Category: Nonfiction

When Dad's not around

Nonfiction by | November 16, 2008

Here we go again, Mom’s not in the house because she has work to do, and my brother going with her. What’s left is me, sitting on the sofa watching animations on T.V. Being a son of a seaman is quite difficult because your life is like a big slice of pizza without cheese on it. Sometimes, you just wish he was here! It’s really bad how questions float in my mind without any answers, like boy-things that sometimes my mother can’t answer. Seeing my friends having a complete family makes me feel OP (out of place), and somehow, jealous. I can see one of my classmates inside a car ready to go home after school laughing and talking to his dad; his mother is there too, smiling like my mother does when Dad is here.

I remember when daddy used to carry me on his shoulders and sending me to my classroom when I was in Grade 2. My classmates often laughed seeing me atop my father’s shoulders but I was very proud he was there, with my classmates finally knowing how my Dad looked. They thought he was a foreigner, and they also thought I was an American because of my prominent western features.

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Pangapog: Thanksgiving for a Bountiful Harvest

Nonfiction by , , | November 9, 2008

The Pangapog festival is celebrated by the Samas of Samal Island located in Davao Gulf to thank the spirits of their ancestors for a bountiful harvest. A ritual is performed and then a feast follows it. This feast is celebrated annually, around the month of August.

The Pangapog festival that we witnessed began with a huge preparation both for the ritual and for the feast. After the materials for the ritual were arranged around an altar called the bunga, the balyan, the datus, and other selected members of the Sama tribe gathered around the bunga.

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Mission Possible

Nonfiction by | November 9, 2008

I settled at the back of the Toyota pickup, crouching on the floor. I reached inside the bag and wore my shades and sahal, ready for the long trip ahead. Definitely, this was not one of the top ten things I wanted to do before growing old. But I was going anyway. And I came quite prepared. I had plenty of water, and an umbrella besides. I was joining a medical mission hosted by the Southern Mindanao District of the United Church of Christ of the Philippines (UCCP.)

The mission consisted of around twenty volunteers, including five doctors. I was one of three from the youth sector of the church. It was 8am, and cold, the sun hidden behind the rain clouds. We were going to a far-flung barangay at the foothills of Mt. Apo in Matan-ao, Davao del Sur.

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The Impulse to Bakwit

Nonfiction by | October 12, 2008

At a certain time when everything seemed to be happening everywhere, except, perhaps the spot where I was—where I gazed, wide-eyed, caught up with the vastness of stagnation and void – there was a particular kind of impulse. It could be moral fiber; but really, it was just a matter of chance.

By chance I became a part of the Disaster Response Team of the Philippine National Red Cross in Davao City in 2006. My high school classmate called on one of those boring days during the semestral break, which I spent over-feeding fishes and coiling in the couch to watch Shrek for the nth time. He invited me for training on Disaster Management. Because I was hungry for something to happen, I was glad to be part of anything that could break my monotonous days. Besides, if there were a gang war in our ghettoized neighborhood in Santo Niño, Matina, I thought I might be able to help. Yet I had never thought I could respond to a disaster with a sense of planning and order. I was one of the most panicky people I knew. Then again, I attended the training despite my father’s displeasure, saying in his coarse voice that I am too frail and small, “basi ikaw pa’y tabangunon.”

The five-day training was attended by undergraduates from different colleges and universities in Davao City. Some of them came in batches of three and five. Almost half of the class were nursing students from Davao Doctors College. There were eighteen trainees and I was the only one who came from the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

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The Book, the True, and the Beautiful

Nonfiction by | October 5, 2008

(Excerpt from Keynote Speech delivered during the Gintong Aklat Awards 2008, SMEX Convention Center, Bay Area, Pasay City)

Recent events in our history, specifically in the past twenty years or so, have more than less convinced me that ours is a culture not of ideas and intellection but of emotions, hints, and suspicions. Our predilection is for the unsaid or the merely implied, the shadowy and adumbrated, the peripheral and the underground as appropriate instruments to counter what has been perceived as the given brutality of power and force exercised by the few oligarchs and pseudo-monarchs in appropriate political positions. The dynamics in our culture is such that there seems to be always an agon between the outer and the inner, between the overt and the secret, the official and the unofficial, mainstream and underground—with the outer and overt and official conceived of as tyrannically powerful and repressive, and the inner and secret and unofficial wielded as a submissive and abiding force whose time will eventually come. Continue reading The Book, the True, and the Beautiful

Sapay Koma

Nonfiction by | September 14, 2008

This won 3rd prize, Essay in English, Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature 2008

“I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall…and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.”
–Manuel Arguilla

On our first Valentine as a couple, he gave me a bowl of white nondescript flowers. They had a distinctly sweet but faint scent. I had never been a fan of Valentine’s Day nor of love like a red, red rose; but that day, I became a believer. He told me they were papaya blossoms from his mother’s garden. At that moment, I knew I would one day marry him. We had started dating only three months ago, but I knew I would be Maria to his Leon. Why, he even had a younger brother the same age as Baldo! And even though they didn’t live in Nagrebcan nor owned a carabao, the town of Itogon, Benguet was remote enough for me. I have always enjoyed teaching the Arguilla story for its subversive take on the role that one’s family plays in a marriage; but having been born and raised in Pasay City, I had no idea what papaya blossoms smelled like. I imagined that my new boyfriend had read the story in his Philippine literature class and meant for me to recognize his gift as an allusion. In fact, I imagined we would defy societal norms and prove that love conquers all. Instead of a “theme song,” our relationship had a story to live up to. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

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An English painter in Davao, 1934

Nonfiction by | September 14, 2008

Head of a Philippine Child (Davou)
Head of a Philippine Child (Davou)

When Ian Fairweather stepped ashore at Santa Ana Wharf at Davao in August 1934 he was a 43-year-old Englishman at the beginning of his career as an artist. He had been a prisoner of war during World War 1, an art student at London’s Slade School of Art, travelled across China, spent nine months painting in Bali, visited Australia and had come to Davao on the proceeds of a painting that was sold to the Tate Gallery in London.

On the afternoon of his arrival he walked south along the coast to Piapi where he found a house and that evening he wrote, “It stands on stilts amongst the coconut trees on the edge of the beach, it looks something like a bird cage – on the ground beneath it – chickens and pigs – babies and land crabs and boats – it’s the sort of place I’ve dreamed of.”

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Davao: A View

Nonfiction by | September 7, 2008

I have been here in Davao for five years, so I am no longer a stranger in this city. But I still find many things amusing and interesting.

The principal means of transportation in Davao is the jeepney. It really makes me crazy. I like the jeep but I am afraid of it. I like it because it is very colorful, and has varied forms, and has a nice sound system.

My fear comes from the jeepney driver. He is the boss of the road. He moves when he wants to move, and he stops when he wants to stop. The only rule for him is no rule. New drivers are really afraid to drive in the streets, although some say it is the best practice to learn to drive.

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