I overheard a group of young people whisper then giggle while looking at a couple having cups of coffee in a restaurant.
The man with his wife, both in their sixties, were sweet: he had his walker deposited beside his seat while his wife assisted him in eating the ensaimada they were having for merienda. It was obvious that he was recuperating from a stroke or some damaging ailment that has affected his mobility. And his wife was wiping the corner his mouth where grated cheese and sugar seemed to have collected.
The young people from the other table saw this gesture privately shared by the couple and ... they laughed.
One of the young ladies in the group, perhaps in her early twenties ... the sort who was not very pretty but believed that being a fashionable victim can create an illusion that she can be a threat to Anne Curtis ... went to the extent of muttering a diring-diri "Yuuuuch." Her girlfriend, not any prettier and certainly not an iota nicer could not help but verbalize her feelings that very moment:"Kadiri. Such old people!"
This was followed by the comment of one of the males who had a very demented concept of wit. He said, "If those were my grandparents, I'd drag them back home." Another in the group added, "Kasi naman people that age should not be allowed to go around the mall without alalays."
I was dumbstruck. I have never been so appalled in my life.
Here I was ... so completely touched by the sight of a couple who may have been together for years, for richer or for poorer, certainly in sickness and in health ... showing how much love they have for each other ... and this group of yuppies can only expel such words of disdain and contempt because they were old?
Since when was being old a reason for this kind of attitude and discrimination? And what does this sort of behavior indicate about what the world has become today? Have we completely thrown away the principles of respect for elders as well as seniority?
Would these smart-ass, IPhone wielding urban maggots felt the same way if their parents or grandparents were the ones showing such a display of candid affection? Or do young people feel such ... greatness and omnipotence ... believing that the prime years of their lives would last forever and that the world will twirl around the axis of their well-toned, gym-buffed SPF protected skins and bodies?
Unfortunately they are up for a very big surprise.
Youth passes far too quickly. Youth flashes in your eyes ... and before you know it, young you are no longer. Even without the aid of numerals to calibrate your age, you easily slide into being a youngster to a hormone berserk young adult to a ambitious material-obsessed adult ... then to mellow hypertension/uric acid troubled middle age ... eventually reaching the senior stature when the young believe you should be best turned into a pot of fertilizer.
Sometimes you do not even feel the passage of decades.
Being too preoccupied with making a living, you forget about having a life. You are so busy trying to make so much money to have a good life ... so much so that you completely forget that life is passing you by faster than you can fatten your bank account. You spend sleepless nights and countless hours keeping up with trends, purchasing the latest gadgets and foisting just how far you have gone with the brand of car you are driving, the condo unit you are amortizing or even the human being you are copulating with just to prove to the world you have a good life.
Then it hits you. You need your blood pressure checked ever so often. Add the blood test. The mammogram test too. The endoscopy would help. Also the colonoscopy. But that's all right: you have a platinum health card to match your credit credentials.
The only way you come to terms with aging is the fact that what you can do in your 20s you can no longer do when you hit your 30s.
Whereas you can go on and on like the Energizer Rabbit for more than thirty-six hours straight (that including slaving for your bosses then partying until you froth in the mouth), when you are in your 30's all that hyperactivity seems to slow down.
That's when you develop blood pressure problems, gout and the start of smoker's cough. And insomnia. And anemia.
When you hit the fourth decade of your existence, you also feel the law of gravity at work. That is your metabolism has slowed down so much that no amount of working out in the gym or participation in marathons at Global City can make you lose the hateful four inches that have grown around your midsection.
You are in your forties when awful arch from your nose to your chin makes you look like a marionette. That is when you start counting your laugh lines and the crow's feet. That is when you consider a hair transplant because Minoxidil is no longer working to cure that receding hairline. Etcetera. Etcetera.
That is aging. No one can escape that. You can ask the help of Vicky Belo to nip, tuck, inject and pull up or out an inch or two ... but your body clock will still keep on going. You will still age. Even she will tell you that.
But here is the good news. There is nothing wrong with that.
There is nobility and honor in aging.
If you make the most out of your years and give meaning to what has been loaned to you in your present life, then you should wear your age like a badge of honor. For the real pride of human existence is when you justify the years you spent on this planet --- on what you have made of yourself not in terms of fame or wealth It is how you have changed lives, affected others ... and more so, added dignity to your character despite and in spite of your imperfections because you are human.
When I looked at that old couple, I knew that they possessed something that those bunch of air-headed yuppies can only hope for. That couple have found each other: they have discovered the kind of happiness that so many yearn to possess but nowadays only very few get to keep. They have found peace with themselves and with the world.
In a world so obsessed with youth, having lived through too many years has become quite unfashionable. That is why many try to hide their age though science or methods of camouflage and deception. But the wiser ones deal with their years with excitement and pride. They tell the kids out there to go screw themselves. The wisdom of collected years is far more priceless than the folly of the innocent and ignorant who believe they are brilliant.
Besides, I dare ask: how many of those condescending, giggling and contemptible yuppies will ever get to live as long and as happy as that couple they called yuuuch? I doubt that very much. I really doubt that very, very much.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Saturday, June 4, 2011
THE VIRTUE OF KINGS
There are two things I remember from my late father.
He insisted that one's penmanship reflects the degree of dignity in a person's character. He had such impeccable handwriting. I remember my Dad using the same Parker pen for years, rendering those beautiful perfectly looped l's and p's in his favorite blue black ink.
Another thing that my father always insisted on was punctuality.
Oh, that old man hated being late. He always told us that it was the height of being insensitive, inconsiderate ... and (to use a term often sputtered by my mother) so maleducado to make anybody wait. My father said that once you make an appointment, you actually enter a contract which requires a commitment. You actually allocate your time inasmuch as you make demands from somebody else's time ... and it was only out of respect for the other person or persons that you get your ass out there at the precise moment agreed upon by all parties concerned. One's sense of time reflects the all so precious palabra de honor.
That was why my father never understood the crassness and inconsiderate behavior in others by not feeling any sense of offense in being late. Not only did he find this vulgar but also insulting. For my father, wasting somebody else's precious minutes of the day is tantamount to downright kabastusan.
We tried explaining to him that Filipinos never really took appointments all that seriously. We explained to him that together with palabra de honor and delicadeza came the sense of manana time. We tried to convince him that it is not a personal assault or insult to come late because ... uh, we are ... after all, Pinoys in the Philippines.
That is why when you ask someone, "What time do you want to meet?" ... you never get a reply like, "Let's meet at 9:00AM" ...or worse, "Let's see each other at 9:02:30AM, Bangkok Time." Filipinos will always mumble, "Around nine?" (which actually means anything between 9:00 to 9:59AM assuming that you have agreed that the time being mentioned is in the morning). Seldom can you come across someone who will be there at the exact time you set for your appointment.
There are people who have this natural predilection for being tardy with a cause. Let me clarify that.
Some people are genuinely late because they have fifteen thousand possible excuses for tardiness. In other words, they are just clumsy and careless but not deliberate or malicious. They never get there on time because they always miscalculate their ability to get from Point A to Point B: this is usually because of their lack foresight or they really have bad timepieces to get them through their days. Or they are certified space cadets who cannot get through the day without the aid of Prozac.
There is always the excuse of Manila traffic (and how can you argue with that?)or even the endless possible combinations and permutations of domestic/personal/ international tragedies big and small which can be a valid cause of delay.
(I have often asked myself why city folks of the Metro still use traffic as an excuse. Considering we all know that this city's main thoroughfares are as clogged as their sewers, you would think that urbanites already know that it is necessary to give more than enough leeway to be able to meet an appointment. If you know there is going to be a bottleneck traffic mess somewhere, then is that not reason for you to give allowance by leaving your point of origin earlier? Ah, but that is so un-Filipino, I guess. As I told my Dad, Filipinos never look farther than the tip of their noses.)
But there are others who make a career out of being deliberately late. And their reasons are equally valid ... because they exist in their own parallel universe where Elvis is still alive.
Well, yes: there are some who love dramatic entrances.
These are the people who a) hate being the first to arrive at a party only to find themselves nibbling on appetizers while waiting for the rest of the guests to arrive or b) love being the last to arrive to make sure that their entrance will be reason enough to celebrate. So that is why when Filipinos host parties, you never take the call time seriously because everybody hates being the first to arrive. And sometimes they do not even need any form of social gathering to make dramatic entrances. They want not only to be counted but noticed.
Even with business meetings, airport departures or dental appointments, Filipinos find themselves always in a hurry to get to a designated place on time. They will always have the reason to be rushing and beating the deadline. Foreigners do not understand this --- and, maybe like my father, misunderstand this practice as disrespect for somebody else's time or downright lack of discipline. But perhaps it has got something to do with our natural sense of creating excitement or our appetite for panic.
We love the adrenaline rush. We also love to feel like we are losing control. We love to trip, stumble and hopefully not fall. And, perhaps as an addendum to all this, we love to procrastinate. Inasmuch as we have all these excuses why we are late, we have an equally long list of reasons why it is still too early to make a move. So look at where our country is now? If my Dad were still alive today, I would hate to listen to a two-hour lecture called his opinion.
Oh, but the worst kind of latecomer is he who deliberately makes people wait just to prove to everyone how important he is.
In show business, such creatures are quite common. They have become facts of life for people in production who are trained to be patient and learn the art of waiting as if it were part of their survival kits. Whereas there are luminaries who still believe and practice punctuality to the point of being obsessive, there are those who manifest their insecurities by making everybody wait for them for hours ... and without even giving these poor minions the benefit of a token apology.
These super-assholes make the production feel that it is their obligation to wait ... because it is equally the privilege of anyone to work with a star of such proportions. Ah, OK. Time to learn how to cross-stitch, embroider, crochet, knit or play marathon games of Angry Birds just to prove your love for such self-proclaimed demigods.
But that, I guess, is a different realm all together. Some people need to foist just how indispensable they are to the lives of others by showing them a little bit of power ... and making them feel a dosage of timely misery.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) I have inherited my Dad's preoccupation for punctuality. And there are times I ask myself if it is really worth all this aggravation to be so particular to be on time or to deliver promises on or before deadlines. Yes, this can be all so frustrating considering that a great number of people around me do not take the same priorities seriously.
But I keep remembering what my Dad used to tell me: "Punctuality is a virtue of kings."
So I just keep telling myself that in a world of commoners, I would still prefer to behave like royalty.
He insisted that one's penmanship reflects the degree of dignity in a person's character. He had such impeccable handwriting. I remember my Dad using the same Parker pen for years, rendering those beautiful perfectly looped l's and p's in his favorite blue black ink.
Another thing that my father always insisted on was punctuality.
Oh, that old man hated being late. He always told us that it was the height of being insensitive, inconsiderate ... and (to use a term often sputtered by my mother) so maleducado to make anybody wait. My father said that once you make an appointment, you actually enter a contract which requires a commitment. You actually allocate your time inasmuch as you make demands from somebody else's time ... and it was only out of respect for the other person or persons that you get your ass out there at the precise moment agreed upon by all parties concerned. One's sense of time reflects the all so precious palabra de honor.
That was why my father never understood the crassness and inconsiderate behavior in others by not feeling any sense of offense in being late. Not only did he find this vulgar but also insulting. For my father, wasting somebody else's precious minutes of the day is tantamount to downright kabastusan.
We tried explaining to him that Filipinos never really took appointments all that seriously. We explained to him that together with palabra de honor and delicadeza came the sense of manana time. We tried to convince him that it is not a personal assault or insult to come late because ... uh, we are ... after all, Pinoys in the Philippines.
That is why when you ask someone, "What time do you want to meet?" ... you never get a reply like, "Let's meet at 9:00AM" ...or worse, "Let's see each other at 9:02:30AM, Bangkok Time." Filipinos will always mumble, "Around nine?" (which actually means anything between 9:00 to 9:59AM assuming that you have agreed that the time being mentioned is in the morning). Seldom can you come across someone who will be there at the exact time you set for your appointment.
There are people who have this natural predilection for being tardy with a cause. Let me clarify that.
Some people are genuinely late because they have fifteen thousand possible excuses for tardiness. In other words, they are just clumsy and careless but not deliberate or malicious. They never get there on time because they always miscalculate their ability to get from Point A to Point B: this is usually because of their lack foresight or they really have bad timepieces to get them through their days. Or they are certified space cadets who cannot get through the day without the aid of Prozac.
There is always the excuse of Manila traffic (and how can you argue with that?)or even the endless possible combinations and permutations of domestic/personal/ international tragedies big and small which can be a valid cause of delay.
(I have often asked myself why city folks of the Metro still use traffic as an excuse. Considering we all know that this city's main thoroughfares are as clogged as their sewers, you would think that urbanites already know that it is necessary to give more than enough leeway to be able to meet an appointment. If you know there is going to be a bottleneck traffic mess somewhere, then is that not reason for you to give allowance by leaving your point of origin earlier? Ah, but that is so un-Filipino, I guess. As I told my Dad, Filipinos never look farther than the tip of their noses.)
But there are others who make a career out of being deliberately late. And their reasons are equally valid ... because they exist in their own parallel universe where Elvis is still alive.
Well, yes: there are some who love dramatic entrances.
These are the people who a) hate being the first to arrive at a party only to find themselves nibbling on appetizers while waiting for the rest of the guests to arrive or b) love being the last to arrive to make sure that their entrance will be reason enough to celebrate. So that is why when Filipinos host parties, you never take the call time seriously because everybody hates being the first to arrive. And sometimes they do not even need any form of social gathering to make dramatic entrances. They want not only to be counted but noticed.
Even with business meetings, airport departures or dental appointments, Filipinos find themselves always in a hurry to get to a designated place on time. They will always have the reason to be rushing and beating the deadline. Foreigners do not understand this --- and, maybe like my father, misunderstand this practice as disrespect for somebody else's time or downright lack of discipline. But perhaps it has got something to do with our natural sense of creating excitement or our appetite for panic.
We love the adrenaline rush. We also love to feel like we are losing control. We love to trip, stumble and hopefully not fall. And, perhaps as an addendum to all this, we love to procrastinate. Inasmuch as we have all these excuses why we are late, we have an equally long list of reasons why it is still too early to make a move. So look at where our country is now? If my Dad were still alive today, I would hate to listen to a two-hour lecture called his opinion.
Oh, but the worst kind of latecomer is he who deliberately makes people wait just to prove to everyone how important he is.
In show business, such creatures are quite common. They have become facts of life for people in production who are trained to be patient and learn the art of waiting as if it were part of their survival kits. Whereas there are luminaries who still believe and practice punctuality to the point of being obsessive, there are those who manifest their insecurities by making everybody wait for them for hours ... and without even giving these poor minions the benefit of a token apology.
These super-assholes make the production feel that it is their obligation to wait ... because it is equally the privilege of anyone to work with a star of such proportions. Ah, OK. Time to learn how to cross-stitch, embroider, crochet, knit or play marathon games of Angry Birds just to prove your love for such self-proclaimed demigods.
But that, I guess, is a different realm all together. Some people need to foist just how indispensable they are to the lives of others by showing them a little bit of power ... and making them feel a dosage of timely misery.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) I have inherited my Dad's preoccupation for punctuality. And there are times I ask myself if it is really worth all this aggravation to be so particular to be on time or to deliver promises on or before deadlines. Yes, this can be all so frustrating considering that a great number of people around me do not take the same priorities seriously.
But I keep remembering what my Dad used to tell me: "Punctuality is a virtue of kings."
So I just keep telling myself that in a world of commoners, I would still prefer to behave like royalty.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
IN A PERFECT SMOKE-FREE WORLD
Some of my friends are going completely ballistic.
The MetroManila Development Authority's campaign to completely eradicate all these nicotine junkies from the city has created havoc. Soon absolutely no one is allowed to smoke in main and secondary streets in the entire Metropolis. We are not talking just Manila here but all the cities covered by the office ... going as far as, uh, Bulacan?
So how is that?
You cannot smoke inside restaurants. You cannot smoke inside malls. You cannot smoke in government buildings. You cannot smoke in airports. You cannot smoke in offices and schools. If you are one of those who find ultimate pleasure sucking in smoke down your throat and into your lungs .... you have to step out of wherever you are for your nicotine shot, right? As if that is not hassle enough.
And now you cannot smoke in public places in Manila. (Insert canned laughter here.)
I stopped smoking a little over three years ago.
I started the habit when I was about sixteen years old. I began with a stick of Marlboro Red or two ... until that eventually progressed into Marlboro Green, then Pall Mall ... then eventually Philip Morris. By the time I hit fifty, I was smoking about a pack and a half to two packs a day. I used to buy cigarettes by the piece. Then I bought them by the pack. Eventually, out of an attempt to save money, I bought them by the carton.
I justified my nicotine addiction to my stressful occupation and pre-occupations. I worked in media. My life was full of deadlines and assholes. I needed to ... uhm, relax. Puff ... puff.
Plus the fact that it looked good puffing a cigarette while drinking coffee. It looked good blowing smoke while clinging onto a glass of Gin and Vodka tonic at a bar, making goo-goo eyes and doing Vogue poses in order to look attractive. The cigarette dangling from my nicotine stained fingers was a security blanket: the act of sucking in the smoke then blowing it out with pursed lips or through my nose was something to do.
I smoked inside my car. I smoked inside my office. I smoked in my bedroom. I smelled of smoke from the moment I wake up (drink your mug of coffee, read the headline of the Inquirer then see what Conrad de Quiros has to say, while lighting my first of many cigarettes throughout the day)until the final credits of my day started scrolling down my tired mind (one finally fag to end the adventure of the past day). I smelled of smoke ... and I did not notice it. And I did not give a damn.
I did not give a damn but my mother did. Shall I tell you of the times she would cut out clippings from newspapers and magazines showing the perils of smoking? Or she would cut out pictures of lungs infested with cancer attributed to smoking ... or asking me to spell emphysema in a single breath? I would come home ... and dear Mama would have something tacked on my cork board, usually an article about sure-death from a habit that I should not have even started.
Ah, well. But that's the way of all mothers.
Then there is this worldwide anti-smoking campaign that made any smoker's life regress from unfair to downright miserable. There was this big deal about second hand smoke (or how your health can be jeopardized because you are in the same room as a nicotine junkie). And soon enough, the smoking section of restaurants, airports including airplanes became extinct. Even taking a relatively short plane ride --- say, Manila to Bangkok --- was a nerve wrecking experience for a smoker who anticipates claustrophobia mixed with the inability to light a joint.
But perhaps my worst experience was having to go outside for my nicotine break at the height of winter. I had to step outside the balcony of my hotel room in Barcelona, freezing my ass off at nine in the evening just to take a smoke. Worse, I was crammed inside a very small smoking lounge in the airport with about twenty other fellow junkies trying to get my fill.
Ironically, it is not all these that made me kick the habit. It was not a spur of the moment decision either.
To begin with, whether one realizes it or not, smoking is a very expensive diversion to ruin one's health. At P35.00 to P40.00 per pack of my favorite menthol cigarette, I figured out that I spent approximately P53.00 to P70.00 per day just to keep my mouth occupied and smelling like the sewers. That total to something like P490.00 a week or P1960 a month. I figured out that I will not only be saving close to two grand per month ... but more so, sparing myself of medical bills if and when ...
Worse was the fact that I was getting bad bouts of colds almost every month as well. Together with that came coughing spells that almost had me cringing on the floor gasping for air. I found myself using my health card all too often, diagnosed as having a variety of upper respiratory infections which include pharyngitis ... and eventually developing what my doctor called bronchial asthma. OK, that did it.
One day, while at work filming inside a hospital, I ran out of cigarettes.
It was such a tedious and needless exercise to go all the way to the parking lot of that medical institution just to take a puff of my cigarette. Worse, it was already exasperating to go on panic mode when it slips my mind to replenish my stock of cigarettes. So I decided to quit. Just like that. I told one of my assistants, "I think I will stop smoking." Yes, just like that. And I did. And I have not smoked a cigarette ... or even taken a puff for more than three years.
I feel good about this.
I also realized that it is much harder thinking of how difficult it is to stop smoking than just ending the addiction all together. God knows I tried everything before, including those silly nicotine patches that promised a slow but effective weaning process. But nothing beats good old cold turkey. Yes, there will be that craving ... yet all it takes is to condition your mind to think of something else. Maybe gulp a glass of water. Or shove chewing gum on your oral cavity. But I think all that is overrated drama.
It is not a matter of having a steel will or a determination to swim the English Channel. Quitting a habit ... is making a decision to do it ... and just doing it. Like losing weight. Or dumping a stupid lover. Or reinventing your existence.
But indeed, there are repercussions. You gain weight not because you have re-channeled your oral fixation. You start eating with such gusto because, as my doctor described so vividly, the nicotine coating on your tongue wears off and suddenly your taste buds are fully operational again. You add pounds because food never tasted so good again.
Perhaps the worst adverse reaction is that after a while you cannot stand the smell of cigarette smoke. You are disgusted with the smell of the breath of smokers ... or the way smoke clings onto the upholstery, the curtains and clothes (whether yours or somebody else's). You get irritated by the argument whether you should stay inside a restaurant or choosing to dine al fresco because your companion happens to be a smoker. And if you choose to dine indoors, you get so irritated when your dinner mate excuses himself like five times in a span of one hour to take a step outside and puff a cigarette.
When you begin to feel so much better ... and you regain a voice that can match that of Enrico Caruso the next time you go to a Videoke showdown, you ask yourself whatever made you stick to that habit for years on end ... and why it took so long for you to realize that you are doing the best thing for yourself by raising the chances for a longer life.
Maybe worse than worst is that you start telling all your smoker friends to quit, giving an inspiring example of your life and transformation. And boring them to death in the process. I realize that I have become my mother.
Yes, some of my friends are going crazy cursing the MMDA for their new law to put smokers into the category of extinction. But honestly --- I am glad. No, I am happy. To quit smoking is an individual decision. But it helps that the government is helping others help themselves in taking that all too overrated leap to realize that life can be made a little bit better with just a little less smoke.
The MetroManila Development Authority's campaign to completely eradicate all these nicotine junkies from the city has created havoc. Soon absolutely no one is allowed to smoke in main and secondary streets in the entire Metropolis. We are not talking just Manila here but all the cities covered by the office ... going as far as, uh, Bulacan?
So how is that?
You cannot smoke inside restaurants. You cannot smoke inside malls. You cannot smoke in government buildings. You cannot smoke in airports. You cannot smoke in offices and schools. If you are one of those who find ultimate pleasure sucking in smoke down your throat and into your lungs .... you have to step out of wherever you are for your nicotine shot, right? As if that is not hassle enough.
And now you cannot smoke in public places in Manila. (Insert canned laughter here.)
I stopped smoking a little over three years ago.
I started the habit when I was about sixteen years old. I began with a stick of Marlboro Red or two ... until that eventually progressed into Marlboro Green, then Pall Mall ... then eventually Philip Morris. By the time I hit fifty, I was smoking about a pack and a half to two packs a day. I used to buy cigarettes by the piece. Then I bought them by the pack. Eventually, out of an attempt to save money, I bought them by the carton.
I justified my nicotine addiction to my stressful occupation and pre-occupations. I worked in media. My life was full of deadlines and assholes. I needed to ... uhm, relax. Puff ... puff.
Plus the fact that it looked good puffing a cigarette while drinking coffee. It looked good blowing smoke while clinging onto a glass of Gin and Vodka tonic at a bar, making goo-goo eyes and doing Vogue poses in order to look attractive. The cigarette dangling from my nicotine stained fingers was a security blanket: the act of sucking in the smoke then blowing it out with pursed lips or through my nose was something to do.
I smoked inside my car. I smoked inside my office. I smoked in my bedroom. I smelled of smoke from the moment I wake up (drink your mug of coffee, read the headline of the Inquirer then see what Conrad de Quiros has to say, while lighting my first of many cigarettes throughout the day)until the final credits of my day started scrolling down my tired mind (one finally fag to end the adventure of the past day). I smelled of smoke ... and I did not notice it. And I did not give a damn.
I did not give a damn but my mother did. Shall I tell you of the times she would cut out clippings from newspapers and magazines showing the perils of smoking? Or she would cut out pictures of lungs infested with cancer attributed to smoking ... or asking me to spell emphysema in a single breath? I would come home ... and dear Mama would have something tacked on my cork board, usually an article about sure-death from a habit that I should not have even started.
Ah, well. But that's the way of all mothers.
Then there is this worldwide anti-smoking campaign that made any smoker's life regress from unfair to downright miserable. There was this big deal about second hand smoke (or how your health can be jeopardized because you are in the same room as a nicotine junkie). And soon enough, the smoking section of restaurants, airports including airplanes became extinct. Even taking a relatively short plane ride --- say, Manila to Bangkok --- was a nerve wrecking experience for a smoker who anticipates claustrophobia mixed with the inability to light a joint.
But perhaps my worst experience was having to go outside for my nicotine break at the height of winter. I had to step outside the balcony of my hotel room in Barcelona, freezing my ass off at nine in the evening just to take a smoke. Worse, I was crammed inside a very small smoking lounge in the airport with about twenty other fellow junkies trying to get my fill.
Ironically, it is not all these that made me kick the habit. It was not a spur of the moment decision either.
To begin with, whether one realizes it or not, smoking is a very expensive diversion to ruin one's health. At P35.00 to P40.00 per pack of my favorite menthol cigarette, I figured out that I spent approximately P53.00 to P70.00 per day just to keep my mouth occupied and smelling like the sewers. That total to something like P490.00 a week or P1960 a month. I figured out that I will not only be saving close to two grand per month ... but more so, sparing myself of medical bills if and when ...
Worse was the fact that I was getting bad bouts of colds almost every month as well. Together with that came coughing spells that almost had me cringing on the floor gasping for air. I found myself using my health card all too often, diagnosed as having a variety of upper respiratory infections which include pharyngitis ... and eventually developing what my doctor called bronchial asthma. OK, that did it.
One day, while at work filming inside a hospital, I ran out of cigarettes.
It was such a tedious and needless exercise to go all the way to the parking lot of that medical institution just to take a puff of my cigarette. Worse, it was already exasperating to go on panic mode when it slips my mind to replenish my stock of cigarettes. So I decided to quit. Just like that. I told one of my assistants, "I think I will stop smoking." Yes, just like that. And I did. And I have not smoked a cigarette ... or even taken a puff for more than three years.
I feel good about this.
I also realized that it is much harder thinking of how difficult it is to stop smoking than just ending the addiction all together. God knows I tried everything before, including those silly nicotine patches that promised a slow but effective weaning process. But nothing beats good old cold turkey. Yes, there will be that craving ... yet all it takes is to condition your mind to think of something else. Maybe gulp a glass of water. Or shove chewing gum on your oral cavity. But I think all that is overrated drama.
It is not a matter of having a steel will or a determination to swim the English Channel. Quitting a habit ... is making a decision to do it ... and just doing it. Like losing weight. Or dumping a stupid lover. Or reinventing your existence.
But indeed, there are repercussions. You gain weight not because you have re-channeled your oral fixation. You start eating with such gusto because, as my doctor described so vividly, the nicotine coating on your tongue wears off and suddenly your taste buds are fully operational again. You add pounds because food never tasted so good again.
Perhaps the worst adverse reaction is that after a while you cannot stand the smell of cigarette smoke. You are disgusted with the smell of the breath of smokers ... or the way smoke clings onto the upholstery, the curtains and clothes (whether yours or somebody else's). You get irritated by the argument whether you should stay inside a restaurant or choosing to dine al fresco because your companion happens to be a smoker. And if you choose to dine indoors, you get so irritated when your dinner mate excuses himself like five times in a span of one hour to take a step outside and puff a cigarette.
When you begin to feel so much better ... and you regain a voice that can match that of Enrico Caruso the next time you go to a Videoke showdown, you ask yourself whatever made you stick to that habit for years on end ... and why it took so long for you to realize that you are doing the best thing for yourself by raising the chances for a longer life.
Maybe worse than worst is that you start telling all your smoker friends to quit, giving an inspiring example of your life and transformation. And boring them to death in the process. I realize that I have become my mother.
Yes, some of my friends are going crazy cursing the MMDA for their new law to put smokers into the category of extinction. But honestly --- I am glad. No, I am happy. To quit smoking is an individual decision. But it helps that the government is helping others help themselves in taking that all too overrated leap to realize that life can be made a little bit better with just a little less smoke.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
APOCALYPSE DELAYED
Apparently it has been postponed. The playdate has been delayed --- as to what specific date, only God knows. And I mean that literally.
There is this constant preoccupation of the End of Days. Blame it on Hollywood and other soothsayers who make money out of human paranoia. For the past two years we have been given mega-productions like "2012", "Knowing" and other great tales of cinematic doom to feed our fears and encourage our sense of hopelessness that one day too soon all that we know of mankind will end. Goodbye, Third Rock. Oh, yes --- and we also have the Good Book as constant reference to this inevitable event.
But the point of the matter is that there is indeed such a big deal about the earth cracking in two like an egg split in half. We love going into these exercises of imagination to explore that "what ifs" of our existence. Well, whether we want to face it head-on or not --- we are all going to turn into fertilizers some day. It will happen. It is not that it can happen because it is one thing that is most certain. Figuring out how there will be collective death for the entire planet is a different trip all together.
Or maybe we can attribute this fear to signs that we consider as apparent omens of what is to happen soon. Think of Japan, the mega-quake and the tsunamis. Think of the tremors that have shaken various parts of the world --- from China to Spain, from Christchurch to some remote town in Chile. Think of the blatant and shameless displays of inhumanity in various wars and protests that have exploded all over the planet --- as if orchestrated to lead to some unthinkable finale. Think of terrorism. And let us not go all that far, think of the irreconcilable divisiveness in this country.
Yes, the zealots of doom ended up with pies on their faces when 21 May 2011 turned out to be just another day. It was supposed to be the start of the Rapture --- that all-too-anticipated event when the Righteous and the Faithful are beamed up to heaven to be spared from the wrath of God as He punishes the unforgivable. Even as I write this, I made a headcount of all my friends and relatives. All of them are still here. It is either the Rapture had to be delayed for some technical glitches or not a single one of the people I love or even know qualified for the ultra-exclusive journey.
So the whole bit about Doomsday Delayed has turned out to be such a joke. For the meantime, any way. Who knows? Maybe one day the joke will be on all of us who are all too rational and prefer to listen to geologists, astronomers and even politicians into assuring ourselves that all this talk is like watching "Scream 4". That is, we exert effort to frighten ourselves for the sake of an adrenaline rush.
In the meantime, let us all wait for 21 December 2012. Let's see if we get to have a Merry Christmas next year.
There is this constant preoccupation of the End of Days. Blame it on Hollywood and other soothsayers who make money out of human paranoia. For the past two years we have been given mega-productions like "2012", "Knowing" and other great tales of cinematic doom to feed our fears and encourage our sense of hopelessness that one day too soon all that we know of mankind will end. Goodbye, Third Rock. Oh, yes --- and we also have the Good Book as constant reference to this inevitable event.
But the point of the matter is that there is indeed such a big deal about the earth cracking in two like an egg split in half. We love going into these exercises of imagination to explore that "what ifs" of our existence. Well, whether we want to face it head-on or not --- we are all going to turn into fertilizers some day. It will happen. It is not that it can happen because it is one thing that is most certain. Figuring out how there will be collective death for the entire planet is a different trip all together.
Or maybe we can attribute this fear to signs that we consider as apparent omens of what is to happen soon. Think of Japan, the mega-quake and the tsunamis. Think of the tremors that have shaken various parts of the world --- from China to Spain, from Christchurch to some remote town in Chile. Think of the blatant and shameless displays of inhumanity in various wars and protests that have exploded all over the planet --- as if orchestrated to lead to some unthinkable finale. Think of terrorism. And let us not go all that far, think of the irreconcilable divisiveness in this country.
Yes, the zealots of doom ended up with pies on their faces when 21 May 2011 turned out to be just another day. It was supposed to be the start of the Rapture --- that all-too-anticipated event when the Righteous and the Faithful are beamed up to heaven to be spared from the wrath of God as He punishes the unforgivable. Even as I write this, I made a headcount of all my friends and relatives. All of them are still here. It is either the Rapture had to be delayed for some technical glitches or not a single one of the people I love or even know qualified for the ultra-exclusive journey.
So the whole bit about Doomsday Delayed has turned out to be such a joke. For the meantime, any way. Who knows? Maybe one day the joke will be on all of us who are all too rational and prefer to listen to geologists, astronomers and even politicians into assuring ourselves that all this talk is like watching "Scream 4". That is, we exert effort to frighten ourselves for the sake of an adrenaline rush.
In the meantime, let us all wait for 21 December 2012. Let's see if we get to have a Merry Christmas next year.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
A SHORT BUT BEAUTIFUL LIFE
Untimely departures are met with either a sense of awe or great sadness. But regardless of how we choose to react to the unexpected death of someone we know, what hurts us most is the surprise. It is that kind of jolt that goes straight to our core --- if only because we are reminded of our own mortality.
We are made to confront irrevocable facts: that life can be so unpredictable and volatile. That we can go any time without warning, without fanfare. And that we will never ever see or hear or touch that person who has left us forever because he will now only be part of our memory.
What hurts us even more is when someone with such great promise for the future --- someone so young and admirable --- is suddenly gone.
Any which way we look at the events, nothing makes sense. Why should someone right on the verge of a blossoming life, full of challenges and great chances of achievement, be suddenly taken away? What happens to all the possibilities? What will become of all those opportunities for scaling greater heights and conquering challenges and yielding achievements?
It is as if one big switch has been turned off --- and everything comes to an abrupt end without any sensible conclusion. Without any resolution. And certainly devoid of any explanation. There is cruelty in that --- especially for those among us who demand justifications.
But it does not work that way. These things happen.
And God owes us no explanation. We are here only to accept whatever He has so deemed for all of us.
This is how many of us felt when we heard the news about the death of AJ Perez. For the greater number of people who were saddened by this information early on a Sunday morning, the loss of a good looking, educated and refined young actor was enough to bring tears. But for those who really knew him and had the opportunity of knowing and working with him, the sense of loss --- the absurdity of this event --- was doubly devastating.
Young people who meet their deaths in a most tragic if not senseless way takes a much heavier toll on the hearts of those who have lived longer years --- and have survived far greater pains. ( I precisely remember what my father said when our family had to bury my oldest brother. My Dad wept quietly and whispered, "There is nothing more painful in the world than to bury your own child." ) The realization that a life has been so abruptly punctuated multiplies the sense of tragedy --- especially if the young person had so much promise and embodied so much life. The seeming injustice in the death of innocents seem to refute the continued existence of those who we feel are really less deserving to remain among us. We ask ourselves, "Why him?" knowing we cannot provide any real logical answer.
AJ was not your typical wannabe actor. He was no wound-up toy who was too eager to please. He was never typical from the start. There was something about him that made him special in a way that he stood out from the rest of what may sometimes seem like an overpopulated roster of teen-age talents.
(When I met him on the set of Kasal, Kasali, Kasalo where he portrayed the younger brother of Judy Ann Santos, he was a soft spoken boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age, a student of La Salle Greenhills --- who was quiet and somewhat shy yet replied sensibly ever aware of the significance of propriety and politeness. He was a kid too tall for his age --- apparently loved by his parents as his father, Gerry, would always be around to drop him off the location, make sure his son was all right --- then leave AJ to his own devices to amuse himself on the set between takes. If ever Gerry opted to stay, he would make himself inconspicuous and out of the way of everybody busy at work. That was how the father and son operated. They were never a burden to any body.
I even got to know Gerry Perez quite well: he proudly told me that he was one of the young actors from Bacolod who Peque Gallaga picked as a bit player in the opening party scene of Oro, Plata, Mata. That was how Gerry and I immediately connected. And I remember how AJ listened as his father and I reminisced about that tedious overnight shoot in Bacolod decades ago to complete the party scenes of Gallaga's most memorable masterpiece. He was this kid who was more amused listening to his father remembering his own days as an actor than savoring the anecdote on local showbiz.)
Through the years, we all saw AJ grow up in front of our eyes through that magical box that we allow to enter our most private quarters. We saw how AJ shaped himself into this gentleman who seemed to have the right conduct and good behavior as second nature. He was such an exemplary piece of good breeding that not a single scandal was ever attached to his name. Not a single bad word was ever muttered in the snake pit that was the studio to ever blemish his name or his work habits.
Thus, it did not surprise us that his career carried great promise. It was quite clear that the network set its eyes on the young actor to be next in line among the leading men being groomed for both television and the screen.
He belonged to that special group of anointed performers handpicked by the media gods to be the next generation sensations.
(AJ worked hard. If there was one thing I noticed about the boy on my set, it was that he worked very hard. He was not too fluent in Pilipino ... but he worked hard to get it right. He was not going to equal some of his peers when it came to singing and dancing ... but he never shied away from the challenge of working even harder to deserve the spotlight they aimed at him. He felt he had to deserve every decibel of applause and every centavo he earned. He never rested on the safety net of being "pa-cute".
I worked with AJ for the sequel of Kasal. But the role did not require much from him. It was when we decided to cast him as the son of Christopher de Leon and Dawn Zulueta in the movie Magkaibigan that he truly impressed me.
There are two kinds of actors you want to work with. The first is the very good actor --- the consummate performers who know their art, have made a life of their craft --- and would report to the set without the vanity or eccentricities typical of the mediocre trying to demand extraordinary importance. The second are the actors who you just love being around with --- because they are such blessings on the set. They are so easy to work with and they make life generally more tolerable, pleasing and palatable. They add energy and good vibes to everyone around them ... by sheer enthusiasm that can be so infectious.
AJ belonged to the latter group. He was so well-loved by anyone he worked with --- so that after three movies with my production team, he has already become more than a familiar face for them. It was not simply his boy-next-door looks that won him praise. It was his down-to-earth attitude. It was his accessibility. He never rubbed people the wrong way because that all too famous smile of his is not only reserved for cameras and publicity pictorials. His smile was quite real.
So when we finally shot a critical scene in Magkaibigan where AJ, whose character is that of the son of a dying man, talked to his father's best friend portrayed by Jinggoy Estrada, I was pleasantly surprised. I knew AJ would and could deliver. But I realized he went much farther than I expected. At the end of the scene, I sent a text message of Mariole Alberto, chief honcho of Star Magic, to tell her that ... indeed they have cultivated and carved a gem out of this young actor.
He was no longer the quiet, gangling teen-ager who I met years earlier. He was on his way to being an actor.
I did not have a chance to work with AJ again after that movie.
We would exchange messages on Twitter, bump into each other sometime in the later afternoons as I proceed to the gym on the fifth floor of ELJ Building as he would be on his way to the studios.
I have even forgotten when was the last time I saw him ... but I remember well that I congratulated him because he finished his high school studies at Greenhills. He was so proud of that. He really wanted that.
And among the young actors of his generation, only very, very few give premium or even the semblance of importance to studies. His parents have inculcated the strength of such values, emphasizing that the goal of education is to shape a man ... and not merely facilitate the acquisition of material wealth.)
We were all stunned to find out that AJ was suddenly taken away from us. There seemed to be no reason why it had to happen now. Especially now. He worked hard to be good at whatever he was doing ... and it was only now that everything was really about to begin. And he was called back home. It did not make sense.
But then we can only offer palliatives that can serve their purpose for a while. Or even convince us that this was all part of a plan. A plan not only for Antonello Joseph Perez but for all of us who are now looking at his short but beautiful life. A plan that we could never see in the here and now because we are far too close to the event but perhaps we could learn to appreciate in years to come.
Perhaps there is truth that the good die young. Perhaps there is even greater truth in the fact that we are all sent here for a purpose ... for a mission ... and when we have accomplished what we are set out to do, then we are called back. And for a life so brief, we are quite clear about what AJ achieved in his eighteen years.
Far more impressive than any acting trophy or being crowned as box office king or being mobbed by vociferous adoring fans --- AJ inspired. AJ was an example. AJ brought a possibility that decency can exist in a business that has been corrupted and so capable of corrupting. Until his very last day, as he was coming home from work, exhausted as he lay asleep on that fatal van, AJ was untouched by the dirt of the business, opting to preserve his decency and dignity. Now that we realize has become quite rare ... if not nearly extinct ... in these days of amoral entertainment.
Perhaps God called him back because he wanted to spare AJ of the pain and anguish that will most certainly come in the years ahead. Or maybe God merely wanted to show all of us an example --- of a good son, a loving brother, a hardworking student --- and a decent human being all in the age of eighteen.
We will miss you, AJ. We will really, really miss you.
We are made to confront irrevocable facts: that life can be so unpredictable and volatile. That we can go any time without warning, without fanfare. And that we will never ever see or hear or touch that person who has left us forever because he will now only be part of our memory.
What hurts us even more is when someone with such great promise for the future --- someone so young and admirable --- is suddenly gone.
Any which way we look at the events, nothing makes sense. Why should someone right on the verge of a blossoming life, full of challenges and great chances of achievement, be suddenly taken away? What happens to all the possibilities? What will become of all those opportunities for scaling greater heights and conquering challenges and yielding achievements?
It is as if one big switch has been turned off --- and everything comes to an abrupt end without any sensible conclusion. Without any resolution. And certainly devoid of any explanation. There is cruelty in that --- especially for those among us who demand justifications.
But it does not work that way. These things happen.
And God owes us no explanation. We are here only to accept whatever He has so deemed for all of us.
This is how many of us felt when we heard the news about the death of AJ Perez. For the greater number of people who were saddened by this information early on a Sunday morning, the loss of a good looking, educated and refined young actor was enough to bring tears. But for those who really knew him and had the opportunity of knowing and working with him, the sense of loss --- the absurdity of this event --- was doubly devastating.
Young people who meet their deaths in a most tragic if not senseless way takes a much heavier toll on the hearts of those who have lived longer years --- and have survived far greater pains. ( I precisely remember what my father said when our family had to bury my oldest brother. My Dad wept quietly and whispered, "There is nothing more painful in the world than to bury your own child." ) The realization that a life has been so abruptly punctuated multiplies the sense of tragedy --- especially if the young person had so much promise and embodied so much life. The seeming injustice in the death of innocents seem to refute the continued existence of those who we feel are really less deserving to remain among us. We ask ourselves, "Why him?" knowing we cannot provide any real logical answer.
AJ was not your typical wannabe actor. He was no wound-up toy who was too eager to please. He was never typical from the start. There was something about him that made him special in a way that he stood out from the rest of what may sometimes seem like an overpopulated roster of teen-age talents.
(When I met him on the set of Kasal, Kasali, Kasalo where he portrayed the younger brother of Judy Ann Santos, he was a soft spoken boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age, a student of La Salle Greenhills --- who was quiet and somewhat shy yet replied sensibly ever aware of the significance of propriety and politeness. He was a kid too tall for his age --- apparently loved by his parents as his father, Gerry, would always be around to drop him off the location, make sure his son was all right --- then leave AJ to his own devices to amuse himself on the set between takes. If ever Gerry opted to stay, he would make himself inconspicuous and out of the way of everybody busy at work. That was how the father and son operated. They were never a burden to any body.
I even got to know Gerry Perez quite well: he proudly told me that he was one of the young actors from Bacolod who Peque Gallaga picked as a bit player in the opening party scene of Oro, Plata, Mata. That was how Gerry and I immediately connected. And I remember how AJ listened as his father and I reminisced about that tedious overnight shoot in Bacolod decades ago to complete the party scenes of Gallaga's most memorable masterpiece. He was this kid who was more amused listening to his father remembering his own days as an actor than savoring the anecdote on local showbiz.)
Through the years, we all saw AJ grow up in front of our eyes through that magical box that we allow to enter our most private quarters. We saw how AJ shaped himself into this gentleman who seemed to have the right conduct and good behavior as second nature. He was such an exemplary piece of good breeding that not a single scandal was ever attached to his name. Not a single bad word was ever muttered in the snake pit that was the studio to ever blemish his name or his work habits.
Thus, it did not surprise us that his career carried great promise. It was quite clear that the network set its eyes on the young actor to be next in line among the leading men being groomed for both television and the screen.
He belonged to that special group of anointed performers handpicked by the media gods to be the next generation sensations.
(AJ worked hard. If there was one thing I noticed about the boy on my set, it was that he worked very hard. He was not too fluent in Pilipino ... but he worked hard to get it right. He was not going to equal some of his peers when it came to singing and dancing ... but he never shied away from the challenge of working even harder to deserve the spotlight they aimed at him. He felt he had to deserve every decibel of applause and every centavo he earned. He never rested on the safety net of being "pa-cute".
I worked with AJ for the sequel of Kasal. But the role did not require much from him. It was when we decided to cast him as the son of Christopher de Leon and Dawn Zulueta in the movie Magkaibigan that he truly impressed me.
There are two kinds of actors you want to work with. The first is the very good actor --- the consummate performers who know their art, have made a life of their craft --- and would report to the set without the vanity or eccentricities typical of the mediocre trying to demand extraordinary importance. The second are the actors who you just love being around with --- because they are such blessings on the set. They are so easy to work with and they make life generally more tolerable, pleasing and palatable. They add energy and good vibes to everyone around them ... by sheer enthusiasm that can be so infectious.
AJ belonged to the latter group. He was so well-loved by anyone he worked with --- so that after three movies with my production team, he has already become more than a familiar face for them. It was not simply his boy-next-door looks that won him praise. It was his down-to-earth attitude. It was his accessibility. He never rubbed people the wrong way because that all too famous smile of his is not only reserved for cameras and publicity pictorials. His smile was quite real.
So when we finally shot a critical scene in Magkaibigan where AJ, whose character is that of the son of a dying man, talked to his father's best friend portrayed by Jinggoy Estrada, I was pleasantly surprised. I knew AJ would and could deliver. But I realized he went much farther than I expected. At the end of the scene, I sent a text message of Mariole Alberto, chief honcho of Star Magic, to tell her that ... indeed they have cultivated and carved a gem out of this young actor.
He was no longer the quiet, gangling teen-ager who I met years earlier. He was on his way to being an actor.
I did not have a chance to work with AJ again after that movie.
We would exchange messages on Twitter, bump into each other sometime in the later afternoons as I proceed to the gym on the fifth floor of ELJ Building as he would be on his way to the studios.
I have even forgotten when was the last time I saw him ... but I remember well that I congratulated him because he finished his high school studies at Greenhills. He was so proud of that. He really wanted that.
And among the young actors of his generation, only very, very few give premium or even the semblance of importance to studies. His parents have inculcated the strength of such values, emphasizing that the goal of education is to shape a man ... and not merely facilitate the acquisition of material wealth.)
We were all stunned to find out that AJ was suddenly taken away from us. There seemed to be no reason why it had to happen now. Especially now. He worked hard to be good at whatever he was doing ... and it was only now that everything was really about to begin. And he was called back home. It did not make sense.
But then we can only offer palliatives that can serve their purpose for a while. Or even convince us that this was all part of a plan. A plan not only for Antonello Joseph Perez but for all of us who are now looking at his short but beautiful life. A plan that we could never see in the here and now because we are far too close to the event but perhaps we could learn to appreciate in years to come.
Perhaps there is truth that the good die young. Perhaps there is even greater truth in the fact that we are all sent here for a purpose ... for a mission ... and when we have accomplished what we are set out to do, then we are called back. And for a life so brief, we are quite clear about what AJ achieved in his eighteen years.
Far more impressive than any acting trophy or being crowned as box office king or being mobbed by vociferous adoring fans --- AJ inspired. AJ was an example. AJ brought a possibility that decency can exist in a business that has been corrupted and so capable of corrupting. Until his very last day, as he was coming home from work, exhausted as he lay asleep on that fatal van, AJ was untouched by the dirt of the business, opting to preserve his decency and dignity. Now that we realize has become quite rare ... if not nearly extinct ... in these days of amoral entertainment.
Perhaps God called him back because he wanted to spare AJ of the pain and anguish that will most certainly come in the years ahead. Or maybe God merely wanted to show all of us an example --- of a good son, a loving brother, a hardworking student --- and a decent human being all in the age of eighteen.
We will miss you, AJ. We will really, really miss you.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
THE CULTURE OF VICTIMS
Let's face it: Filipinos love to be victims.
Perhaps that should be put in more specific terms. Blame it on our cultural history. Blame it on our warped sense of romantic agony. Blame it on mass media. Blame it on our mothers and fathers --- and maybe our grandmothers and grandfathers. Blame it on our love for suffering --- thinking that it is good. Blame it on anybody --- on whoever ... But we have to admit that to a certain extent we Pinoys are really --- screwed.
For one thing, we take great pride in cheering for the underdog. Nothing wrong with that. It somehow ennobles a whole bunch of us to clap, hoot and root for the Rocky Balboas of the World. It somehow humanizes us because we feel so good in showing the world we are so good. But what gets really messed us is when we start obsessing in being underdogs ourselves!
We begin to believe that the suffering justifies --- nay, affirms --- the sufferer. We have actually convinced ourselves that the only way to redemption --- any form of salvation --- is to wallow in suffering, enjoy the pain of the journey and celebrate the anguish. We call it persevering, persistence and endurance. We brand it as pagsasakripisiyo and pagtitiis. From an outsider's point of view, it is called textbook masochism. Cultural masochism.
Not only do we enjoy suffering --- we love to talk about it. We love to venerate our pain. We see ourselves as the suffering Christ, nailed on the cross --- and who, on the third day, shall rise from the dead. We bow our heads to the images of Mater Dolorosa. We equate godliness with an act of purgation --- completely forgetting that living a full and filling life is as important as a preoccupation for the rewards of the afterlife. Better yet, it is what you do with your life in the here and now is the measure to your final destination when you croak.
But no! A great number of Filipinos seem to have completely forgotten the true mission in one's life perhaps because of all the social and cultural reinforcements that blur their priorities.
With brains marinated in nightly overdose of fantasy shows and lachrymal soap operas, promises of hope and a sparkling future by winning reality shows and talent searches, it couldn't be helped that Filipinos yearn to be victims, to endure suffering --- and to go in front of a camera to tell the whole world how much of a downer of a life he is leading.
Now is that really good?
Does it help to go on public confessionals, weeping in front of millions of people to announce how much God has been throwing so many obstacle courses along one's way? Everyone seems to be trying to outdo everyone else in narrating the saddest story ever told and consider this as a ticket to that proverbial fifteen minutes of fame. In a crowded market where everyone wants to nudge out everybody else, the demand for celebrated victimization has become so sensational --- that it has reached the level of the perverse. The more kahabaghabag you present yourself, the greater your chances for reaching Nirvana. And that state of bliss is a few thousand pesos plus groceries that can last you a week from the friendly sponsors.
If we were to believe what some observers have declared, then perhaps we are in a much deeper rut than we can possibly surmise.
Is it possible that media has so critically warped the values of the Filipino audience that who is rewarded is he who presents himself to be the bigger victim?
For instance, in a recent talent search on tv, someone observed that the winner was not necessarily the one with the most impressive talent --- but the contestant whose kuwento was most heartbreaking (read: high on the sympathy level of the audiences). And because of this obsession for the plight of the victim, the obligatory kurot sa puso has already become a katok sa utak. It is not how good you are or how much potential you have ... but how much of a loser you present yourself to the world.
Now isn't that just great? It's the whole wallowing in self-pity syndrome except that the Filipino seems to enjoy doing backstrokes while swimming on a quicksand of tears.
So does it still surprise many of us why the indigent will literally line up outside tv studios for hours under sun, wind and rain to be able to grab a chance to go before studio cameras and tell their sad stories?
And do we not see how such forms of emotional manipulation send the worst kind of signals to the larger population --- equating victimization with a sense of obligation on the part of the haves to give alms to the have-nots?
Does it not repel the sensibilities of the thinking sector that the poor (whose only remaining treasure is the dignity in their humanity, their rights as citizens of the Republic) will be made to narrate their tales of woe before they belt out songs, do breakdancing routines or even perform ridiculous acts much to the amusement of the hysterical audience?
How is this any different from the entertainment value found in gladiators smashing each other's brains out with the cheering multitude shouting for reality show death? How is this any less perverse than a coliseum full of people finding pleasure watching Christians being eaten by the lions? Perhaps that is a gross exaggeration --- or even an unfair comparison. But indeed man has such perverse pleasures in seeing the suffering of others, ridiculing them --- and turning the entire process into a ritual of liberation and salvation.
For cash prizes and the chance to win more, more, more ... entertainment has stripped the poor and the needy of their dignity, diminishing their stature to nothing more than canines jumping through hoops while the rich and the privileged watch with smug amusement. What is worse than this form of public degradation is the reinforcement if not the affirmation of the culture of mendicancy.
Oh, but many have already bemoaned that sad observation. In this endless over-indulgence in romanticizing agony, the final gesture is the handing over of crisp peso bills to the awaiting palms of the poor. And this charity comes as a form of reward --- if not payment or obligatory gesture --- because the poor have to be helped. We make fools out of them, we make them cry a river --- then we hand them peso bills to reassure ourselves that we are scoring points for the glory of God and country. Yeah, right.
Media unwittingly (or maybe deliberately and maliciously ---who knows?) assures the less fortunate that it is good to be poor. And help does not come with providing concrete options and opportunities to improve their station in life. Instead, what is given is that temporary reward --- that momentary euphoria of holding a few thousands pesos --- even a million or two --- after being made as a subject of equally fleeting interest.
The promise of the reward can be so blinding --- so that for those who will line up for hours to get into a studio to audition or be part of a game show, nothing is important beyond winning a prize or getting any form of reward.
Sadder is the fact that those who challenge programs capitalizing on helping the needy or offering promises of superficial if not such temporary hope are branded as anti-poor. The most common accusation is that those who condemn such shows are the snooty intellegentsia, the apathetic middle class, the condescending elite who do not understand the meaning of suffering or the plight of the indigent because they were born lucky enough to possess options and claim opportunities.
Everything is diminished to simplistic class struggle --- a battle between sila and tayo: "Sila" refers to the arrogant middle class --- while "tayo" points to the so-called defenders of the poor and the struggling stratum of the population blinded by bread and circuses.
So where will all this go? Where will all this endearing fatalism bring the country ... as well as the substantial portion of the national population belonging to the impoverished class? How does media play up to poverty --- and encourage that mentality that the needy have to be helped by dole-outs and not to enlighten if not strengthen them with better fighting chances for sustainable livelihood?
Does this mean that all the young people will continue to give up or turn their backs on education, hoping that they will be discovered to become big time artistas with the usual reasoning that gusto nilang tulungan ang kanilang mga pamilya? Do we really find any semblance of social justice watching people bawl their eyes out while narrating their sad tales of misery and poverty ... and believe that indeed we have started solving problems by handing them token cash and loot bags?
In a culture that venerates victims and only provides placebos as hope, everyone ends up being a loser in the long run. And that is certainly what is happening today in our country.
Perhaps that should be put in more specific terms. Blame it on our cultural history. Blame it on our warped sense of romantic agony. Blame it on mass media. Blame it on our mothers and fathers --- and maybe our grandmothers and grandfathers. Blame it on our love for suffering --- thinking that it is good. Blame it on anybody --- on whoever ... But we have to admit that to a certain extent we Pinoys are really --- screwed.
For one thing, we take great pride in cheering for the underdog. Nothing wrong with that. It somehow ennobles a whole bunch of us to clap, hoot and root for the Rocky Balboas of the World. It somehow humanizes us because we feel so good in showing the world we are so good. But what gets really messed us is when we start obsessing in being underdogs ourselves!
We begin to believe that the suffering justifies --- nay, affirms --- the sufferer. We have actually convinced ourselves that the only way to redemption --- any form of salvation --- is to wallow in suffering, enjoy the pain of the journey and celebrate the anguish. We call it persevering, persistence and endurance. We brand it as pagsasakripisiyo and pagtitiis. From an outsider's point of view, it is called textbook masochism. Cultural masochism.
Not only do we enjoy suffering --- we love to talk about it. We love to venerate our pain. We see ourselves as the suffering Christ, nailed on the cross --- and who, on the third day, shall rise from the dead. We bow our heads to the images of Mater Dolorosa. We equate godliness with an act of purgation --- completely forgetting that living a full and filling life is as important as a preoccupation for the rewards of the afterlife. Better yet, it is what you do with your life in the here and now is the measure to your final destination when you croak.
But no! A great number of Filipinos seem to have completely forgotten the true mission in one's life perhaps because of all the social and cultural reinforcements that blur their priorities.
With brains marinated in nightly overdose of fantasy shows and lachrymal soap operas, promises of hope and a sparkling future by winning reality shows and talent searches, it couldn't be helped that Filipinos yearn to be victims, to endure suffering --- and to go in front of a camera to tell the whole world how much of a downer of a life he is leading.
Now is that really good?
Does it help to go on public confessionals, weeping in front of millions of people to announce how much God has been throwing so many obstacle courses along one's way? Everyone seems to be trying to outdo everyone else in narrating the saddest story ever told and consider this as a ticket to that proverbial fifteen minutes of fame. In a crowded market where everyone wants to nudge out everybody else, the demand for celebrated victimization has become so sensational --- that it has reached the level of the perverse. The more kahabaghabag you present yourself, the greater your chances for reaching Nirvana. And that state of bliss is a few thousand pesos plus groceries that can last you a week from the friendly sponsors.
If we were to believe what some observers have declared, then perhaps we are in a much deeper rut than we can possibly surmise.
Is it possible that media has so critically warped the values of the Filipino audience that who is rewarded is he who presents himself to be the bigger victim?
For instance, in a recent talent search on tv, someone observed that the winner was not necessarily the one with the most impressive talent --- but the contestant whose kuwento was most heartbreaking (read: high on the sympathy level of the audiences). And because of this obsession for the plight of the victim, the obligatory kurot sa puso has already become a katok sa utak. It is not how good you are or how much potential you have ... but how much of a loser you present yourself to the world.
Now isn't that just great? It's the whole wallowing in self-pity syndrome except that the Filipino seems to enjoy doing backstrokes while swimming on a quicksand of tears.
So does it still surprise many of us why the indigent will literally line up outside tv studios for hours under sun, wind and rain to be able to grab a chance to go before studio cameras and tell their sad stories?
And do we not see how such forms of emotional manipulation send the worst kind of signals to the larger population --- equating victimization with a sense of obligation on the part of the haves to give alms to the have-nots?
Does it not repel the sensibilities of the thinking sector that the poor (whose only remaining treasure is the dignity in their humanity, their rights as citizens of the Republic) will be made to narrate their tales of woe before they belt out songs, do breakdancing routines or even perform ridiculous acts much to the amusement of the hysterical audience?
How is this any different from the entertainment value found in gladiators smashing each other's brains out with the cheering multitude shouting for reality show death? How is this any less perverse than a coliseum full of people finding pleasure watching Christians being eaten by the lions? Perhaps that is a gross exaggeration --- or even an unfair comparison. But indeed man has such perverse pleasures in seeing the suffering of others, ridiculing them --- and turning the entire process into a ritual of liberation and salvation.
For cash prizes and the chance to win more, more, more ... entertainment has stripped the poor and the needy of their dignity, diminishing their stature to nothing more than canines jumping through hoops while the rich and the privileged watch with smug amusement. What is worse than this form of public degradation is the reinforcement if not the affirmation of the culture of mendicancy.
Oh, but many have already bemoaned that sad observation. In this endless over-indulgence in romanticizing agony, the final gesture is the handing over of crisp peso bills to the awaiting palms of the poor. And this charity comes as a form of reward --- if not payment or obligatory gesture --- because the poor have to be helped. We make fools out of them, we make them cry a river --- then we hand them peso bills to reassure ourselves that we are scoring points for the glory of God and country. Yeah, right.
Media unwittingly (or maybe deliberately and maliciously ---who knows?) assures the less fortunate that it is good to be poor. And help does not come with providing concrete options and opportunities to improve their station in life. Instead, what is given is that temporary reward --- that momentary euphoria of holding a few thousands pesos --- even a million or two --- after being made as a subject of equally fleeting interest.
The promise of the reward can be so blinding --- so that for those who will line up for hours to get into a studio to audition or be part of a game show, nothing is important beyond winning a prize or getting any form of reward.
Sadder is the fact that those who challenge programs capitalizing on helping the needy or offering promises of superficial if not such temporary hope are branded as anti-poor. The most common accusation is that those who condemn such shows are the snooty intellegentsia, the apathetic middle class, the condescending elite who do not understand the meaning of suffering or the plight of the indigent because they were born lucky enough to possess options and claim opportunities.
Everything is diminished to simplistic class struggle --- a battle between sila and tayo: "Sila" refers to the arrogant middle class --- while "tayo" points to the so-called defenders of the poor and the struggling stratum of the population blinded by bread and circuses.
So where will all this go? Where will all this endearing fatalism bring the country ... as well as the substantial portion of the national population belonging to the impoverished class? How does media play up to poverty --- and encourage that mentality that the needy have to be helped by dole-outs and not to enlighten if not strengthen them with better fighting chances for sustainable livelihood?
Does this mean that all the young people will continue to give up or turn their backs on education, hoping that they will be discovered to become big time artistas with the usual reasoning that gusto nilang tulungan ang kanilang mga pamilya? Do we really find any semblance of social justice watching people bawl their eyes out while narrating their sad tales of misery and poverty ... and believe that indeed we have started solving problems by handing them token cash and loot bags?
In a culture that venerates victims and only provides placebos as hope, everyone ends up being a loser in the long run. And that is certainly what is happening today in our country.
Friday, April 1, 2011
THE SPECTACLE IN DEATH
Since last Wednesday I have remained disturbed.
Watching the broadcast coverage of the execution of the three Filipinos found guilty of smuggling heroin in China left such a feeling of ambivalence. There is that sadness that accompanies death --- especially one that involves a fellow countryman whose lapse of judgment has resulted to his or her victimization.
Then there is the inevitability of it all. One is not quite sure whether sympathy is appropriate considering that justice is merely taking into action. A law has been broken, a crime has been committed. Whether or not Sally, Ramon or Elizabeth were completely aware that they had kilos of heroin stuffed in their luggage as they attempted to enter China was beside the point. They were found guilty and they had to suffer the consequences. To a certain extent, poverty and despair cease to be an excuse or a justification. There is a law. And laws are meant to be reinforced to preserve a larger order --- regardless of what station in life or where the perpetrator comes from. Regardless of what motivated an individual to knowingly (or unwittingly) indulge in a criminal activity.
It could have been a gamble. Or any one of the three could have been coerced into entering China with the contraband. But that is moot and academic. They took the risk. They broke the law. They were caught. They were tried. They were found guilty of a crime punishable by death. And the sentence was finally carried out. All as simple as that.
What could have been an equally simple tale with a clear cut moral lesson about Filipinos being gullible to the temptations of earning a quick buck was somewhat warped by brazen commercialism in the news coverage.
Truth be told: I was so completely appalled by the manner all the major networks dedicated their reportage to a minute-by-minute blow-by-blow account of what was happening in two cities in China where the Filipinos were facing their death.
Yes, the event was indeed sad --- but was there a need to literally squeeze every drop of emotion possible to transform a real life event into an over-the-top melodrama?
Was there such creative exercise in literally cajoling relatives of the three Filipino prisoners to verbalize how they felt, what they were experiencing, how their last meeting with their relative about to be brought to the execution chamber went ... prodding the weeping sibling to provide some juicy sound bytes to capture memorable last words from a dead man walking? I mean, what did these interviewers actually expect?!
That during their last minutes together, the family discussed the weather with somene doomed to die? That they started swapping knock-knock jokes? That the prisoner who was never informed of the day of her execution should be overjoyed that it was all going to be over soon?
Oh, come on!
And worse, why this obsession for details, this addiction to voyeurism ... this almost malicious and carnivorous desire to savor each and every moment that should have been reserved for the family ... and, yes, to give respect even to a criminal whose life has been cut short by the laws of a state?
Contrary to some condescending belief, even a doomed man --- proven guilty of a great crime --- still deserves the respect of his or her privacy even in facing punishment by death. There is an imperative to give every human being the right to cry quietly ... with only those he chooses to show his tears ... and not every breathing creature capable of turning on a television set!
More so, even the relatives in MetroManila and all the way in Isabela were not spared of media molestation. Cameras were literally waiting, aimed at mothers, grandmothers, sisters, cousins --- hoping to gather more sound bytes and highly emotional telenovela moments in real life --- that included wailing while crying, fainting and even incantations summoning the angels from heavens above and demons down under the sea to bring real justice to their doomed relative.
All this real time action on a multi-channel platform had all the dramatic intensity of a fight that involves Manny Pacquiao and whoever there is out there remaining to exchange jabs with the Pambansang Kamao. Somehow all this emotional brouhaha has been blown so out of proportions to completely dilute if not dissolve that important line between reality and fantasy.
Television has that effect of late. It numbs the viewers. It deadens the senses under the pretense of heightening emotions. It desensitizes the common man to think that what is seen on screen is nothing more but a fabrication of media. How it easy it is to forget that these people literally cringing in the pain of sadness are real people and not actors armed with scripts possessing overwrought emotional outbursts. How easy it is to completely miss out that three Filipinos were really losing their lives because of the execution of justice ... and this was not just another episode Maalaala Mo Kaya? or Untold Stories.
In the same manner, how completely desensitized has the Filipino audience become ... that they can stomp their feet, burst in applause and laughter ... while watching a six year old boy do lascivious dance moves while crying quietly on prime time television.
And then again there is that even sadder fact that we have completely missed out on the whole point of the story of Sally, Ramon and Elizabeth. In the desire of media to elicit such overflowing sympathy to the point of hysteria, we also set aside that there were major mistakes made. The mistakes were --- to use the parlance celebrated by television --- major major. And Sally, Ramon and Elizabeth had to pay with their lives for it.
By trivializing their death as yet another episode of the soap opera of mundane Filipino televiewing, we have also lost the entire point of the sadness in their lives ... and the meaning of their deaths.
Watching the broadcast coverage of the execution of the three Filipinos found guilty of smuggling heroin in China left such a feeling of ambivalence. There is that sadness that accompanies death --- especially one that involves a fellow countryman whose lapse of judgment has resulted to his or her victimization.
Then there is the inevitability of it all. One is not quite sure whether sympathy is appropriate considering that justice is merely taking into action. A law has been broken, a crime has been committed. Whether or not Sally, Ramon or Elizabeth were completely aware that they had kilos of heroin stuffed in their luggage as they attempted to enter China was beside the point. They were found guilty and they had to suffer the consequences. To a certain extent, poverty and despair cease to be an excuse or a justification. There is a law. And laws are meant to be reinforced to preserve a larger order --- regardless of what station in life or where the perpetrator comes from. Regardless of what motivated an individual to knowingly (or unwittingly) indulge in a criminal activity.
It could have been a gamble. Or any one of the three could have been coerced into entering China with the contraband. But that is moot and academic. They took the risk. They broke the law. They were caught. They were tried. They were found guilty of a crime punishable by death. And the sentence was finally carried out. All as simple as that.
What could have been an equally simple tale with a clear cut moral lesson about Filipinos being gullible to the temptations of earning a quick buck was somewhat warped by brazen commercialism in the news coverage.
Truth be told: I was so completely appalled by the manner all the major networks dedicated their reportage to a minute-by-minute blow-by-blow account of what was happening in two cities in China where the Filipinos were facing their death.
Yes, the event was indeed sad --- but was there a need to literally squeeze every drop of emotion possible to transform a real life event into an over-the-top melodrama?
Was there such creative exercise in literally cajoling relatives of the three Filipino prisoners to verbalize how they felt, what they were experiencing, how their last meeting with their relative about to be brought to the execution chamber went ... prodding the weeping sibling to provide some juicy sound bytes to capture memorable last words from a dead man walking? I mean, what did these interviewers actually expect?!
That during their last minutes together, the family discussed the weather with somene doomed to die? That they started swapping knock-knock jokes? That the prisoner who was never informed of the day of her execution should be overjoyed that it was all going to be over soon?
Oh, come on!
And worse, why this obsession for details, this addiction to voyeurism ... this almost malicious and carnivorous desire to savor each and every moment that should have been reserved for the family ... and, yes, to give respect even to a criminal whose life has been cut short by the laws of a state?
Contrary to some condescending belief, even a doomed man --- proven guilty of a great crime --- still deserves the respect of his or her privacy even in facing punishment by death. There is an imperative to give every human being the right to cry quietly ... with only those he chooses to show his tears ... and not every breathing creature capable of turning on a television set!
More so, even the relatives in MetroManila and all the way in Isabela were not spared of media molestation. Cameras were literally waiting, aimed at mothers, grandmothers, sisters, cousins --- hoping to gather more sound bytes and highly emotional telenovela moments in real life --- that included wailing while crying, fainting and even incantations summoning the angels from heavens above and demons down under the sea to bring real justice to their doomed relative.
All this real time action on a multi-channel platform had all the dramatic intensity of a fight that involves Manny Pacquiao and whoever there is out there remaining to exchange jabs with the Pambansang Kamao. Somehow all this emotional brouhaha has been blown so out of proportions to completely dilute if not dissolve that important line between reality and fantasy.
Television has that effect of late. It numbs the viewers. It deadens the senses under the pretense of heightening emotions. It desensitizes the common man to think that what is seen on screen is nothing more but a fabrication of media. How it easy it is to forget that these people literally cringing in the pain of sadness are real people and not actors armed with scripts possessing overwrought emotional outbursts. How easy it is to completely miss out that three Filipinos were really losing their lives because of the execution of justice ... and this was not just another episode Maalaala Mo Kaya? or Untold Stories.
In the same manner, how completely desensitized has the Filipino audience become ... that they can stomp their feet, burst in applause and laughter ... while watching a six year old boy do lascivious dance moves while crying quietly on prime time television.
And then again there is that even sadder fact that we have completely missed out on the whole point of the story of Sally, Ramon and Elizabeth. In the desire of media to elicit such overflowing sympathy to the point of hysteria, we also set aside that there were major mistakes made. The mistakes were --- to use the parlance celebrated by television --- major major. And Sally, Ramon and Elizabeth had to pay with their lives for it.
By trivializing their death as yet another episode of the soap opera of mundane Filipino televiewing, we have also lost the entire point of the sadness in their lives ... and the meaning of their deaths.
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