Category: Nonfiction

Coming to Davao

Nonfiction by | September 7, 2008

Coming to Davao is the most important decision I’ve made in my life so far. I had felt then that I would regret this decision, which is why I don’t remember the date when I made it. But it was in late May of 2007, and my parents and I were discussing about where I would go to continue my studies. Certain circumstances had forced me to look for another school other than the one I had attended for fourteen years.

I was given three options: to transfer to a “lesser” school in Manila, or to start working at a call center while taking a short computer course on the side, or to move and study at the Ateneo De Davao University and so at least maintain the name of my previous school.

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The Yin-Yang of Durian

Nonfiction by | August 10, 2008

Eating durian is an experience like no other. In Mintal, durian trees abound; so, in durian season, which starts around July, Mintal welcomes you with the distinctive scent: pungent as the jackfruit; addictive as rugby; and, strong as coffee. My favorite variety, Arancillo, is like a balled porcupine, with shades ranging from olive green to khaki depending on the ripeness, and is usually no bigger than a basketball. Continue reading The Yin-Yang of Durian

Shifting Gears

Nonfiction by | August 3, 2008

My father believed that life could flourish even when surrounded by cold concrete sidewalks, black asphalt roads and rows upon rows of silent houses sitting on stiff, detached cobbled stone shoulders. Such was Manduriao, Iloilo, my first home. The noiseless streets never drove me away. It only meant that there was more space for laughter and interesting chatter. It meant more space for my dreams, dreams that were expanding and multiplying. It meant more time seeing what else I could when everything seemed so familiar.

After two years, my family moved to La Paz and there I encountered what true greenery was like. Friends shot up all around us like wild grass but they were true and sincere people. I made many friends, enjoyed many annual festivals, and basked in the warm and pleasurably enduring sun. I was a healthy young girl who loved the spacious local park and frequented houses that were never without the wonderful aroma of boiling sinigang and arroz caldo. The night sky was always clear and bright with an assembly of stars to watch every night.

It was indeed my little paradise.

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Tilting at Windmills

Nonfiction by | July 20, 2008

“’But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked.
‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat. ‘We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’
‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.
‘You must be,” said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’”

— Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

My earliest recollection of being near a madwoman was when I was nine. Her skirt was black with large, white flower prints cascading down its length to her toes. Her blouse was white and faded you could see her tits cleaving to it. If I was afraid of her, it was because she was an Other, as God was an Other. After all, a small town could grow legends, tall tales— she was in one of those, and I believed it. If anyone would have asked me then how she got into the farthest end of the house without waking the dogs, I would have answered she had a power over animals.

That day, Mom was repotting lirios in her garden when the lunatic grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. Mom turned around and simply said, “Why! You’re here again.” Continue reading Tilting at Windmills

My Idiotic Brush with Death

Nonfiction by | July 6, 2008

No matter how brilliant I consider myself to be, I find my usually-intelligent existence punctuated by spots of utter idiocy.

I went to my aunt’s family’s restaurant in Great Neck, NY to bake my idiot-proof peaches and cream cake. It didn’t turn out so idiot proof because as any scientist would know, you need the same elements in an experiment to produce the same result, and Shoreline, Seattle (where I got this recipe) is not Great Neck, and a large restaurant kitchen scaled for mass production does not necessarily have everything a small home kitchen does.

So, anyway, the cake was baked. We left it to cool in the large walk-in refrigerator and I went back to reading my Terry Pratchett book till it was time to bring Joyce to her piano lesson.

It’s almost 3. Time to go, but where could Uncle Jobie be?

He’s not in the dining section… not in the kitchen… not in the loading area… could he be stuck in the walk-in fridge?

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Lessons from Chess

Nonfiction by | June 29, 2008

As we watch my father’s wake, I play chess with my older sister. It’s only in times like these that I get to play the game. My classmates back in high school never wanted to play with me because I used to be a very lousy player. Last night, as I played against my sister, I only won twice in about ten games. However, I have learned things I never would have learned if I didn’t play the game.

Here are some of my insights:

Life is what you make it. This existentialist belief is very evident in the game. Your victory lies on how well you play the game. Each move you make requires decision making and your choices create an impact on your future.

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The New Wonders of San Pedro

Nonfiction by | June 15, 2008

San Pedro, considered to be the center of Davao City, is where you will find the city hall, the cathedral, and various shops. On Sundays after the mass, you’ll see people coming out of the church like soldier ants from their anthill. As you walk away from San Pedro Cathedral, it’s like making your way to the battlefield because you’ll have to squeeze yourself into the crowd, making sure that your belongings are still intact and your cellular phone or wallet is in your possession. Snatchers are everywhere pretending to be shoppers or bystanders so you’ll never notice how they orchestrate their schemes. Everywhere you look, you’ll surely see a swarm of people either dressed in their office uniforms or in their casual wear ready to shop till they drop or just hang around Rizal Park. Continue reading The New Wonders of San Pedro

Writer Does Not Mean Better

Nonfiction by | June 8, 2008

Many beginning writers have this complex about them. You know the type. The ones who proudly rub their one and only published work in your face and look down on you as if they’re the ones who control the rotation of the earth on its axis. I can only scoff and force myself to shut my trap, lest I hurl obscenities at them for being too giddy and pretentious.

I admit I was something like this when I didn’t know any better. The first time I saw my name on the paper, I was pumped with so much adrenaline and pride that I forgot to be humble. And at the high times of my braggadocio, I somersaulted and fell flat. Just like that. So I had to get up again, start from scratch, wondering how I was able to write that one damned thing that propelled me to temporary fame, because, all of a sudden, I could not reproduce it. Continue reading Writer Does Not Mean Better