First year without daddy

This time last year, on a Friday night, my father passed away.

I was particularly lonely and out of sorts for no reason that entire week. We had this big event in the office, but my mind was not into it. A friend said that it’s probably nothing that a bar of chocolate couldn’t fix and I thought it was just one of those bad days too.

It was also just like any other day when I left home that Friday morning. I even handed daddy the twenty pesos I borrowed from him for fare the day before (I had no smaller bill). He was sitting on the couch next to my mom; he seemed tired but fine. When I think about it now, I don’t even recall if I said goodbye to them before heading for the door.

Who would’ve thought that it would be the last time I’d ever see my father awake?

By lunchtime, I got a text message from my older brother telling me that my father was not feeling well and was complaining of chest pains. They wanted to rush him to the hospital, but my father refused. Since it had been like that for a while, when he won’t feel well one day and be perfectly okay the next, mommy and kuya did not insist anymore. Instead, they just made him rest the whole afternoon.

My father died in our house that night, surrounded by family.

From my room upstairs, I heard a commotion in the living room where my dad was bunked. I went to see what was going on and from the top of the stairs, I saw him holding his chest and wincing in pain. My mother was beside him, crying, and my brothers were already looking for people downstairs to help them bring daddy to the nearby hospital. I don’t know why I just froze there only able to call out, “Daddy! Daddy!” — but there was no response from him, only moans. Then, after letting out what seemed to be a whimper, he drew his last breath.

That was the only time I descended the stairs but went straight to the door in a panic. I managed to let out a yell for help and saw people come rushing inside the house. A concerned neighbor carried my dad to his van as my brothers and a male cousin followed. Meanwhile, I stayed home with my mom, my sister-in-law and my nephews.

After what seemed like the longest thirty to forty minutes of my life, I got a call from my younger brother and he said that daddy was being revived and he kept asking me if mom was okay. I had a gut feeling when I passed the phone to my cousin Nancy and saw her reaction changed that something’s wrong. While fearing the worst, I tried holding it together for the sake of my mom and my nephews.

I waited a few more minutes before deciding to go and wait downstairs. When I got down, I saw that there were already a lot of people gathered by the gate, including my younger brother, who I spoke to just minutes ago and who I thought was still at the hospital. It turned out that some of those who rushed my father to the hospital had come back already, but none of them had the guts to come upstairs and tell me and my mother that daddy’s gone. It was only when my younger brother looked at me and shook his head that my worst fear was realized.

It was confirmed later on that daddy didn’t even make it to the hospital, but the emergency staff tried their best reviving him with intracardiac injections and pumped hard enough that they broke his ribs in the process.

***
I grew up being teased that I was my daddy’s favorite not only because I’m the only daughter, but perhaps more because we look alike. “Kamukha ni Luis!” is something I’d usually hear during family events or occasions. I wasn’t particularly thrilled about it then, because he’s maitim (dark) and for me, it was an indirect way of telling me that I am too. The funny thing was, I don’t seem to mind when they tell me I got my “better” features from him like my nose, my smile or my big eyes.

I would like to think that it wasn’t just the looks I got from him, for those who knew my dad can vouch that he was naturally sharp and witty. Even his own brothers would admit that he’s the intelligent one among them and would probably have been successful in life if only he wasn’t as lazy.

See, my father didn’t even finish elementary. We all know the story of how our grandfather beat him to a pulp after finding out he was actually skipping class and was spending all his time watching a construction. I heard he was beaten very badly, that it was my lolo who got exhausted and eventually gave up. He asked my father one last time if he still wants to go to school and when my father said no—that was the end of it.

I don’t know what he did all those years that he should have been in school because even with his lack of formal education, my daddy’s wide vocabulary can rival someone who had finished college. In his heyday, you’d find him quietly answering an English crossword puzzle while having a smoke and a cup of coffee. Because of this, he’s also unbeatable in scrabble and boggle. He loved words; he would sometimes impress us by using big English words in regular, everyday conversations and then go: “Alam mo ba ang ibig sabihin nu’n?” (Do you know what that word means?). This went on up until the time that I can already go head-to-head with him.

Daddy may not be articulate due to his stuttering (we often tease him because of that) but his acuity cannot be questioned. For one, he barely finished fourth grade but passed the Civil Service Examination in one take. And unlike his mathematically-challenged daughter, he was also good at basic math and quick computations in his head too.

He loves watching foreign movies, news and documentaries, while very critical of local celebrities and films. We’d always shush him when he’d suddenly curse in front of the TV after seeing some celebrity or politician he hates. He very much would like us to think that he had this impeccable taste on people, shows, movies, clothing, etc.

While we’re on the marginal side of the family, I think that he had this illusion of elitism—of regarding himself better than most people. We would always remind him to take it easy on judging and criticizing people, especially when we are neither privileged nor rich. It was something that we often fight about. As I got older, I realized it’s something that I noticed with his other brothers too, which made me deduce that it was probably how our lolo Eliong and lola Kuala raised them.

My daddy seldom gets angry at us, his children. If he does, he’d curse, which was more like a mere utterance of his frustration—but will not resort to hitting us. It was to him we’d cower when mom strikes us because he was the one with the “cooler head” and would rather counsel us calmly. In my lifetime, I can only recall one time he ever hit me, which I deserved by the way, and it was just one solid hit that left me limping for days.

I’ve always seen him as a groovy dad who can get away with black statement shirts and Chuck Taylor in his seventies. He was not your stereotypical disciplinarian. With him, we were allowed to think for ourselves or voice out our opinions. I don’t remember him impose rules such as curfews but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for us at all. On the contrary, he’s the first to worry when one of us is not yet home.

He taught me how to drink beer, thinking that his sons would learn that on their own. In the end, it was only I who drink among his children, and my two brothers cannot even hold their liquor.

I think he’s the only father I know who gets excited when a guy visits his daughter. During my early teen years, he’d give me this knowing and annoying smile when he sees a guy at our house. As soon as the guy leaves he would ask me if that boy was courting me, and when I say he’s just a buddy or a friend—I kid you not, he’d look disappointed.

He may not have been vocal about it, but I knew that when my boyfriend Alex died suddenly in 2002, that his heart was broken too. Daddy would scold me whenever he sees me crying weeks after it but admitted to me later on how proud he was of my strength to move on after that. He said that a weak person would’ve easily gone crazy.

***

My father suffered two strokes before the third attack that got him. The first one in 2009, where he recovered fully, and the second in 2013, which was more serious it confined him to the hospital for a week. It affected his overall movement as he suffered hemiparesis on the right side of his body. Around this time, perhaps because of his discomfort and limitation of movement, he got grumpy and irritable. Sometimes when I talk to him, he’d not respond and would just sneer at me instead. It wasn’t really because he’s gone deaf—but more like he had gotten somewhat apathetic.

Then again, I chose to cherish the memory of my father by thinking of the better times we had with him. I would like to remember him as the super cool dad I’ve known all my life, rather than what has become of him in his later years.

It has been a year since and I can’t tell you how much I miss my main man every day. The pain from the deep void he left my heart has dulled but I know it will never, ever go away. There are still times I’d just find myself crying when I think of him. I sometimes wish that he was still here especially when I realized how I won’t be able to see his reaction when I bring a guy in the house (if that time ever comes) or see his happiness over my little everyday triumphs.

It makes me smile every time I think of this one time we were bantering many years ago:

“Daddy, huwag ka ng masyadong mapamintas. Hindi mo alam kung kailan ka na kukunin ni Lord.” I told him. (Daddy, stop being too judgmental. You wouldn’t know when God’s coming to take you.)

“I’m not afraid to see the face of God.” He quipped, almost stammering.

“`Yan ay kung face ni God ang makikita mo!” I said, laughing. (That is, if it’s God’s face you’ll see!)

He may not have been a perfect husband or father—but he was a good man. And I have no doubt that he’s with the Lord now. I carry on for I am comforted with the thought that he’s in a much better place where he wouldn’t feel pain anymore. What keeps me strong since he left is knowing that someday, when it’s my turn to go, I’d get to see my father again.

I love you forever, Daddy. Let my love for you transcend death. Bring it wherever you are.

Be thankful for the hard times

I always believed that hardships can teach a person a lot of things.

I was never ashamed to say that I went through really hard times growing up. I came from a lower-middle-class family, with my parents working so hard to make ends meet. Sometimes, I wonder as to how they were able to do it, or maybe I do know: definitely with blood, sweat and tears.

My parents managed to send me and my two brothers to a private Catholic school, in what my mother would always deem as, “Bayad-utang-bayad-utang”—or that never-ending cycle of loaning money and paying it off in order to loan again.

My cousins who went to the same school were better off, either because both of their parents were working or because they own a small business. In our household, it was only my father who was working then, getting a low-wage government salary. Later on, my mother got a job at the Assessor’s Office of the City Hall, in what they call a “casual” basis (If you don’t know what that is, it is somewhat similar to contractual employment, but may differ in the bureaucratic jargon used). That didn’t really change how things were when you have mouths to feed and needs to fill for meager pay.

I resented our situation when I was younger. I even thought my parents were not working hard enough to give us the best of things. If my Dad finished school he might have gotten a better job. If we have a business then we can have more money. Growing up, I was envious of my classmates and friends who seem to have everything. I often ask why we were having it tougher than most people I know.

I don’t recall ever getting an allowance. Since my school is just within walking distance from our house, I was only given a certain amount of “pocket money” every day, around five to ten pesos—enough to buy me snacks and a small cup of soft drinks. During the worst of times, I’d go to school with no money at all. My mother would make pandesal with whatever spread we had available (like cheese, butter, coco jam or liver spread) and that’s all I have. By lunchtime, I’d wait for my Dad by the school gate as he was the one who brings my food.

If money is needed for usual student expenses like photocopying fees, group contributions, school supplies or the like, then I have nothing to give. I’ll be the one who’d usually “pass” and pay the next day if I could.

It’s not just the money, I don’t have the excess kids my age enjoyed. I only get new things at the beginning of the school year (the good thing was that my Mom always made sure we had good quality—not necessarily expensive—things in school). If lucky, my shoes and uniforms were hand-me-downs from older cousins, so my parents need not spend more for it.

I didn’t get to have the popular toys back in the day or wear branded clothes, except ones sent via Balikbayan Boxes from relatives in the States. It’s somewhat funny now when I remember how we had to strike the TV to make it work (until it eventually conked out for good) or had to tie our refrigerator door so it will shut. We never had a Betamax player (only VHS, but it was a lot later) or a Nintendo Family Computer. I only owned one Barbie doll ever: The Sunsational Malibu Barbie, while my classmates would show off their large collection in rare times we were allowed to bring our toys to school.

There was a time in Grade Six when I was asked to step out of the class during a major exam because I don’t have the exam permit yet. My father was still at the cashier’s office trying to secure it with a promissory note. I had to stay at the library where Dad saw me crying in self-pity. He was able to get the permit, alright, but going back to the classroom while all eyes were looking at me can be very humiliating even for a little girl.

If it weren’t for the full scholarship in High School, I’m pretty sure I would have transferred to a public school. It was truly a blessing, but even if all my tuition including miscellaneous fees were paid for, getting by was still tough.

It wasn’t easy being a scholar as I never felt that we were held in the esteem we deserve. If for anything, the faculty made me feel I had to work for it. Apart from maintaining my grades, I was also expected to do extra work for teachers like checking of test papers, cleaning of rooms, ushering for school events or helping with practically any task assigned even during the weekends. There were moments I feel like I was a lackey running errands for them.

My resentment grew even more during my teenage years. It’s the time I want to fit in, and I can’t since I don’t have the things most of my classmates have. I may have been part of a clique or a barkada, but I don’t have close friends growing up because I was somewhat ashamed of people finding out how tough my circumstance was. I wasn’t given money for the mall or movie (aside from the fact that I wasn’t allowed) that perhaps out of pity, well-meaning friends would chip in for me so I can get to join them.

It didn’t help that there were some teachers who treated me unfairly like it was my fault that I was not as well-off as most students studying in that school. I remember this one time when my class adviser slyly implied that I was the classroom thief.

Stealing in the classroom had become so rampant at that time that my adviser had been throwing insinuating blows my way that had been going on for days. I initially ignored it under the rationale that it wasn’t me who was taking the things and the money anyway. In the long run, shrugging it off was not a good idea, as she might’ve mistaken my lack of reaction for guilt.

One morning in front of the whole class, my teacher asked me when I could pay for the field trip. I don’t recall what my reply was, but I will never forget what she said. She said I shouldn’t give her any more excuses on why I can’t pay because she’s very sure I have “lots of money”.

It wasn’t what she said, it was more how she said it. I was young and maybe lacking discernment, coupled it with the fact that I was thrown off and too shocked to say anything. A concerned classmate pulled me aside and told me that our adviser was obviously hinting something malicious. That’s when it all became clear to me that I have all the right to be offended with her underhanded comment because even other people noticed I was being singled out.

I came home for lunch that day and my parents sensed that there’s something bothering me, so I told them what happened. Furious, they rushed to the principal’s office that very afternoon and lashed out on my class adviser who, of course, denied everything. I got my vindication weeks later when rumors spread that they finally caught the one responsible and that someone belongs to another class.

I never got an apology from my adviser. Maybe she thought she doesn’t owe me anything because after all, I was going to that school for free. And to this day, I don’t attend school reunions as I don’t want to cross paths with that teacher again. Heaven help me—I might not have the self-restraint to remain civil. I would highly likely remind her of what she did to me and slam her for it.

The tough times went on for years and only slightly improved when I reached college. At that time, my older brother was already working so it eased the situation a little. Nonetheless, it was pretty clear that there are still so many material things my parents couldn’t afford to give me even if they wanted to.

It was only when I got older when I realized that even with all those things I went through, that I’m luckier than most people. I was bitterly busy comparing myself to people who’re obviously from a higher social class and have more than me, forgetting that there are still those who were having it worse. I mean, I didn’t have to go and beg for money; I still eat square meals a day; I didn’t have to stop school; I didn’t have to work or be of servitude so I can send myself to school.

I know I said that I thought my parents didn’t give their best for us, but I was so wrong. They gave us the best they can and I was just too young to understand their sacrifices back then. I still tear up when I remember seeing my mother borrowing money from a coworker just so I can pay for a school requirement already due. Or how my dad would leave his office before lunchtime so that he could bring my baon to school and he never missed a day. Only God knows how they managed to do that all those years.   

I have seen people who went through low points end up bitter, selfish and spiteful because they feel life has been unfair to them. The truth is, hard times teach us a very valuable lesson: Gratitude.

This may not be a rags-to-riches story, because I’m anything but wealthy, but it’s worth saying how important those experiences were for me. When you come out of a tough time, it will humble you in ways you can never explain. It taught me resilience and made me so much stronger in handling problems knowing that there will be better days. It made me thankful for the things that I can now afford even if there are still a lot of things that I can’t.  I mean, when I look back on how I was then and compared to how I am now, I sure have come a long way.

Philippines vs. Bullies

I hate bullies. I was bullied as a kid that even now that I’m older I still find myself gritting my teeth when I’m reminded of it. And I always regret the fact that I pretty much allowed them to push me around.

Now my heart breaks for my country as China bullies us over a long-standing territorial dispute.

Nothing’s really new. We all watched helplessly as China continues to build structures on islands and waters belonging to the Philippines. We bemoan how Chinese coast guard and maritime militia shoo away Filipino fishermen and media in our own sovereign waters.

Then just last week, we heard about the news of a Chinese fishing vessel abandoning a sinking Philippine fishing boat after hitting it at Reed (Recto) Bank.

This thing about China’s high-handed tactic in claiming our territorial seas and their blatant disregard of an arbitrary tribunal decision is truly maddening. However, the lack of assertion of our rights from the present administration, despite the fact that PCA (Permanent Court of Arbitration) backs us up, fuels my ire even more.

President Duterte, who indirectly caused the death of thousands from his drug crackdown, the very person who cursed Pope Francis and former US president Barrack Obama, the ballsy leader who called the European Union ‘stupid’, the same one who threatened war on Canada over the waste dispute, the leader who had no qualms alienating anyone who disagrees or questions him, appears to be all too scared to sever ties with China.

Adding insult to injury, after more than a week of the Reed Bank incident, the president downplayed what happened as a “little maritime accident”. His apologists were also quick to add that the collision was more of a ‘graze’ than a direct, deliberate hit.

When asked why they left the Filipino fishermen, they said that the Chinese fled the scene because they were afraid to be “besieged” by other Filipino vessels.

If that wasn’t absurd enough, presidential spokesperson Panelo discounted his kababayan’s account of what happened. According to him, there were "circumstances that give doubt to the version" of the Filipino fishermen. The Duterte supporters used this reasoning too when commenting on social media posts about the incident.

Truly, my heart goes out to the Filipino fishermen because their own government and people doubted them.

In the end, President Duterte stands by China and refuses to send military ships because, as he said, the Philippines is not ready for a nuclear war.  Sure, they can say that this is a ‘calculated statement’ from the president and that its mere intention was to calm the people as the tensions are getting high. But we can’t help but lament over the lack of grit on our part and how the entire situation is mishandled. The government’s passive approach is a clear signal to China that we are pushovers that can be shushed.

A rational Filipino would never suggest declaring war against China. A thinking Filipino would only say that we need a tougher stance over the dispute once and for all. Standing up to China doesn’t necessarily lead to war. Vietnam, for example, is also at odds with China for the same reason, yet they continue on even if the rest of the countries within the region are keeping their heads down.

If the Philippines is not ready for war, I’m sure as hell that China isn’t too. They have so much to lose if that happens. Their geopolitical and economic interests will be at risk so all these talks of a possible nuclear war are obviously meant to scare the common Filipinos to submission and silence.

I may not understand a lot about EEZ, the difference between territorial or sovereign waters—or maybe international maritime laws and arbitration—but there’s one thing I know for sure as a Filipino: We are being bullied, and so far they are succeeding.

The most painful of it all is not only that we are being bullied by China, this administration also bullies its own people. After a closed-door meeting with Sec. Piñol, the boat captain of the sunken vessel changed his statement and is now saying he’s not sure if the Chinese vessel deliberately hit them. Whatever happened? Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t blame the fishermen if they changed their statement. I really don’t.

We need a leader who can strengthen our national sovereignty, not someone who abuse words like 'bilateral relations' to justify an inaction. I hope the next president of this country will have the balls to defend the Filipino people and its territory and not just a filthy caballero machismo.

Cubicle noise pollution

"Avoid loud and aggressive people, they are vexations to the spirit."

— “Desiderata”

Our office has an open workspace in what you can call a co-working environment. There’re about five to six workstations in one bay, enough to fit the dual-monitor desktop, CPU tower and an Avaya IP phone, separated only by partitions measuring about 15-18 inches. Because of this, any noise emanating from a source within a few meters can be heard clearly by anybody within a certain radius.

Noisy coworkers are getting less easy to tolerate for me these days. While the thought crossed my head many times, I deduced that my dwindling patience for them is not because I’m getting old or I’m manifesting symptoms of anxiety, but more because of their lack of common courtesy.

I don’t think they realize that the noise they create can be very stressful for someone who’s just trying to get his or her work done. Their blathering is loud enough that even if you try to drown the noise by wearing earphones, you’ll hear them anyway. You’d think that modulate is a word that’s either alien or omitted in their vocabulary; no deadpan stares or even judging glares would make them lower the volume a notch. If for anything, perhaps they interpret these disapproving gaze for amusement or admiration because the more you look at them, the louder they get.

I always thought that we should all behave a certain way in the office. After all, we’re no longer in school, so we have to conduct ourselves professionally. This includes not talking loudly (especially in vernacular) or engaging in banal chatter. Nobody is asking them for absolute silence, just none of the excessive chit-chat that can already cause disruption to others who are working.

It baffles me how one person can produce noise equivalent to ten people. Imagine multiplying that to two more talking at the same time and volume. The resulting aggravation multiplies logarithmically as well.

I guess for most of them, talking in an obtrusive volume gives them the illusion of importance. But we all know the truth—empty vessels make the most noise. I think they are simply desperate for attention and they don’t care if they get it through notoriety.

By nature, humans are more attuned to man-made sounds which make ignoring noisy officemates nearly impossible. Loud chatter draws the attention away from the task at hand because it ruins one’s focus. Tell me—how can you reply to a business e-mail when you can hear them talking about what happened to last night’s teleserye?

As they are colleagues within the same pay grade, I can’t just tell them to pipe down. People, in general—don’t like being told what to do especially by someone of the same rank. Besides, some of these human bullhorns can’t tell the difference between another person asking them politely from being confrontational (they’d always think it’s the latter). On the other hand, it’s hard not be passive-aggressive when they have pressed all the wrong buttons already. In the end, most of us affected had no choice but to take the high road and ignore it altogether than be seen as the suck-up killjoy office whiner.

What’s frustrating is how we can’t count on their direct superiors to call their attention as they are sometimes the instigators. Reporting it during FGDs and townhall meetings proved to be futile too.

Frankly, I don’t see this issue getting resolved anytime soon because it’s more of an issue on employee behavior than effective enforcement of office rules and work etiquette. If the loud talker doesn’t see anything wrong with what he or she is doing, they’d simply think there’s nothing to change or adjust.

I suddenly thought about how we were in school as little kids—the embarrassment of seeing your name written on the blackboard under “Noisy” for everyone to see—is enough to shut you up.

Everyday I Write the Book

Had I been a popular celebrity, it would have been way easier to get my work published.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, drop by a local bookstore in your spare time and you’ll see these:

My dream, they got it all so easily.

It made me think that you don’t need writing skills to have your own book published. These days, relevance is everything.

Happy Birthday, baby.

Let’s just pretend that by some crazy cosmic coincidence he stumbles upon this site...

Happy 38th birthday to the man of my most far-out fantasy. My Übermensch. ❤️

God, why do you have to be so damn perfect?

X-Meh.

Apart from the movies under the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU), the X-Men franchise is another superhero film series that I have followed over the years. When they announced the spin-off for Jean Grey and the trailers were released, I couldn’t wait to see how they will develop the Dark Phoenix saga.

Dark Phoenix, a direct sequel of 2016’s X-Men: Apocalypse, premiered last week and like any fangirl, I went to see it last weekend. I expected it to be action-packed, so I chose to see it in 4DX.

I got bored about an hour or so into the movie. It wasn’t what I expected because the plot didn’t give the Dark Phoenix arc any justice. It was flat. It was rushed. It would have been a lot better if they made it to two films than squeezing it all in one. Frankly, I would choose the critically-panned X-Men: The Last Stand, any day over this movie (actually, make that any X-Men movie over this one).

When I got out of the theater, my older brother was waiting outside for the next screening. Upon seeing me, he mouthed: “Maganda?” to which I answered, “okay lang.” I guess my facial reaction betrayed me because he said he knew right then that it wasn’t that good.

At first, I thought — was I not liking it because I still have the Avengers: Endgame fever? Am I not giving it a chance? But as the movie went on I realized it had nothing to do with that. I want to love it, but there wasn’t anything about the movie that is rave-worthy, save for the train scene where Magneto shows he’s still the badass of them all (I mean, I found myself gushing on my seat when he does his stance and hand gestures).

You watch a superhero movie because you want to feel the exhilarating excitement of rooting for them. Sadly, there’s nothing of that here. It’s just bleak. No appeal. Even the villain played by the very pale Jessica Chastain would leave you scratching your head.

Most of the X-Men we loved all became mediocre; Everyone was just out of character. No fantastic scene from the über-awesome Quicksilver, Mystique didn’t even get the chance to use her abilities and Charles Xavier wasn’t as powerful as he truly is—or was. More so, the movie tore his character down, made him look like an egocentric leader enjoying praise and adulation rather than the moral compass he’s always been. Beast and Storm were bleh. Cyclops was trying desperately to be romantic but falls short. At least Nightcrawler was a sparkplug here, which is long overdue.

The actors who portrayed them looked like they were just going through the motions but were really uninterested to reprise their roles (JLaw wanted out of the franchise, that’s for sure). I wouldn’t want to talk about the timeline if I could, but this further ruined X-Men and X2: X-Men United with its many plotholes. Three movies after X-Men: First Class, the best of the bunch, the film series had truly nosedived. As a fan, that makes me sad.

And maybe the saddest of it all was because I watched it in 4DX, I spent more than what I’d usually pay had I seen it in a regular cinema. But maybe it helped, as all the simulated movements and effects kept me awake. Otherwise, I would have dozed off.

"Micro" blogging

I blog with my cellphone.

You read that right. More than half of the posts you see here, including the tweaking of the layout and template, were all done on my 6.3" phone.

If my eyesight goes pffftt and I end up with a serious case of ulnar deformity, you know why.

I no longer remember when we got rid of the desktop computer we had at home but I know why we had to let it go: it takes up so much space.

I also retired the second-hand laptop I bought years ago from a guy who was in desperate need of money to pay off his casino debt. That unit, however unreliable and super slow, was the one I used during my active blogging years. I had a love-hate relationship (mostly hate) with it.

For a while, I’ve been using my older brother’s, a slight upgrade from mine, but it also has gotten so slow over time that mere boot-up can take more or less ten minutes. By the time it’s ready, I’ve already lost my momentum and would rather go to sleep.

If not for the reason that I’m back blogging, getting a new laptop wouldn’t even cross my mind. I’m the biggest scrooge and was never the type to buy electronic gadgets on a whim.

But with my Bratwurst fingers and failing eyesight, blogging using my cellphone is no joke.

I would like to have the freedom of writing anywhere I want, when I want it, and I can only get that ease from the portability of a notebook computer.

I still write better when I use a physical keyboard because I can easily spot the errors on my grammar and usage (so if you see one, a little understanding please). Not to mention that I’ve always been a fast typist (averaging 65 WPM) so I finish quicker.

So yeah, I’ve been thinking of investing on one that’s lightweight enough to carry inside a tote. I could work on anywhere between 11-14 inches and no heavier than 3 pounds. Please don’t make me come back to the bulky ones like my old laptop which could be deadly if I strike someone with it. Well, I think they don’t make the thick ones anymore—the ones with equally thick cables and adaptors—unless you bought a refurbished, right?

I’ve been looking at units both online and at stores and I have seen some I like and that are pretty okay price-wise (Budget is a consideration for me so, no, unless I won the lottery or a filthy rich person reading this took pity and sponsors me one—Apple MacBook is out of the equation.)

Then again, I’m a total ignoramus when it comes to specifications so that’s another hurdle. I don’t even know what Windows version is now. I don’t know how much storage and RAM to consider and which of all those brands promise good battery life.

Frankly, I don’t know any of this stuff anymore and most of the time it only leaves me stumped and more confused. I just want to put an end to my blogging misery, people. I mean, c’mon—just look at the picture and tell me why I shouldn’t get one.

Because when I said micro-blogging, I meant that literally.

Any sponsors suggestions? 

He came for him

Three weeks shy of my daddy’s 1st Death Anniversary on the 29th of this month, his older brother passed away yesterday morning.

Tito Cesar or “Tatay Diko” to us, is the second from the eldest of eight boys. “Diko”, which is an appellation for the second elder brother (next to “kuya”), died peacefully in his sleep. With his passing, there are only four of the De Leon brothers left.

The first one to go was the third brother, Tatay Tony, who died in September of 2000. He was followed by the eldest, Tiyong Ben, in 2002. Almost two decades later, my father passed away last year.

Tatay Diko spent his twilight years similar to how my father did with his—sitting on the front porch by the gate watching people. Both of them were like a permanent fixture of Tramo street, that when you type in our home address in Google Street View before, you will see them at the very spot (their faces blurred though) on the satellite image.

However, this was not the only reason a lot of people knew them, as all eight brothers were born and raised in the same place. Suffice to say, they were there all their lives that they’ve seen people come and go and witnessed how the neighborhood changed over the years. I guess this made them proud in a way, having an excessively high opinion of themselves (a trait which I think all of the brothers possess in varying levels), thinking they are far better than the people around them.

I was not close to Tatay Diko and for whatever unspoken reason why’s that, I didn’t bother knowing anymore. I don’t even remember the last time we talked except indirectly when I tell my nephews to say hello or goodbye to him when we go out and had to pass by the gate.

God knows my oft-misunderstood behavior around him was more out of respect rather than disregard and contempt. I may be distant and seemingly indifferent, but this doesn’t mean I don’t worry about him because I do, especially when he started showing signs of cognitive decline and senility many years ago.

That wasn’t how I remember Tatay Diko growing up. He was the uncle who lifts weights, boxes and does push-ups every morning. The one who doesn’t smoke (unlike most of his brothers) and tells really corny jokes. Tatay Diko was also my go-to person when I needed a slogan every poster-making contests in grade school. He’s an intelligent man who reads broadsheets and devours English crossword puzzles (and the only one who can challenge him when it comes to that was my dad—who was equally bright). To his many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he’s Tatay Pogi.

But perhaps aging gets the best of anyone that it can later turn one grumpy and irritable. That after some time the funny person you once knew would be gone and replaced by someone who huffs at the slightest annoyance and fumbles. I witnessed this with my own father in his later years, how his personality and mood shifted for the worse after his first stroke.

When my dad died, it was no surprise that Tatay Diko took it really hard. After all, the two of them almost have the same daily routine: Sit by the gate and watch people all morning, go inside before lunchtime when it gets unbearably hot, then come back and sit there until sunset. My mom and Nanay Babes (Tatay Diko’s wife) never understood why they spend their days like this but can’t do anything to stop them. Later on, they’ve probably resigned to the fact that it was already their way of life so they let them be.

Weakened by his age, he only managed to go to the funeral but wasn’t able to come to daddy’s cremation. As it was a custom, the funeral procession had to pass by the house one last time. From the vehicle where we’re at, I saw Tatay Diko, sitting on the same spot, looking on as the hearse carrying daddy’s remains pass right in front of him. Whatever his thoughts are that very moment, no one will ever know, and perhaps would only be between him and my daddy. It was heart-wrenching seeing him sitting alone to where they were usually together.

Days following my father’s death, Nanay Babes and Kuya Chiqui, his son, would find Tatay Diko quiet and alone in his thoughts, sometimes would even have trouble sleeping. There is no need for him to say it, we all knew that it was his way of processing his grief.

When I got home from work last Monday a little after three in the afternoon, I saw Tatay Diko on the same spot I see him every single day. He was sitting on a monoblock chair, leaning on the wall, with a half-filled plastic cup of gulaman beside him.

The first thing that ran through my head was, how can he bear this heat? It was particularly warmer that afternoon and I myself was sweating bullets coming home from a short commute. But as I would have it every day, I passed by him with only that thought in my mind.

My mom, who’s always been concerned of Tatay Diko (she says he reminds him so much of daddy), asked me if Tatay was there and if something was amiss. I told her exactly what I saw, and I even said (more like asked) why he was even staying outside when it was so hot. When I think about it now, I can’t even recall if his eyes were closed or not, if he showed any signs of difficulty whatsoever, because I always walk with my head down every time I enter the gate.

The following morning, Nanay Babes found him unresponsive in his sleep and was declared DOA shortly after.

***
It was only after that they told us the pancit incident that happened last Sunday.

There was a children’s party just right across the street and Tatay Diko was given a plate of pancit. There were two versions of the story I heard—one was when the neighbor gave him the plate, Tatay Diko left it somewhere. When he was asked where the food was, he answered: “Binigay ko kay Luis.” (I gave it to Luis).

They asked him: “Sino’ng Luis?” (Luis who?)

Tatay Diko answered: “Si Luis! Kapatid ko!” (Luis! My brother!)

Another version was Tatay Diko was offering the pancit to his other brothers who were also there at the time, but when they refused, Tatay Diko said, “Ayaw din ni Luis eh.” (Luis doesn’t want to take it too.)

I don’t know which among these versions was accurate and did actually happened, or if some of the details had been changed as it gets told over and over, but there’s no doubt about one thing: Luis, my father, was there.

Most Filipinos believed in this superstition called “sundo” (to fetch, when translated in English), a belief in which when a family member or a friend who’s already dead shows himself up to another, would mean that he was there to accompany the person to the ‘other side’.

We believed that last Sunday when Tatay Diko kept mentioning daddy, that maybe he was really there about to fetch Tatay Diko.

That he came for him.

Death they say should be viewed as a natural thing and that it shouldn’t be something we fear. But I think it’s not really death that scares most of us, but more of the fear of the unknown. Where do we go? What comes after all of this? Will we see our loved ones who passed on?

Watching shows like “Hollywood Medium” and “The Last Goodbye” convinced me that there’s still life beyond what we know and that all those who died are still with us. It makes you less scared when it’s your time to go.

There is some comfort in thinking that the two of them are together now. And as how my friend said it on his comment: The siblings are chillin’.

RIP, Tatay Diko.

Sometimes it gets tough

Photo by Patrick Hendry

I can tell you so many reasons why, even at my age, I’m just okay being single. I genuinely enjoy the freedom that comes with it and how it could be very empowering to be a lone wolf at times. Besides, I’d choose to be single than be in a toxic, subpar relationship.

I’m sure you have read about many articles on the perks of being single so I won’t add any to that anymore. Also, coming from me, writing about that would sound a little 'on the defensive'.

While I made up my rather delusional mind that if it isn’t going to be Chris Evans then I’d rather not, I’d be lying through my teeth if I say that everything about being single is perfect and blissful because it isn’t. I admit there are tougher days when I wish I was in a relationship. I hope that acknowledging this though doesn’t make me an emotional weakling but more of just me being human wanting affection and longing for love like everyone else.

The truth is, no matter how strong you are, there is only so much that you can get by on your own. There are some emotional needs that even the closest family and most loyal of friends just can’t fill. Let me tell you some of the (very rare) times when I wished I wasn’t single.

Having dinner with friends 

I was never envious of friends that are in a relationship but sometimes having catch-up dinner with them always makes me feel a bit lonely after. My friends and I (we call ourselves Cuatro Amigas) make it a point to meet up maybe once or twice a year (no husbands and boyfriends allowed) and it’s one of my favorite times of the year that I look forward to.

But what they don’t know is that when it’s time to call it a night, and that they’d either be picked-up or would have someone home waiting for them, it makes me sad as I don’t have that. I tell you, even if self-pity was never my style, nothing else could be more perfect for a scene of Celine Dion’s “All by Myself” music video than getting a taxi ride home late at night. It’s definitely one of those times I’d go, bakit ba ako nag-iisa?

When I was hospitalized 

I don’t want to sound ungrateful to family and relatives who were in the hospital the very few times I was there, but it was then when I realized being in a relationship with someone that moment would make a lot of difference.

When I had my surgery and we were all worried about so many things including the medical bills, I remember telling my cousin that I wish I had a husband or a boyfriend who will tell me everything’s gonna be okay and perhaps even share the responsibility with.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to be rescued from my finances. I was able to pay for everything on my own, haven't I? It’s just that at that point, I want to unload some of what I’ve been carrying with somebody other than family and friends.

Another thing is when I was wheeled out of the operating room after, the people I saw the moment I opened my eyes are my brothers, sister-in-law, nephews and cousins. It’s sad to think that I may not come out of the surgery alive and yet I don’t have a significant other waiting for me.

Come to think of it, even if you’re just sick in bed, sometimes you wish for someone who will take care of the helpless and whiny you. You can’t expect that kind of attention from family members all the time.

Fighting the stigma

It’s not only other people who had stigmatized me for being single, sometimes I feel that from my own kith and kin.

They say you cannot choose the relatives you were born into so you’ll just have to accept it. It has to be said that my father’s side of the family—my uncles, if I may be more specific—is probably the most judgmental people you’ll ever meet. Their favorite pastime would be sitting by the gate of the house and just talk about the lives of the people passing by, whether they know them personally or not. And I, being their own niece, is not exempted from that.

What’s amusing is that all of them are almost deaf so they don’t realize that even when talking amongst themselves, their voices are so loud that people can actually hear them. Many times, when they see me coming from the corner of our street (which is still a few meters from our house), they’d go:

“Ayan na parating na, tignan niyo, hindi makabati yan.” (Here she comes. Notice how she’ll ignore us.) 

“Kaya nga siguro tumandang dalaga yan eh.” (No wonder she ends up a spinster.)

Wow. They made it sound that singlehood was some sort of a curse. A punishment for something I did wrong in my life.

First, if saying excuse me before passing right by them meant that I was being disrespectful, then I don’t know how else to behave around them. I don’t know why they still interpret it that way when even as a little girl they know me as quiet and reserved.

Second, how dare they link my demeanor to the fact that I’m single.

It’s funny how some people can draw their own crazy conclusions based on how they perceive others. The disgrace around being single in your forties is downright absurd and it’s something I’m forced to face every day. It’s like a disease that needed to be cured. That I am a lesser woman because I am not married. That I am pitiful. That I have high standards and impossible expectations. Some even supposed that I haven’t gotten over the sudden death of my boyfriend seventeen freaking years ago. Some think I don’t have a single romantic bone in my body. OMG.

Bottomline: They always have something to say.

Because of this sometimes I wish I have someone just to silence all those people and their misconceptions of me. I know it’s too shallow wanting to be in a relationship for this reason, but if only to let them realize that there is nothing relatively wrong with me and maybe that it will eventually shut them up.

Just wanting someone to talk to 

You’ve all heard that line from the Corrs song:

 “I’m not looking for someone to talk to. I’ve got my friends, I’m more than okay.” 

I know my friends, no matter how busy they are with their own lives, they would drop everything at a moment’s notice if they knew I needed someone to talk to. They have always been dependable especially during the lowest moments of my life.

However, there is still that kind of talks that don’t need that same urgency, or maybe something that you don’t even want to talk about even to your closest friends—whether it’s something that happened at work or this new movie or even remembering a funny story that almost made you peed your pants—things so trivial you wouldn’t want to bother your friends with anymore. I mean, you can’t pour out every single thing to them, right?

Perhaps this is one of the things I miss most about being in a relationship. Having someone there to talk to when everything seems to bum you down. And boy,  I can be quite a talker.

Wanting Intimacy 

Do I need to spell this out for you?

If you aren’t single and granted that you’re in a normal relationship (not LDR), you can count on someone to be there to hold your hand, give you cuddles, kisses, hugs, back rubs and of course—a lot more. Intimacy (most especially sexual intimacy) in a relationship is very important. Anyone who says it isn’t can come to me so I can slap the bejeezus out of them.

Everyone needs to be “touched”; It’s the most basic of all the five senses and it’s very crucial in a relationship. Even someone with a tough mien like me wanted that. God, I’m only human.

So there. Apart from the little things like nobody taking my pictures (and me ending up having selfies, LOL) or carrying my heavy groceries—to something big like already second-guessing my self-worth or starting to wonder if I’d ever get to feel crazy in love with someone again, one thing is true: being single is not easy at all which is why sometimes, I wish I wasn’t.

Before you start getting all these crazy ideas, this isn’t a pity piece and definitely not an indirect cry for help. This is just me being honest that I’m not always the supersinglewoman I seemed to be.