Category: Nonfiction

In Need of Care

Nonfiction by | May 31, 2015

Adopt

Origin: Middle English, from Middle French or Latin; Middle French adopter, from Latin adoptare, from ad- + optare to choose

transitive verb

1: to take by choice into a relationship; especially: to take voluntarily (a child of other parents) as one’s own child

2: to take up and practice or use <adopted a moderate tone>

3: to accept formally and put into effect <adopt a constitutional amendment>

4: to choose (a textbook) for required study in a course

5: to sponsor the care and maintenance of <adopt a highway>

intransitive verb

: to adopt a child <couples choosing to adopt>

(Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

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“Paano pala namatay ang mommy mo?”

“Diabetic kasi siya”

“Hala. Dapat ikaw mag dahan-dahan ka.”

“Di man. Di man ako maapektuhan.”

“Bakit man?”

“Adopted kasi ako.”

I am an adopted child. My parents told me when I was 10 years old. They thought it was the right time to tell me that I was because I was starting to ask questions and wondered why people looked at me differently during family gatherings. I also wondered why my playmates would call me ―adopted whenever we had a fight during one of our games.

“May gusto kami sabihin sa iyo”

“Maalala mo noon na may nagasabi sa iyo na adopted ka lang?”

“Totoo?”

“Oo”

That was how my parents broke the news to me that I was indeed an adopted child. My tears that night represented every moment of my childhood where I felt confused why my playmates teased and why my relatives looked at me as if they were wondering how and why I got in to the family.

My mom said I met my real mother once. She wanted me to remember that day. She wanted me to remember the scene when I saw this woman sitting in front of her desk, crying. I did remember. But I couldn’t picture out the face of that woman. I couldn’t even remember how I felt when I saw that woman. My mom said I could meet her again. I said yes. But deep inside I felt it was unnecessary because I was not looking for her and didn’t feel the need to see her.

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I Live to Die

Nonfiction by | May 24, 2015

I can still remember the laughter and smiles we shared together, the happy Christmas songs we sang, the fun games we enjoyed, the delicious food we ate and the wacky poses we did in front of the camera. Who cares if the wind is already tormenting the leaves of the trees outside? Who cares if the light keeps on turning on and off? And who cares if PAGASA raised the storm signal to number two? It is our Christmas party, for God’s sake! It is the last time we will meet each other for the year; we should be enjoying and celebrating the birth of the Lord. Who cares? We never had an idea that that was really the last Christmas party of our friend nor did we know that indeed that was the last time we will see her, ever.

She went home earlier than any of us. Before she left she said “thank you”, in a happy tone. We never knew that those were the last words we would hear from her. We tried to stop her but she explained that her parents already want her home since it’s already passed ten o’clock in the evening. Even when she left we continued the party. Who cares? We never knew what would happen three hours later.

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Chicken Tinola

Nonfiction by | May 17, 2015

We have more than twenty chickens in our backyard. Our compound is huge and we allot almost a third of it for the chickens. We have a net fence tied from our east side of the compound to the west, and the covered part was where all the chickens are left to roam, lay eggs, and eat. My father is never into cockfights and the chickens are actually there for the family’s entertainment—or something else to keep us busy.

The hens do not lay eggs regularly, and sometimes they get rotten before they even hatch because the hens are too lazy to even sit on them every day. We cannot sell their eggs, even the good ones, because they are never good enough as the eggs sold in the market place. The eggs are either allowed to hatch to new chicks or, sometimes when we forget to include eggs on the grocery list, our chickens’ eggs end up in the frying pan or in the refrigerator egg compartment.

We never have income generated from having these chickens around but when I notice that my parents goes to the chicken house first thing in the morning to feed them, I feel the importance of having the chickens with us. They are sort of chores my parents look forward to. And even if they do not smile or dance while they feed the chickens, I know it makes them happy to do it twice or thrice a day.

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Lessons from the Field: The Sendong Experience

Nonfiction by | April 19, 2015

It has only just been three months, yet SURSECO-I has seemed to have moved on after the throes of tempestuous winds knocked down virtually all of its distribution line in its coverage area. All of the four decades as a distribution utility seems to have sprung back to life. Sendong left behind more than the broken and damaged poles and entwined service wires. There were uprooted Falcata trees in almost every road, and more houses fallen to the ground. Just along Brgy. Bigaan, Hinatuan, a once proud bungalow caved in, its posts unable to wrestle the harsh winds.

Even more, there were angry people shouting complains at SURSECO-I vehicles. Things had gone bleak. Perhaps it would have gone bleaker had the sun not shone—however just for a day. One by one, people went picking up parts of their lives strewn all over the road side.

On the 19th, a gust of wind rattled a few sitios of SURSECO-I. By evening, almost everyone had expected another round of Sendong. Yet, what came along was the first wave of the rescuers from one of the sister electric cooperatives.

It was Kuya Lando Ferrer, Shift Officer from the Agusan del Norte Electric Cooperative, Inc. (ANECO), who led the first of these rescuers. Yet the night trip almost lost these brave men.

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Chrysanthemums, Sirens, and Remembering

Nonfiction by | April 12, 2015

The jeepney that my friend and I were in lingered for a while across the emergency room of San Pedro Hospital; the driver was waiting for more passengers. I heard the siren of an ambulance approaching and I was curious to find out what was going to be brought out of the vehicle.

“Matanda na babae,” My friend Iggy told me.

“Parang. Feel ko din,” I said.

The ambulance stopped at the door of the emergency room and a girl about my age or younger got down from the ambulance. She was wearing house clothes– shorts that were big for her and a grey shirt. I didn’t exactly know if she was crying because her facial expression was not clear from where I was but when the gurney was being brought down from the vehicle I immediately covered my eyes with my hands and kept saying “Oh my God, Oh my God.” I saw the medic doing CPR on a man. The man’s body reacted lifelessly from the force of the medic’s hands. My heart was beating fast and I wanted to cry but I stopped myself from crying because I didn’t want the other people in the jeepney to see me cry.

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Time Travel Please

Nonfiction by | March 15, 2015

Any nerd who has ever put the words “what” and “if” together in a sentence would probably be pondering about the concepts of time traveling and alternate universes. I would know. I’m a nerd.

My fascination with time travel began when my Kuya told me stories about comics heroes from Marvel and DC. He told me about how Scott Summers was seduced by Emma Frost and how Jean Grey shat bricks and turned into this flaming hot babe named Phoenix all because of jealousy. (Disclaimer: Kuya told me this story when I was nine years old. Did this happen in the comics or was it a figment of my imagination?) But I digress. A few months later, he told me about another comic where Emma Frost failed to seduce Scott because Jean Grey travelled back in time and prevented it from happening.

At nine years old, I learned that it was theoretically possible to travel through time and that slutty bitches could push decent women to crawl into a portal and change the course of history. Or at least, not let their man sleep with conniving whores.

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The Teacher

Nonfiction by | February 8, 2015

When he entered the room with his ironed uniform and his usual aura, everybody stared. When he put his things on the table with a thud, everybody behaved. And when he finally faced the class, everybody fell silent. How amusing! To see how that four-eyed man can control the class without having to say a single word. To see how his silent laughter played around his lips when he knew he’s won. I witnessed those things amidst the sea of little black dots in front me. When I saw him, everything around me turned to a blur.

And right at that moment, I fell in love.

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Ang Pamalandong Sa Pinulongan

Nonfiction by | January 4, 2015

Ang pinulongan ang pinakadako nga pundasyon sa usa ka kultura. Tungod sa pinulongan nakuha sa tawo nga makigtipon sa ubang tawo, makigstorya kanila ubp. Mao nang pinaagi aning pinulongan magkahiusa ang usa ka katilingban tungod kay pareha ang ilahang pagkasabot sa mga butang, ideya, ubp. Tungod niini, ang kultura adunay dakong kalambigitan sa usa ka nasud o katilingban. Masulti nato nga ang pinulongan maoy usa sa mga importante nga ginagunitan sa nasud, kultura ug mismo sa tawo. Kung wala ang pinulongan walay matukod nga maayong kultura, nasud, og balaod kay mismo sa pinulongan nga ginagamit dili magkasinabtanay. Usab makasulti kita na ang pinulongon maoy makasulti sa gigikanan o kasinatian sa tawo. Kung ang tawo nagagamit sa Cebuano masulti nato nga siya kay Bisaya, Cebuano, ubp. Pwede usab, kini nga tawo aduna’y kasinatian sa kultura sa Cebuano o sa laing lugar nga naga-istorya sa maong pinulongan.

Sama sa uban, ang pinulongan pud adunay mga straktura og balaod nga ginagamit. Mao nang usa ka pagbinastos o insulto ang mahitabo kung ang pulong sa uban kay magamit nato sa mali. Aron makagamit ta sa ubang pinulongan sa ubang kultura, kinahanglan natong tun-an kini og maayo.

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