In a Race that Matters

I write because ...  I am not fluent in the spoken word.  My mind will burst if I don't. I am transported to a different plane when I am lost in my world of writing. I can be myself--unplugged, unloaded-- without having to look over my shoulder and care about other people's haughty eyes.  I am fascinated with words and how they can stir images, unravel mysteries, pacify or enrage tempests and bring to life the fallen, cold and dead. I relish squeezing my writing juices until my temples throb (or should I say, am I a masochist?) I can't sing nor dance well enough to get me to the movie industry. I need an avenue to vent the angst, frustrations, joys and challenges I face. I have inner wars to wage, mountains to scale and fears to slay. Words form both a formidable offense and defense army.  I maintain a secret love-affair... with writers I admire, look up to and adore -- the pinoy penman, pat, CDQ. I stopped chasing rainbows. With outstretched arms, I

… I was an insecure kid. I hated my dark complexion and my thick, curly, unruly hair. I was green with envy whenever I saw girls my age with baby-soft, milky-white skin and silky-straight hair. … I was frustrated with my dimple-less cheeks. Once, in my desire to have dimples just like my best friend Eric, I used the tip of an inkless pen and daily pressed it against my right cheek. (For a time, I could see that my constant pressing produced a hollow. Unfortunately, I couldn’t bear the pain I had to endure daily for this beauty regimen, so I threw the pen and the idea of a bedimpled face out of my mind.) -- I wanted to be a majorette and dancer like my best friend Lala, a singer like my lady-like classmate Jolica, and a declaimer like my cutie childhood chum Eric. … I was as thin as thin could be. The irony was, I never believed I was. I even resorted to reciting a poem during a nutrition month celebration when I was on the third grade, proudly delivering the following lines:

I am the voice in my head. I am a mind of juxtaposing ramblings. I am a dormant volcano. I am a sage of old, resurrected from the depths. I am the gavel of my fate. I am a kick, a jolt, a tremor. I am the proverbial black cat lurking in the corner. I am a beehive of inexhaustible honey. I am a garden of fresh roses, tended by the glow and radiance of spring. I am an eternal apprentice –always panting for the answers, always itching, always scrubbing the itch. I am a diamond in the making. I am a wide-eyed kid. I am a squirming earthworm. I am a crushed grape, oozing with a sweet-sour juice. I am an herbal salve. I am a thunder, hidden in a whimper. I am a door slightly ajar. I am a knot untangled. I am a gypsy, a nomad, a voyager coasting along the billowing waves of the seas. I am mommy eagle –sharp-clawed, yet tender-hearted. I am a descendant of Diego Bandido, a progeny of Gabriela Silang, a secret admirer of the great Jose Rizal. I am fruit-king --- spiky on th

Blow one’s top Go berserk Let off steam Mad as a wet hen A bull in rampage These are the idoms in my writer’s tickler that fall under my scribbles on anger. Alongside are words evocative of the same meaning – rage, indignation, wrath, ire, fury. For the past weeks, I have been brooding over this negative emotion that has caused many an earthling to make brash decisions and actions that have damaging consequences. It has also caused needless grief and heartache. I have encountered people who often display this emotion – at school, at work, at home, in the grocery store, in the parking lot, in the restaurant—practically anywhere. I have also observed that its display is not confined to a particular class or age group. When piqued, kids fight back. When scolded, teens lash acerbic words. When bored or ignored, wives nag. Fathers spank. Bosses shout. Employees backbite. Soldiers shoot. Still, others kill. Where did this ticking time bomb of emotion originate? Why do we experie

What goes on in the mind of a five-year old? I am oftentimes baffled by Orvik’s spontaneous rattles that reveal a line of reasoning fit for an A in Logic 101. My, I don’t remember having the wit of Michael V at age five. *** His expression these days is “Ay, Que Barbaridad!” in imitation of Dad who blurts the words when things are not A-ok. The little man, however, coined a new term addressed solely to me whenever I seem to do things he doesn’t approve of --- “Ay, Que BarbariMOM!” *** When asked why he has missing teeth (he already lost two), he quipped without batting an eyelash, “Si Mommy kasi brush ng brush ng teeth ko, nalaglag tuloy!” (Mommy always brushes my teeth, that's why they fell!) *** When he heard that Jesus is in our hearts, he asked, “Bakit maraming Jesus?” (Why are there plenty of Jesus?) (He took the meaning literally. Since each person has a heart, he thought that each has Jesus in his heart. And because there are many hearts, then there must be many

I sometimes feel disadvantaged being the only “girly” at home. The boys seem to have a special bond I cannot penetrate. It doesn’t help either that the little boy always reminds me that I am not one of them. “Mom, we are three boys, ikaw one lang.” “You have no daughter. You just buy a daughter.” The boys also have regular fart-y times with Dad as the initiator. I don’t know what makes noisy farting fun, but the combined shrieks and laughter of the kiddos every time Dad lets out his butt whistles do tell me they sure have a good time. Of course, I can’t relate with something I find gross. The boys though, regard their Dad’s icky habit normal if not enjoyable. Yuck! In fact there were two occasions when, while we were inside a mall, Orvik just blurted out, within earshot of a saleslady, “Mommy, si Daddy umutot naman. Ang lakas! Ang galing!” And, at another time, while we were inside a classy restaurant waiting for our order, the unsuspecting kiddo again exclaimed, as though he wo

I am now at a stage where I get stricter by the day. My son, Rovik, on the other hand, is at a stage where he starts to try dipping his feet on stuff tweens get themselves into. I will point out 11 things that stand out: 1. His taste for clothes has changed! He no longer wants to wear shirts with cartoon character. He has also started to whine over wearing the same type of shirt as his younger brother’s.Where before, he used to be delighted when Mom dressed him up like a twin of his younger bro, it is now a taboo to him, “Mommy, I don’t like to wear uniform shirt with Orvik, ha?” 2. He has bought two tubes of hair-styling gel from Bench in just a month. He doesn’t go out without his top looking like the plates of a Stegosaurus –standing stiff and ready to pierce anything that gets in its way. 3. When we go the mall, he is drawn to the high-end shops of Crocs, and Haviannas while I cringe and bite my tongue (to prevent it from cursing) every time I flip open the price tags. (One

My son, all of eleven years is now a tween going pubescent. When I look at him, I hardly see any trace of the once chubby baby who was addicted to Tomica cars of all shapes and colors that he was able to fill a three-foot display cabinet with his collection. Thank goodness he is past through the stage where he tries everything he sees on TV – from putting on a pair of handmade wings (which cost us five hundred bucks in 2004) so he could be like Aguiluz (Richard Guttierez’ winged character in Mulawin) to collecting Bey Blades, marbles and Tom’s World game tickets. Gone were the days of imitating Mom—trying on my undies sandwiched with napkin (which he rummaged from our plastic cabinet while I was at the office) and trying to pee while sitting or squatting. With a tint of sentimentality, I miss the days when he was just starting to write and he would send me notes with scribbles of a five-year old, expressing with all candor his dream of building me a hotel when I grow old wit

The year 2010 has been a dizzying year for us. The first quarter saw us pinned in the middle of some imbroglios beyond our doing, and which I now understand, just tested not only our character but our mettle as well to fight for our right. This was the time I stretched to its limit the icky-looking mound under my cranium, writing legal complaints, pleadings and counter-argument as if I were a lawyer. (I could have been. I intended to be one after I breezed through highschool.) I brooded over the lies of the other camp and delved into pscho-analytical escapades, studying our opponents’ motives, and strategies, legal counter-assaults and repercussions. My brains almost cracked, but I was surprised by the vast of insights I could extract from my analytical sprees, never mind if I oftentimes found myself having recurrent head-aches afterwards. The psyche indeed releases tremendous power; it just makes me cringe how it can be used for evil purposes. The succeeding quarters had been equ

Our trip to Islos Bonitos was a relaxing experience. Hubby and I were able to unwind and rest our weary minds far, far away from the grinding heat , pressures and tension of rat race living in the metropolis. Oh, how it felt good to breathe fresh air, how soothing was the cool and musty sea breeze enveloping our jetlagged bods, how invigorating were the nutritious and sumptuous meals we all feasted on. Indeed, life on this side of the globe is a far cry from the topsy-turvy jungle of Manila. Its rustic charms and unrelenting beckons seem too hard to resist now. And what of the chima-chima ? The kids could not have enough of the food. Yummy treats for the gastro-adventurists abound. Grind, grind, grind. Our tummies never stopped chomping. The kids frolicked in the pristine waters for two days and marvelled at colourful corals, sea urchins and starfish aboard Tito’s ever-reliable boat. At night, Kuya belted his trademark videoke pieces –“Don-don, Beat it, Complicated” while t