Category: Nonfiction

Wedding Disaster Made in Heaven

Nonfiction by | April 8, 2012

Wedding disasters make the best stories. When perfection is usually the goal, glitches in whatever form make up the bride’s worst nightmares. It all started when we wanted to hold our wedding in Camiguin, an idyllic island province off northern Mindanao. To get there from our hometown of Davao City, one may opt for the 50-minute plane ride or the 10-hour road trip to the port of Cagayan de Oro City from which one takes a 2-hour ferry ride to get to the island. Neither Jun nor I are from Camiguin. Ours is a tumultuous relationship replete with adventure, clashing wills, travels, betrayal, and passion. Thus, when we finally decided to take the plunge into matrimony, this island born of fire beckoned to us because it somehow represented who we are and what we have been through. Camiguin is home to several volcanoes and has remained resilient in the face of destructive eruptions. Jun and I have been to Camiguin once and we were promptly enchanted by its rugged beauty that called to our sense of adventure and love of nature. Plus, such a far-flung venue ensured that only the truly important people in our lives would make the effort to celebrate our sacramental union.

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A Mother/Daughter Journey: Connecting Girls at a Time of Risk

Nonfiction by | March 11, 2012

The theme of this year’s International Women’s Month in UP Mindanao is “Connecting Girls, Inspiring Futures.” It is quite an honor for me to have been given this opportunity to deliver the keynote address. Yet, like Adrienne Rich, “I did not choose this subject; it had long ago chosen me” (15). This task has brought me face to face with my own disconnected, alienated girlhood, and forced me to think about how I shaped my futuredespite the betrayal of my mother.

Even though I lived with my mother in our ancestral house in Pasay City until I was 27, I have no fond memories of her. There were no bedtime stories, no lullabies. She was not a source of nurturing or comfort or validation, the way we are socialized to believe mothers should be. She had always been a career woman because my father had left her even before I was born. I always believed that she was simply too busy trying to be a father that she forgot the whole “motherhood” thing. And yet I know now that it was more than that. For how can motherhood be reduced to an algebraic equation? Rich notes that “motherhood is earned, first through an intense physical and psychic rite of passage—pregnancy and childbirth—then through learning to nurture, which does not come by instinct” (12). I remember feeling sorry for myself every time my grandfather told me the story of the first time I ran away from home.

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Epiphanies

Nonfiction by | January 15, 2012

Back in the time when I still traveled, I found myself in a business meeting in a small town outside of Nice in the South of France. The meeting lasted a few days, over which time I met colleagues from other parts of the world. That being my first (and so far, only) time in Europe, I decided to extend my stay for just one more day to see the sights that I could take in.

What can you do with just one extra day? If you’re along the main train lines in Europe, plenty. I headed down to the station, took a look at the map, readied my coins, and journeyed as far as I could to both ends of the line. On one terminal point was Cannes, the same city famed for its movie festival; on the other end was the small Italian city of Ventimiglia. In between was the city of Nice and…wait for it…the principality of Monaco.

With not much time to plan, I just went wherever the train and my feet took me. In that one day, I covered ampitheaters, plazas, roadside cafes, restaurants, museums, and churches.

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Ruben's Paintings

Nonfiction by | December 18, 2011

The paintings and sketches of Ruben De Vera were set up on the second floor of an unpretentious building owned by the Davao City Government. The building is the Museo Dabawenyo, not far from the Legislative Building in the heart of the City.

Every person entering the Museo is told to sign a logbook. The employees of the City Government act as guides to the visitors.

I was led up the stairs.

I walked into a large room. On the walls were the Ruben De Vera oil paintings, which were not framed. No titles. How fortunate for the artist, I thought. He did not have to supply a title for every work; he did not worry about the expense of frames.

I was previously told there were no drinks served during the opening of the exhibit. Another expense avoided.

Soon, a bird with a fantail flew in. There were few people, and they did not see the bird. It flew, close to the ceiling, making its own guided tour.

Deep within myself I felt happy seeing the bird.

Because, when it suddenly appeared, it was the “Sign” of a good future for the Artist and his friends.

His depiction of the human face was like mine.

He could draw hands, figures in motion; also he could paint a shoreline dividing the blue sea, and the earth, a rare achievement.

I specially liked the portrayal of a group of smiling folk, one young woman, holding a cigarette, and all beside the seashore.

Indeed, this was an inspiring show, and it pushed me to resume my own painting work.

I was reminded of what Henry Miller wrote: “The Artist works to restore the innocence of humanity.”

—-
Joan Edades is the daughter of the late National Artist Victorio Edades and Jean Garrott Edades. She is an artist, and a writer and editor at the Davao Mission in Bangkal.

Dissected, Poked, and Inspired at the Davao Writers Workshop 2011

Nonfiction by | October 30, 2011

When I attended my first local creative writing workshop a few years ago, I left the venue discouraged, swearing I’d never join another workshop again. Who wouldn’t be if the panelists unanimously suggested that you toss the pieces you’d painstakingly been working on for over a month or so? But, after a distressed week, that discouragement turned into determination. I revised the ‘junk’ poems and short stories and started with new ones, using the techniques and ideas I’d learned. And a year after that, my new works provided me a ticket to join another workshop – this time, in the regional level. In the second workshop, I was no longer disgruntled by the panelists’ critique because I had preconditioned myself not to mind my works and my ego; well, the good thing was I actually received more good comments than the heart-shattering ones. So, when the Davao Writers Workshop knocked at my doorstep, I was thrilled but not as excited compared to my first because I thought I knew what it was all about and how it’s put together.

But I found out that I was wrong, dead wrong.

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Attack of the Night Prowling Rats, Part 3

Nonfiction by | October 16, 2011

A year later
It has been a year of office bliss and without a single visit from our hairy invaders. The school personnel had finally heeded our pleas and detonated some poison packages in the ceiling. Though some unfortunate incidents transpired because of that—such as decomposing rodents stinking up the whole office—in general, Operation Rat Elimination was a success. We thought.

No one really made a head count of the casualties. After leaving the poison and getting rid of a few carcasses, no one probed deeper into the problem. Furthermore, the new high school building was finally finished and teachers moved en masse to a spanking clean, freshly painted and rat-free room. Out of sight, out of mind.

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The Mysterious Last Journey of Satur Apoyon

Nonfiction by | October 16, 2011

Originally published in the Village Idiot Savant blog.

Satur Apoyon, veteran newsman and Bisaya fiction writer, went missing from his home in Bangkal, Davao City on the morning of Thursday, May 19, 2011. His body was found five days later on Tuesday, May 24, floating off the coast of Governor Generoso, Davao Oriental. Between where he started and where he ended was a distance of 70 km traversing water, or 150 km by the circuitous route over land.

How he got from here to there remains a mystery. What we do know from newspaper reports and recollections:

He left his house that morning at 5AM for his daily constitutional; when he didn’t return an hour later, his family texted friends and searched the neighborhood. A day of fruitless searching went by, and then another.

Rose Palacio, a former colleague of Satur’s at the Philippine News Agency, claimed that she had run into him at Victoria Plaza on Thursday afternoon, but she did not know that he was missing at that time. She kidded the usually well-dressed Satur about his slippers before she boarded her taxi. “O, Satur, nganong gi-dala man nimo imong sala dinhi?” she said. “Okay, okay,” he just answered with a vague smile.

That was the last anyone saw of Satur Apoyon alive.

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Attack of the Night Prowling Rats, Part 2

Nonfiction by | October 9, 2011

A few weeks later, I came back to school to find that a beautiful candle given to me by my students had been attacked, its translucent wax strewn like rough diamonds all over my table, class records, and chair. They have returned. The War on Terror continues. Only the Saturday before, I had gone to school to work, and that time, all was well on my table with nary a pen or paper clip out of place. But on Monday, those rodents gave me a welcome back to work, a surprise I did not appreciate one bit.

Theories again abound. Remembering how rats are supposedly obsessed with revenge, it dawned on me that they must have known I wrote a vicious piece attacking their characters a few weeks ago! They must have heard my co-teacher and I backbiting them. Or, they could’ve heard me telling the school maintenance staff about the absolute need for their eradication.

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