Category: Nonfiction

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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Her Words

Nonfiction by | November 30, 2014

It was two days before Christmas last year when I received a text message saying “Hi” with a smiley. The phone number was not in my contact list so it took me a few minutes before I finally replied and asked who it was.

I was surprised when she revealed she was “Dee…UPMin Arki.” I had met her in school. Someone might have introduced us and since then, every time we saw each other, we would exchange greetings and smiles. But that was all. I never remembered conversing with her or anything. She was that pretty chinita girl who was a member of the Dance Ensemble. I clearly remember that she was the frontliner in their number during our Freshmen Convocation Program.

She just wanted to confirm whom she was texting because my number was registered as “UP LitSoc” in her contact list. I told her that it was me and she apologized for causing any inconvenience. I said she wasn’t causing any. And from then, we exchanged text messages. We would text each other in the morning when we woke up, remind each other to eat meals, ask what each was doing, and late at night, we would say good night to each other.

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The Human Heart Has No Measure: Davao Writers Workshop 2014

Nonfiction by | November 23, 2014

Davao Writers Workshop 2014There are three things I’m pretty sure writers will want at one point or another in their lives: to travel, to better themselves in their craft, and to create something worthwhile. The three are interconnected, if you really think about it. In the short time we spend on this world, it is with great skill (or with great luck) that we acquire the opportunity to gain all three at once. As for me, being accepted into this year’s Davao Writers Workshop was one of those opportunities.

Wanderlust
I had learned of my acceptance into the workshop on the eve of September 27th, exactly a month before the workshop would begin. It seemed so near and so far at the time. A lot can happen in a month. Specifically for me, it was finishing final grades for the first semester and organizing Poetry Night, a poetry reading program that our group NAGMAC (Nagkahiusang Mambabalak sa Cagayan de Oro) held every other month. The latter happened just two nights before I and co-fellow Vel Marie “Mai” Santillan, were to get on an all-night bus ride to Davao for the workshop.

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Nana and Our Nangka Tree

Nonfiction by | October 26, 2014

Yesterday I bought a pack of nangka or jackfruit from the grocery store. The smell was so enticing that I had to pick one and convince myself I wasn’t splurging. One pack has 10 seeds and costs 50 pesos. Immediately after paying, I pulled the bubble-wrap, took out one seed at a time and savored every bite. I planned to finish all in one sitting and not have any leftovers inside the refrigerator for later. My Nana, or Yaya, as many would associate her, used to tell me that the smell of this fruit extends unsolicited to all other elements in the fridge, like a surprisingly sweet gesture.

Before transferring to study and eventually own a company based in Davao, I used to live in Dumaguete City. There, we have a two-storey house fenced by a number of mango, chico, and star apple trees, as well as, a good growth of garden vegetables to harvest by season. To welcome visitors in our front yard are other plants such as a line of orchids and relative flowers. The main attraction is like a CTA widget inviting neighbors as it consistently bears two fruits every month. It is our Nangka Tree located on the right side, facing the gate. My Nana would wrap each of the tree’s fruit upon its birth and when it matures, it would reveal a large sweet and fleshy product enough to make a family of five happy. My twin and I, the Nangka and its interests were among Nana’s primary concerns.

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