subjects, he has friends, he loves going to the movies with his dad (but he hasn’t lost his penchant for memorizing : he has committed to memory all the movies he’s seen, when he saw them, and where, and he has also memorized the schedule of HBO). He also has his own favorite food these days---and you can be sure it’s not just hotdog. His world is no longer as “shut” as as it was before. One fine day, my son who has always complained that Kuya Evan never plays with him, tried for the 1000th time to throw a ball at Evan, in an effort to make him catch it. That one fine day, Evan did catch it, and even threw it back, not just once but thrice! We’re playing Mom, my son shouted with glee, and that is one family milestone which gave us such joy.
Evan has also learned to express himself and his feelings. One time when we were visiting him, my son was especially rowdy, making a ruckus while Evan was doing his Filipino assignment. Evan got so exasperated that he wrote two sentences that were “pasalaysay”: “Si Anton ay malikot. Si Evan ay mabait.”
I could have added to that. Si Evan ay matalino. Si Evan ay mapagmahal. Si Evan ay mahal namin dahil siya ang aming special child na isang special blessing sa aming lahat.
I know that the parents and extended family of special kids need greater patience, strength and perseverance. We all need bigger hearts, we all need bigger minds.
A new friend, a texter named Ted Ruiz shared that having a child with special needs could really be a challenge. But in the end, you need only remember that though their bodies are physically challenged and their minds limited, these bodies are only temporary. Their souls are intact and will live forever. And that is one thing for sure that special kids, like my high functioning autistic nephew Evan, have in their corner. Their souls are pure. They are angels on earth. They are innocent little children forever.
Definitely, they are not children of a lesser God, but a greater one who knew exactly to which parents He should give them. It makes such awful good sense, one wonderful realization that makes you exult at how smart the One up there really is.
There can be no one else, and no one less…but special parents for special children.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER , SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER TWELVE YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
FOR COMMENTS, KINDLY TEXT 0920535 5053.
article 19. A SPECIAL CHILD IS A SPECIAL BLESSING,PART 1
When my nephew was turning two, I got a call from my sister in the middle of a work day. A call that would forever change our lives.
I think Evan* is special, my sister told me.
Of course he is special, I retorted. All children are special.
No , special-special. That kind of special, my sister persisted. Specifically, I think he’s autistic.
I could hear the tears in her voice over the phone. That was the exact moment that a chapter in our lives ended---it was curtains down, the end. From then on, our world just wasn’t the same perfect one it was just a few minutes before I got that fateful call.
How do you take care of an autistic child?
I have never had any personal encounters with autistic children before .But I do remember seeing a TV movie when I was still in college , and I remember that in that story, the child overcame his autism with the help of his mother. I also knew that the mind of an autistic child was differently “wired”. Autistic children were said to live in a world of their own, mainly because they perceive the world differently. I remembered also that just a few years back, Rainman was such a big hit, and that movie alone must have opened the eyes of the world to what autism is all about. Dustin Hoffman was autistic in that movie, but he was also an idiot savant, for he was psychologically challenged but he had genius as well. Was it possible that our own family was facing this kind of a challenge ? I was at a loss for words. I didn’t feel adequate with what I knew. I didn’t know what to say to my sister. But it turned out that she had a lot to tell me, for she was watching a medical program that afternoon, and a doctor was being interviewed regarding the condition.
The good doctor had enumerated and explained fully the 14 or so symptoms of autism. As he went through the list, my sister got more and more worried, because she realized that Evan* had more than 12 of them.
He was echolalic. He could never answer even a direct question. What he did was that he “echoed” them. For example, if you ask him, Do you want hotdogs, Evan? --- he’d answer, Do you want hotdogs, Evan.
He engaged in “unusual play.” He never played cops and robbers, Batman and Robin,
or raced cars or engaged in hide and seek. He was engrossed with batteries and rubbing alcohol.
He also had a fetish of sorts. He liked smelling our feet. Which at first was funny and made us giggle except when he insisted on doing it even in public. Everytime we refused, he cried inconsolably. Clearly, something was not right.
He could never point at something using his own finger. What he’d do was that he’d take somebody else’s arm and use that to point at the thing he wanted.
He threw such huge tantrums when you deviate from his routine. Like one time, my sister decided to take a short cut driving home and instead of turning left, turned right. Evan shrieked and screamed and howled, and he wouldn’t stop, and wouldn’t let anyone hug him or comfort him. He wept and shouted and bawled , like his little heart would break, which reduced us to tears and to such a feeling of helplessness. Nothing could stop the rage Evan must have felt at having his world turned upside down. For us, it was the longest ten –minute drive home ever.
Another symptom I remember is that autistic children are “aloof.” My brother –in-law used to call Evan , suplado. That’s because he will never turn his head to look at you even if you call his name.
And he wasn’t much of a talker. He used stock phrases. He would never launch into a story of what he’s done or said. He never initiated a conversation.
But my sister already had a plan of action. She had picked up a term from that program, and it gave her focus: something could be done about Evan’s autism : EARLY INTERVENTION.
Early intervention. It became my sister’s anchor, and it kept her steady as she took the lead. While she led , we followed. If not for her, the rest of the family would have been too stunned to do anything about Evan.
I must admit though that I was the one who found it hard to accept that Evan was autistic. In my eyes, my nephew, my inaanak was---nay , is--- and will always be perfect.
All the strange things he did in the past, I called them wonderful and creative. When he played with batteries and put one small one beside a big one,the looked up at me and said, Mama! Baby ! -- I felt such joy that I must have crushed him in my arms. And I gushed over the fact that he saw something different in just a pair of old batteries—it was like seeing the world with a different set of eyes!
There was one time he was bored while my husband and I were asking him to spell words. We asked him to spell cat, and he spelled c-a-t very unenthusiastically. Boy, we said, and again, with hardly any feeling, he spelled, b-o-y. Then , suddenly, he sat up and asked my husband, Ninong! Spell NEWSWATCH. My husband’s jaws fell. Okay, Evan, spell NEWSWATCH. And he proceeded to spell it , nay, shout it joyfully. Then he said, spell BANGKOK! SPELL SCENE! SPELL JURASSIC PARK! SPELL TOYOTA! SPELL MITSUBISHI!
He spelled them all perfectly. My newphew’s a genius , I told my husband, my sister, her husband, my friends, our neighbors, until the whole family must have spent the whole night babbling about Evan’s singular feat.
And what about that time he recited 4 or maybe 5 digit numbers, in succession, and we were all mystified, for when he’d reach the number 1592, he ‘d grin and do a little jig. My husband explained to us that the numbers were multiples. Then my sister discovered that the number were the dials on the car radio.
I was prepared to argue with whoever doctor we were going to consult about Evan’s condition. I was going to tell him that no way is my nephew autistic.
I was the one in denial. But my sister was the one with determination.
She was going to get help for Evan.
Little did I know that we were in for bigger surprises.
ON MONDAY, PART TWO OF A SPECIAL CHILD IS A SPECIAL GIFT.
*I changed my nephew’s name to protect his privacy
BOOTS MA. GARCIA –SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER , DAUGHTER, SISTER , ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR AND WRITER, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER TWELVE YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
TEXT MESSAGES WELCOME. PLEASE TEXT 0920535 5053
I think Evan* is special, my sister told me.
Of course he is special, I retorted. All children are special.
No , special-special. That kind of special, my sister persisted. Specifically, I think he’s autistic.
I could hear the tears in her voice over the phone. That was the exact moment that a chapter in our lives ended---it was curtains down, the end. From then on, our world just wasn’t the same perfect one it was just a few minutes before I got that fateful call.
How do you take care of an autistic child?
I have never had any personal encounters with autistic children before .But I do remember seeing a TV movie when I was still in college , and I remember that in that story, the child overcame his autism with the help of his mother. I also knew that the mind of an autistic child was differently “wired”. Autistic children were said to live in a world of their own, mainly because they perceive the world differently. I remembered also that just a few years back, Rainman was such a big hit, and that movie alone must have opened the eyes of the world to what autism is all about. Dustin Hoffman was autistic in that movie, but he was also an idiot savant, for he was psychologically challenged but he had genius as well. Was it possible that our own family was facing this kind of a challenge ? I was at a loss for words. I didn’t feel adequate with what I knew. I didn’t know what to say to my sister. But it turned out that she had a lot to tell me, for she was watching a medical program that afternoon, and a doctor was being interviewed regarding the condition.
The good doctor had enumerated and explained fully the 14 or so symptoms of autism. As he went through the list, my sister got more and more worried, because she realized that Evan* had more than 12 of them.
He was echolalic. He could never answer even a direct question. What he did was that he “echoed” them. For example, if you ask him, Do you want hotdogs, Evan? --- he’d answer, Do you want hotdogs, Evan.
He engaged in “unusual play.” He never played cops and robbers, Batman and Robin,
or raced cars or engaged in hide and seek. He was engrossed with batteries and rubbing alcohol.
He also had a fetish of sorts. He liked smelling our feet. Which at first was funny and made us giggle except when he insisted on doing it even in public. Everytime we refused, he cried inconsolably. Clearly, something was not right.
He could never point at something using his own finger. What he’d do was that he’d take somebody else’s arm and use that to point at the thing he wanted.
He threw such huge tantrums when you deviate from his routine. Like one time, my sister decided to take a short cut driving home and instead of turning left, turned right. Evan shrieked and screamed and howled, and he wouldn’t stop, and wouldn’t let anyone hug him or comfort him. He wept and shouted and bawled , like his little heart would break, which reduced us to tears and to such a feeling of helplessness. Nothing could stop the rage Evan must have felt at having his world turned upside down. For us, it was the longest ten –minute drive home ever.
Another symptom I remember is that autistic children are “aloof.” My brother –in-law used to call Evan , suplado. That’s because he will never turn his head to look at you even if you call his name.
And he wasn’t much of a talker. He used stock phrases. He would never launch into a story of what he’s done or said. He never initiated a conversation.
But my sister already had a plan of action. She had picked up a term from that program, and it gave her focus: something could be done about Evan’s autism : EARLY INTERVENTION.
Early intervention. It became my sister’s anchor, and it kept her steady as she took the lead. While she led , we followed. If not for her, the rest of the family would have been too stunned to do anything about Evan.
I must admit though that I was the one who found it hard to accept that Evan was autistic. In my eyes, my nephew, my inaanak was---nay , is--- and will always be perfect.
All the strange things he did in the past, I called them wonderful and creative. When he played with batteries and put one small one beside a big one,the looked up at me and said, Mama! Baby ! -- I felt such joy that I must have crushed him in my arms. And I gushed over the fact that he saw something different in just a pair of old batteries—it was like seeing the world with a different set of eyes!
There was one time he was bored while my husband and I were asking him to spell words. We asked him to spell cat, and he spelled c-a-t very unenthusiastically. Boy, we said, and again, with hardly any feeling, he spelled, b-o-y. Then , suddenly, he sat up and asked my husband, Ninong! Spell NEWSWATCH. My husband’s jaws fell. Okay, Evan, spell NEWSWATCH. And he proceeded to spell it , nay, shout it joyfully. Then he said, spell BANGKOK! SPELL SCENE! SPELL JURASSIC PARK! SPELL TOYOTA! SPELL MITSUBISHI!
He spelled them all perfectly. My newphew’s a genius , I told my husband, my sister, her husband, my friends, our neighbors, until the whole family must have spent the whole night babbling about Evan’s singular feat.
And what about that time he recited 4 or maybe 5 digit numbers, in succession, and we were all mystified, for when he’d reach the number 1592, he ‘d grin and do a little jig. My husband explained to us that the numbers were multiples. Then my sister discovered that the number were the dials on the car radio.
I was prepared to argue with whoever doctor we were going to consult about Evan’s condition. I was going to tell him that no way is my nephew autistic.
I was the one in denial. But my sister was the one with determination.
She was going to get help for Evan.
Little did I know that we were in for bigger surprises.
ON MONDAY, PART TWO OF A SPECIAL CHILD IS A SPECIAL GIFT.
*I changed my nephew’s name to protect his privacy
BOOTS MA. GARCIA –SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER , DAUGHTER, SISTER , ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR AND WRITER, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER TWELVE YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
TEXT MESSAGES WELCOME. PLEASE TEXT 0920535 5053
article 18 in my column : ARE BAHAY KUBO & LERON LERON SINTA DEAD ???
I belong to a generation of grade schoolers who sang Bahay Kubo, Kahit Munti every morning in the classroom. This song was right up there with our National Anthem and our Panatang Makabayan. Without missing a beat , singing Bahay Kubo usually segued into Leron , leron sinta, puno ng papaya, dala-dala’y buslo, sisidlan ng bunga, pagdating sa dulo, nabali ang sanga, etc,etc,etc. If you know the rest of the lyrics, then take a bow, because us who do know the words are getting scarcer and scarcer.
It’s not that we’re a dying breed. It’s just that our native Filipino songs are dying a slow, painful death. Which inevitably leaves large, gaping holes in our oral tradition.
This thought disturbs me a lot.
Maybe it’s because these songs are just NOT sang in school anymore. Or hardly, rarely, if ever . I can understand that somehow the Amy, Suzie and Tessie of my childhood has evolved and morphed into a new version that features Nanay, Tatay , gusto kong tinapay, but somehow, the Filipino songs of my childhood are slipping into obscurity.
But then, I only got a heads up on the various changes in our grade school education when my own kid started school.
And the changes, they’ve been aplenty.
For one, I had to explain to a director-friend that the Filipino alphabet is no longer just composed of A, B, K, D , E ,G , H ,I, L , M, N, NG, O, P , R, S , T , U , W , Y.
And I only found out when my son started Gr. One. Before his classes started, I flipped the pages of his school books idly, more for curiosity than for enlightenment. My eyes popped open when I opened his Filipino textbook . Right there on the earliest pages was the new Filipino alphabet. And it includes C, F, J, N, X, Z. ( Am not sure if the Spanish hache is part, too). I was living under a rock all those years, and you can imagine how major a revelation that was to me. Of course, any grade school parent with a kid ahead of my own son would have known already this new alphabet. But 6 years ago I was still oblivious of the fact, and I can imagine that I wasn’t alone. After all, it took me to enlighten my director friend who has no kids in school.
Sadly, my memories of Don’t you go, don’t you go to far Zamboanga are also fading. So with Magtanim hindi biro, maghapong nakayuko, di ka man makatayo, di ka man makaupo.
And though I have wracked my brains for minutes, I cannot for the life of it recall the rest of this song. Manunugtug ay nangagpasimula, at nangagsayaw na ang mga mutya…
When I sang it to my son, he said, it’s beautiful mom, but where’s the rest of it?
Of course I am sure that somewhere in the Internet, or in one of the dusty bookshelves of the National Library is an ancient book that might contain all these songs. And CDs featuring these native songs recorded by the Madrigal Singers or some other stalwart in Filipino music might already have preserved them for posterity. Gladly , I will buy such a CD to help my own son learn the songs of my childhood, so that he too can one day sing it, hopefully to his own children.
For these songs to stay alive, we Filipinos must keep singing them. We must never forget these songs ( once we start forgetting, what else are we bound to forget ? our names? Our families ? Where we belong ?)
But there’s hope yet. After visiting his lola a few days ago, my son came home humming a little ditty that I faintly recognized. The more he hummed, and sang in some places, the more I knew it, until it dawned on me that he was singing, one day, hum hum hum hum… I saw, nakakita, one bird, isang ibon, hum hum, , lumilipad.
I laughed out loud! You actually know that , I asked him. Lola taught me , he said, as he proceeded to enthusiastically sing the whole song for my benefit.
One day, isang araw, I saw, nakakita, one bird, isang ibon, flying , lumilipad, I shot, binaril ko, I cooked, niluto ko, I ate, kinain ko, I sh_t, tin_e, ko!
The last line , for the benefit of those who are not in the loop--- simply mean that that poor dead bird became toilet humor, literally. In short, poop.
I almost died laughing.
Not the most politically correct song in the world, by today’s standards. Imagine how environmentalists would raise a howl at the line I shot, binaril ko---we just don’t shoot birds anymore, these are totally enlightened times! I had to tell my son that. Yet he insisted on singing the song again, even as he reassured me that mom, it’s only a song, I am not about to pick up my air rifle and start shooting tita Dodi’s lovebirds.
Of course I will have to correct my son. It is not only just a song. This one, and the others I grew up singing , wove the fabric of my identity as a Filipino. It not only got into my hair and my ears and my mind and my system, it made me Filipino. Nobody else but a Filipino would get the humor in this song, nobody else would be as amused at our penchant for translating our Filipino lyrics into English, or our penchant for rhyming even without reason, but a kapwa Filipino. Nobody would be able to recognize that there is such a word as leron, even if we can’t use the word in scrabble, or in any other sentence but leron, leron sinta, or even if the word doesn’t figure in any crossword puzzle right now--- not in our English speaking broadsheets and dailies anyway.
Nobody else but us Filipinos would be able to sing our hearts out to the words, sitaw , bataw, patane! Or feel a sudden rush of affection for the words Paa, tuhod, balikat, ulo, paa, tuhod , balikat, ulo. And only a Filipino will feel a catch in the throat , or feel his syes start to water, as the swell of pride and oneness in his chest overwhelms him at the sound of … Ibon mang may layang lumipad….
It’s our oral tradition. It should not only be set on type, recorded on tape or carved in stone, but also etched in our souls.
I intend to tell my son all these. As soon as he stops singing.
I cooked, kinain ko, I ate, kinain ko, I sh_t, tina_ ko !!!!
BOOTS MA.GARCIA – SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SISTER, SOCCER GROUPIE , ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR AND A PRETTY-GOOD BILLIARDS PLAYER, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. COMMENTS WELCOME. TEXT 09205355053.
It’s not that we’re a dying breed. It’s just that our native Filipino songs are dying a slow, painful death. Which inevitably leaves large, gaping holes in our oral tradition.
This thought disturbs me a lot.
Maybe it’s because these songs are just NOT sang in school anymore. Or hardly, rarely, if ever . I can understand that somehow the Amy, Suzie and Tessie of my childhood has evolved and morphed into a new version that features Nanay, Tatay , gusto kong tinapay, but somehow, the Filipino songs of my childhood are slipping into obscurity.
But then, I only got a heads up on the various changes in our grade school education when my own kid started school.
And the changes, they’ve been aplenty.
For one, I had to explain to a director-friend that the Filipino alphabet is no longer just composed of A, B, K, D , E ,G , H ,I, L , M, N, NG, O, P , R, S , T , U , W , Y.
And I only found out when my son started Gr. One. Before his classes started, I flipped the pages of his school books idly, more for curiosity than for enlightenment. My eyes popped open when I opened his Filipino textbook . Right there on the earliest pages was the new Filipino alphabet. And it includes C, F, J, N, X, Z. ( Am not sure if the Spanish hache is part, too). I was living under a rock all those years, and you can imagine how major a revelation that was to me. Of course, any grade school parent with a kid ahead of my own son would have known already this new alphabet. But 6 years ago I was still oblivious of the fact, and I can imagine that I wasn’t alone. After all, it took me to enlighten my director friend who has no kids in school.
Sadly, my memories of Don’t you go, don’t you go to far Zamboanga are also fading. So with Magtanim hindi biro, maghapong nakayuko, di ka man makatayo, di ka man makaupo.
And though I have wracked my brains for minutes, I cannot for the life of it recall the rest of this song. Manunugtug ay nangagpasimula, at nangagsayaw na ang mga mutya…
When I sang it to my son, he said, it’s beautiful mom, but where’s the rest of it?
Of course I am sure that somewhere in the Internet, or in one of the dusty bookshelves of the National Library is an ancient book that might contain all these songs. And CDs featuring these native songs recorded by the Madrigal Singers or some other stalwart in Filipino music might already have preserved them for posterity. Gladly , I will buy such a CD to help my own son learn the songs of my childhood, so that he too can one day sing it, hopefully to his own children.
For these songs to stay alive, we Filipinos must keep singing them. We must never forget these songs ( once we start forgetting, what else are we bound to forget ? our names? Our families ? Where we belong ?)
But there’s hope yet. After visiting his lola a few days ago, my son came home humming a little ditty that I faintly recognized. The more he hummed, and sang in some places, the more I knew it, until it dawned on me that he was singing, one day, hum hum hum hum… I saw, nakakita, one bird, isang ibon, hum hum, , lumilipad.
I laughed out loud! You actually know that , I asked him. Lola taught me , he said, as he proceeded to enthusiastically sing the whole song for my benefit.
One day, isang araw, I saw, nakakita, one bird, isang ibon, flying , lumilipad, I shot, binaril ko, I cooked, niluto ko, I ate, kinain ko, I sh_t, tin_e, ko!
The last line , for the benefit of those who are not in the loop--- simply mean that that poor dead bird became toilet humor, literally. In short, poop.
I almost died laughing.
Not the most politically correct song in the world, by today’s standards. Imagine how environmentalists would raise a howl at the line I shot, binaril ko---we just don’t shoot birds anymore, these are totally enlightened times! I had to tell my son that. Yet he insisted on singing the song again, even as he reassured me that mom, it’s only a song, I am not about to pick up my air rifle and start shooting tita Dodi’s lovebirds.
Of course I will have to correct my son. It is not only just a song. This one, and the others I grew up singing , wove the fabric of my identity as a Filipino. It not only got into my hair and my ears and my mind and my system, it made me Filipino. Nobody else but a Filipino would get the humor in this song, nobody else would be as amused at our penchant for translating our Filipino lyrics into English, or our penchant for rhyming even without reason, but a kapwa Filipino. Nobody would be able to recognize that there is such a word as leron, even if we can’t use the word in scrabble, or in any other sentence but leron, leron sinta, or even if the word doesn’t figure in any crossword puzzle right now--- not in our English speaking broadsheets and dailies anyway.
Nobody else but us Filipinos would be able to sing our hearts out to the words, sitaw , bataw, patane! Or feel a sudden rush of affection for the words Paa, tuhod, balikat, ulo, paa, tuhod , balikat, ulo. And only a Filipino will feel a catch in the throat , or feel his syes start to water, as the swell of pride and oneness in his chest overwhelms him at the sound of … Ibon mang may layang lumipad….
It’s our oral tradition. It should not only be set on type, recorded on tape or carved in stone, but also etched in our souls.
I intend to tell my son all these. As soon as he stops singing.
I cooked, kinain ko, I ate, kinain ko, I sh_t, tina_ ko !!!!
BOOTS MA.GARCIA – SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SISTER, SOCCER GROUPIE , ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR AND A PRETTY-GOOD BILLIARDS PLAYER, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. COMMENTS WELCOME. TEXT 09205355053.
MY TENTH ARTICLE IN MY COLUMN ; child labour in Advertising. :-)
When my son was a mere four year old tot, my producer –friend coaxed me into allowing him to voice for a public service ad.
Warning bells rang like crazy in my head.
Not only did he want my baby to voice the commercial, he also wanted him to be the talent in the commercial.
Public service naman eh, he winked at me. For the good of mankind.
What’s more, he argued, it’s not as if the boy doesn’t speak well. He’s also quite a head turner, quite good looking, my producer friend pointed out.
Flattery. The downfall of tyrants, even of the gods. I nipped it immediately in the bud. Of course my son speaks well, I said, but the script is in Tagalog---NOT easy for a boy --born to a Kapampangan mother and a Waray father--- but who believes himself to be a New Yorker! And as for good looking, hello, the storyboard calls for a child’s hand. To be even more precise, a child’s chubby little finger. Not even his nose, his eyelashes, the round of his cheek, nay, not even the shadow of his face will show in the commercial.
Public service ad naman eh, my producer friend repeated, smiling his best “sigi na” grin.
Brownie points in heaven.
That’s how I found myself a few days after in the recording studio with my 4 year old in tow.
So picture this: one very well-rehearsed 4 year old boy … one very determined producer, and one very demanding creative director (that’s me), at war with her indulgent mother persona (that’s me again).
Of course I was determined to get exactly the voice I’ve heard in my head from the very first day I wrote the commercial. One little sliver of doubt crossed my mind though as to whether my English speaking son could do it. But still, I was adamant: no special treatment--- even if the talent happens to be related to the creative person behind the script. I reminded my producer friend that let us be prepared to squeeze the lemon dry, even if it means having to make the talent deliver his lines the whole afternoon. Just don’t ….ah…I mean, don’t shout at him, okay. Don’t even think of raising your voice by a few decibels. Bawal ding panglakihan siya ng mata. And it’s not even because I’m his mother---I’ve treated all my other children talents this way , because I firmly believe that it’s easier to coax the best out of children through gentle instructions…or flat out bribery.
Easy ka lang, my producer friend said. Ako bahala sa kanya.
To his credit my producer friend was a gem at directing my son.
And both gentle instructions –and bribery, did come in handy. But more than anything else, what saved the day was my son, the four year old parrot.
Never ever underestimate the power of a parrot.
The boy who came to the studio with a Jimmy Neutron accent with a dash of Hillary Duff was soon talking like he was a stalwart of Filipino telenovellas.
Gayahin mo ako anak ha, said my producer friend. He’d deliver it, and my son would parrot him.
But it was when we asked him, how will you say it to mommy , in case daddy isn’t home yet ?
That’s when the magic happened. He spoke his line as only a four year old boy would say it--- with all the worry, intensity and sadness of a child waiting for a parent... He was earnest, as only a child longing for a parent could be earnest. ( in the commercial, the parent incidentally was never ever coming home, but my son didn’t know that---it was something that was left for the audience to discover) . And earnest was just right, for I didn’t want anything weepy or melodramatic. (When it comes to acting, I believe that if you cry too much, the audience wont).
See, my producer friend smiled. Told you he‘s a natural. The commercial shoot will be a walk in the park, my producer assured me.
And it was. Except for that one single moment when my son suddenly decided that he’s had enough of it, and announced to the director and everybody else on the set that thanks, but no thanks, I don’t want to push that dog tag into the frame anymore, because my mom and I are going to Glorietta already. Goodbye, it was nice knowing you.
And he walked off the set.
In a flash, my producer friend, my writer, my art director and the commercial director all fetched him right back. And made such promises that would have turned any 4 year old’s head (no wonder a lot of child talents ----more so actors, are spoiled!). Yes, yes, yes, the eleventh take will be the last take, and no, of course not, we won’t reach 12 and even if we reach 12 or …13 maybe…or 18 takes, we will definitely not reach 20 takes, so please come back or else your mom, our creative director will say to the producer , this was your idea, and will say that the child is now forever traumatized , the child will never recover from having had to toil at the tender age of four, and what’s more, he will forever wonder if it was his fault it had to be done again and again, and we should tell him that it was the fault of the lighting…and the rigging, and the props, or even the tenant’s next door, we should tell him that $#!T happens in a shoot, but don’t use that word , not in front of my son…and it went on and on, etc,etc. etc. Finally, the boy caved in at the promise of Timezone,
(Oh, but before I forget, since it was a public service ad, there wasn’t any talent fee, it was all gratis et amore. So in case you were thinking that there was anyway a carrot at the end of the stick, there you are, there were no carrots , not even a bit to nibble on).
All things considered, it wasn’t a bad shoot at all. In fact, it was a good one--my boy worked a total of less than four hours , (even the recording took only an hour), we had an early wrap and the commercial won an award. My son went on to voice other ads, and even appeared in a TV spot lately where hey, they actually showed his face! Today he is is an outgoing child, and can hold a conversation even with adults. No trauma there, not even the slightest hint. And that experience didn’t spoil him either, though he was promised heaven and earth for just going back to the set! On the contrary…he’s as normal as any kid in his circle of friends. Though I admit that more than one teacher has told me that unlike other kids, my son has no qualms speaking in front of a crowd, or stepping up when volunteers are required. Did that experience help build his confidence and help hone his public speaking skills ? I’d like to think it did. Even as I admit to myself that maybe, like a lot of other parents, my son’s appearances in such TV commercials was ---and is, more for his parent’s vanity than his own !
But still, our family’s own oral tradition is richer for the experience; we have yet to tire of telling, and retelling this story. Especially since my son always eggs me in the end:
“You made me work at the tender age of four???”
And I shoot back, “It wasn’t work, you didn’t get paid , remember ?”
BOOTS MA. GARCIA –SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, SOCCER GROUPIE , AND ADVERTISING WRITER AND CREATIVE DIRECTOR, NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER. IT WAS HER SON ANTON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
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