Category: Nonfiction

Cat Stories

Nonfiction by | December 28, 2008

A few years ago, when our family moved to Davao, we had with us a male Chocolate Burmese cat. He belonged to my eldest daughter, Danielle, then in college. He was a cuddly ball of white when he was sold to us for a song by a family friend. Danielle promptly called him Forrest, after the protagonist in the movie “Forrest Gump.” They bonded instantly.

Forrest grew up to be a majestic tomcat, grumpy and aloof, but fiercely loyal to his mistress. He never responded to our remonstrations of affection, preferring to ignore them with a haughtiness fit for aristocracy. My son was rather testy with him, and Forrest would often return the compliment with a spray of urine on his newly pressed shirts. My clothes were mercifully spared from the amber showers, probably because I tolerated his snootiness.

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Psalms

Nonfiction by | December 21, 2008

The full moon shone pale through thin clouds, diffusing its glow. The faces of the people looked peaceful and solemn in the subdued light of the many-colored lanterns that lined the sides of Lourdes Church in Quezon City. The priest’s voice echoed from hidden speakers and was thunderous, like the foreboding voice of God, but I did not see his face because I was standing in the adjacent car park. From outside, I could see empty pews, but more parishioners than what I thought was usual had gathered to listen and to pray.

The evening was chilly. One could almost imagine that the church, the streets, the shabby souvenir shops and donut chains, and all the rest of Manila were air-conditioned. The leaves of the fruitless trees beside the adoration chapel rustled gently, and the seven o’clock sky was pink. Indeed, the weather is best come December. It doesn’t rain and it is never too hot.

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XMas

Nonfiction by | December 21, 2008

When I was younger, met the -ber months with anticipation. I knew then that gifts, parties, and family reunions were not far off. Chill wind, Christmas carols, and dazzling lights: there was magic in the air. But above all, what I looked forward to in Christmas was the gift from Santa Claus.

My parents taught me to believe in Santa Claus. I did, hook, line and sinker. Who wouldn’t, with everyone at home in cahoots? My brothers would say that they saw huge foot prints in the garden. Our maid would say that she swept up stardust. I believed it all until I was in sixth grade.

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My Father Drowned in Soup

Nonfiction by | December 14, 2008

My Father drowned in soup.

I was around four or five when my aunts and grandma taught me that. It was their way of explaining why, unlike other kids, I had no Papa. We would rehearse every once in a while among ourselves, or in front of my come-and-go seafarers for uncles, and I would be delighted to see them amused at how great I was at it.

In my young mind, I would often wonder how my Father drowned in soup. It was not as if I had not seen him at all. Maybe, at that age I had been with him twice or thrice, though I am not sure now. I would imagine my Papa with his big, chubby body, his arms flailing, and his entire head submerged in a bowl of chicken tinola he was having for lunch. What a sight!

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On Language and Education

Nonfiction by | December 14, 2008

As far possible the instruction should be given by English-speaking native teachers, but not necessarily in the English language. Unless the American teacher learns the native dialect, the native must learn English in order that through it he may acquire our ideas. In the imparting of these ideas to native children neither he (the teacher) nor they (the native children) should be hampered by requiring that the ideas should be conveyed through the medium of English.

Even among Filipino schools taught in English, the visitor must be impressed by the enormous waste of time in teaching children the essential things, a knowledge of which is needed by them at once. The native teacher has in several years’ course of training by American teachers, learned fairly well many American ideas, but has poorly learned the English language. Instead of immediately communicating the ideas to his pupils in a language common to both, he wastes years of their time and his in attempting to get ideas into their heads through a language which is foreign to both of them and in which he is not a competent instructor.

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Urban Legends

Nonfiction by | December 7, 2008

Ang Babaye sa Salamin
Giasoy ni Elmer Oncada, Ateneo de Davao University

Gikan ni sa akong kaubanan sa una, kadtong wala pa ninghawa dinhi. Gikan siya og CR. Karon pagpanamin niya sa Del Rosario Building sa panlalaki na CR sa ground, nanudlay siya. Mga 9:30. Pagpanamin niya, atol pod to og kalag-kalag hinuon. Tingala siya naa may babaye na puti og buhok ug puti pod ang sanina. Kuyawan siya. Nanindog iyang mga balahibo. Paglingi niya sa likod, nawala man og kalit.

So unsay gibuhat niya? Dali-dali siyag suot sa iyang uniporme. Dagan siya, dagan. Tingala mi pag-abot dinhi. “Ngano naghangos-hangos man ka?”

“Buanga, bay. Nag-CR ko sa Del Rosario, naay babayeng nagpakita sa akoa, puti tanan.”

White lady ba to or unsa to siya. Taas daw kaayo og buhok. Gitan-aw siya sa samin.

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A Child's Intuition

Nonfiction by | November 23, 2008

It was a cold December morning when the undoubtedly strange silence woke me up from my peaceful slumber. I was four years old and it was the first time that I had actually woken up on my own. Everything turned out rather strange. I couldn’t hear the chirping birds from the outside when in fact, it was six in the morning. I couldn’t hear my mother blabbering, or the black and white TV set tuned up for the usual morning news. Not even the radio was on, nor the usual gossiping of our neighbors. The strange silence gave me the chills. I found myself silently wondering in my own room until I heard a familiar sound from the garage. It was the earsplitting sound of Papa’s old motorcycle engine. Somehow, it enlivened me so I rushed to the front door to hug him. Continue reading A Child's Intuition

Losing Mary

Nonfiction by | November 23, 2008

I was seated in an airplane going to Manila and the clouds looked so heavy that it seemed to reflect how I felt about my grandmother’s death. It was three days before that trip when my aunt had called us up to give the devastating news. My Lola Maria, as we used to call her, passed away due to complications of her diabetes. As we arrived at the NAIA, I started to feel really weird, like I did not even bother to look around me. I was simply going with the flow until we arrived at my aunt’s house. Still outside their house, I started to feel fear inside me. Fear for myself that maybe I could not bear the pain of being at her wake. I was so confused that at one point I struggled with feeling numb.

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