When Food Becomes An Adventure

Pig’s brain. Frog legs. Pig’s blood. Dog meat. Cow’s testicles. No. This is not a biology class. This is all about food.

If you are the squeamish type, relax. I will not harm your discriminating palate. Food, after all, is something that all of us looks forward to at the end of the day. Nothing beats the idea of eating home-cooked meals served with some good loving. Imagine going home and eating a plate of steaming rice made more heavenly by the aroma of pandan leaves and served with some sumptuous pork adobo or some steaming hot tinolang manok on a rainy day. How about some fried fish and a plate of fried rice topped with some toasted fried garlic? Good food at its best. Imagine the sight. Heavenly smell. The taste. Go ahead……. Imagine it….

Feels good, right?

Many of my best memories are associated with food. I come from a family of cooks. I was brought up with the idea that if you want to eat good food then you must know how to cook. Sure, you can eat at the restaurant and you can pay for it but cooking it yourself makes the experience more rewarding. We owe it to ourselves to experience life at its best. It comes from a very simple concept. You love yourself therefore you pamper your senses with the best things in life. And one of the best things in life is food.

My adventures with cooking began at an early age. Every summer, I looked forward for the end of the school year. My parents would take us to the province for a month long respite from school. Life is good. Vacation at the province means adventures. It means climbing trees, swimming in the river and race to the hilltop. There too, at the back of my grandparent’s house, my imagination took me to greater heights as I learned how to cook my first vegetable stew. Gumamela and santan leaves, some stones for garnishing, seasoned with dust as salt. Then we set off and collect some clams at the river located at the back of the house. If I get lucky, I get to cooked it using my grandma’s clay pot with real fire.

No, I have no idea what it tastes like.

My cousins and I were actually sane not to eat our own masterpiece. But there are times that we did broil some dried fish on the charcoal set outside with some crude stones. I have a very bad record of being caught red handed while flashing a sheepish grin to my grandmother as I stealthily enter the back door kitchen to get some left-over rice for us. We did use some coconut shells as plates and food is best eaten with bare hands. Looking back at it now, I wonder how many gumamela and santan plants I must have murdered to perfect my cooking skills.

Cooking is not for the faint-hearted. You must be adventurous if you want food to continuously excite your senses. One must be courageous enough to try new things. Explore new ways of doing it if only to challenge the boredom of eating the same dish for so many years. They said experiment is the key to excite the senses. I took that advice into heart, of course. Sometimes I congratulate myself for a job well done. Everything turns out fine. The experiment is a success! Yes!

But not all the time.

I can still vividly remember the first time I baked my own version of pan de sal, the quintessential bread of the Filipino masses. My elder sister never forgot about my first gastronomic adventure in baking. I still give them a good laugh every time they remember that faithful day. I am a tough cookie and I have every reason to believe that I literally brought that concept into my baking skills.

My pan de sal is as hard as stone.

I guess that experience was just too traumatic for me. You see as a cook, you always get to taste the product of your ingenuity and creativity first. I took the first bite on my pan de sal.

I almost broke my front teeth.

I have improved since then but I’ve never tried baking pan de sal again. I’ve learned to stick on my expertise, cooking viands. Main dish, soups, stews, stir-fries and what have you. Name it. I’ll cook it. With sterling qualities at that. Before all my family members lose their front teeth, I guess I will just have to leave the world of baking to my elder sister’s hand. Laugh at me now but I promise. I will bake the best pan de sal on earth someday. Just wait and see. And when that time comes, I will ask you to take the first bite. Inform me now so I can put you in my list of honored guests. Good luck.

Since food is an adventure to excite the senses, have you ever tried eating the exotic ones? Frog legs. Pig’s brain. Cow’s testicles. Dog meat. No, not pork blood stews. It’s not included in the list.

Pork blood stew or dinuguan is not exotic for me. I grew up eating it with a thirst likened to a vampire. It’s yummy and best eaten with steamed rice cake or puto. Traditionally, it’s cooked using pork innards but I haven’t tried cooking it that way. I always use the pork belly part. I don’t know how other cultures might view the dish but I know for one they shouldn’t judge it without giving it a try.

That is if they’re courageous enough.

Today, I came across a food blog that features frog legs cooked with quail eggs, adobo style. Adobo is synonymous with chicken and pork or sitaw, string beans. But I can’t seem to associate adobo with frogs. I can’t bring myself to eat it honestly. But I was told it tasted like chicken. Then maybe I’ll just stick to chicken legs. More juicy. Much bigger. And I don’t think of warts while eating it with gusto. But still, if I can do away with the cruelty of how it was captured and killed, maybe I can bring myself to cook something like this in the near future. The only thing is, what if Mr. Froggy turns out to be a prince charming?

Darn. Girls will hunt me down. PETA, too.

Some of the exotic ones I’ve tried was pig’s brain cooked in some soup, dog meat cooked adobo style and my favorite cow’s testicles, cooked as soup number 5. I remember eating them as a kid. Today, I cannot say the same. Aside from soup number five, I am not an adventurous eater anymore. I don’t crave for exotic food.

Among them, the dog meat was something that I’ve never forget. Not because I relish the idea of eating man’s best friend but because I was fooled into eating it. I thought I was just eating some chicken meat. I remember trying to dislodge the food out of my stomach but I guess my digestive system is working on a no return, no exchange policy.

I know up north it is actually considered as a delicacy. But there’s a law against this one now. Dog meat is not allowed to be sold in the market anymore. It’s illegal and it poses some health risks. I don’t know how to take it but even if it’s cultural, I don’t think they have to be killed that way. A dog’s meat tastes like chicken but I don’t think I can bring myself to eat it again.

What about pig’s brain?

My love affair with pork and pigs started with my father. I have been accustomed to accompanying him to the different markets at the city where we own some stalls at the meat section. I remembered being surrounded by pork, beef and goat’s meat. Enormous tapalans which served as chopping boards for meats were scattered at the counter. When the day was over, that means somewhere 10 am, Dad and I would essentially roam around the markets. I had a very intimate relationship with markets around the city and I know them like the back of my hand. I handled fish like a pro. I know the names of the different cuts for meat like a seasoned chef.

I was only ten years old.

My father would introduce me to the vegetable and fish vendors, the egg and fruit stall owners and what have you. I know my way to the markets all over the city of Iloilo. The crude language sometimes found at the marketplace never bothered me. I almost feel like a gangster while I exchange high fives to tattoed and huge, towering men brandishing the biggest knives I have ever seen in my entire lifetime. Some of them who worked for my father would cook some soup using the pig’s brain as the soup base. The pig’s skull is left after some customer buys that part that is being use for cooking spicy sisig, the mask of the pig as they call it or maskara.

Pig’s brain? What does it taste like?

If I can remember it right, it tastes good. It was cooked in some broth seasoned with some herbs and spices as well as garnished with some vegetables. I think they have put some peppercorns in it and lots of garlic. Looking back, I must have looked barbaric while eating it. That was like 18 years ago or so. I am actually trying to think about the wisdom of the idea that by eating it, my neurons would gain something significant. I just don't know if Einstein would like to try this, too.

What about cow’s testicles?

The best way to cook it is to make a soup out of it. This fabled soup known as Soup Number five is actually expensive in some restaurants. However, some roadside eateries offer this on a very reasonable price. And mind you, it tastes really good. And yes, it is made of cow’s testicles. Simply put. You got to have the balls to eat this.

It is reputedly known to have some powers to excite the senses. It is believed to be an aphrodisiac. I know for sure that some ancient cultures had associated rams and horned bulls as representations of fertility. So maybe, this is the reason why. I honestly don’t know. Aside from its obvious function, I have yet to conduct a comparative study about the use of cow’s testicles across cultures. Or whether it is effective as what they claim to be. I have eaten it numerous times but I did not feel anything unusual.

What about you?

My father was the one who cooked it for us. He mortified my mom when he said that our viand for that day was cow’s testicles. My mom is a very good cook but I have always seen my father as the adventurous one. The cow’s testicle was cut into desired length and was washed and cleaned thoroughly. When cooked with the right spices, believe me. It tastes heavenly.

Just a few weeks ago, I would have wanted to try to cook it myself. But alas, I don’t have any idea as to where I can buy some testicles. For sure, they don’t have it at the meat section of major groceries store and malls at the city. Just try to imagine what would be the sign at the meat section.

Testicles sold here.

My next door neighbor told me that maybe I can get it from the slaughter house. Try to order it in advance, of course. She also jokingly told me that maybe I can use a man’s testicles instead. Actually that might be a good idea especially for men who got this very bad habit of using their testicles rather than their brains most of the time. Think of making eunuchs out of them.

If I can’t find anybody who fits that category and if worst comes to worst, my male friends should indeed run for their lives.

So which one do you fancy? Pig’s brain? Dog meat? Cow’s testicles? Or something more exotic?

Let me know.



In Defense of Bra and Panty

What's the color of your favorite underwear? Is it black, red, purple, blue or abstract?

I was at the mall to buy myself some lingerie yesterday. In my 31 years of existence in this planet, it's the section that I never skip if I want to be entertained. And who wouldn't be? It's like going to the candy store with lots of choices to choose from. Women could choose from the different colors that catches their fancy and suit their discriminating taste.It ranges from the quintessential classic black, fiery red, sweet pink, virginal white, and yes my favorite colors, mystic blue and regal purple.

I was amused as I hold a red thong in my hands. I looked at it with suspicion. Who would wear this? I mused to myself as I scrutinized the flimsy looking. tiny red thong against the light. The sales lady looked at me as if I was a half-crazed woman trying to figure out whether it's something edible or not. It looked like a foreign object to me. I know for sure some women finds it sexy to wear thongs. I, on the other hand is not as adventurous when it comes to it. With bras, yes. I love the wild side of bras. I would probably enlist myself to any lingerie company to try out the latest in bra technology.But with thongs, it's a different story.

As long as I haven't tried it, I wouldn't say no. So for those who doubt the veracity of my statement,for your information, I have tried wearing one before. But yes sweetheart, it felt like there was a worm stuck somewhere.

It's like there's a wiggling creature in the crevices of my butt. It feels funny. It gives me goosebumps, actually.

I know you're laughing but yes, it's true. That was the first and the last time I'm going to wear one.If I would be made to choose between a thong and an invinsible panty a.k.a nothing. I'll be faster than the lightning to say that I'll choose to wear nothing at all. At least it's comfortable and airy. Sorry but I won't sacrifice comfort for fashion. If they could create a thong that doesn't feel like some worm is having a fantastic time exploring my buns, then I'll be glad to buy a dozen and wear them day in and day out. I'll even buy the most outrageous design and try it.

For the meantime, thongs aren't just my thing. Period.

I left the poor red thong to ponder on whose butt she's going to explore in the near future. As I moved on to the next rack, my attention was caught by some dazzling colored underwear. Panties that were embellished with some sort of sequins. There were red and black ones. I began to wonder. Are they really serious with this? Who the hell would wear a panty with sequins unless of course the woman is into some forms of masochism? I looked around if there was a pair. Sequined bras and panties would go well I assume. There was none. So I reckon these panties would be paired with a different bra. M Maybe if I perform pole dancing for my future husband, I would seriously consider buying it. I'm keeping my options open.

I tried to visualize myself wearing the thing.

If I would be a part of a sultan's harem, I'll probably buy something like this. Something fiery red with some black sequins and have it custom made with little bells attach to the hips.On the process,throw in some miniature colored light bulbs,too. Let's just see whether the sultan will not see me. I bet, I'll be the center of attraction during the selection.

I am seriously considering the idea of becoming a consultant for lingerie companies. I can maybe even design something historical. Like maybe a map of Asia strewn across the butt and at the front maybe an emblem of whatever the customer adores so much. The choices are endless. Sky is the limit. This will be good business.

Designers of underwear are very creative. Talk about fashion statement. None compares to this. A few years ago,I saw one which was made of cotton with a very cute looking little pig in front, complete with two ears and adorable eyes. And yes, you're right. A cute little tail was hanging in all its amazing glory at the back. It was not printed. It was a cute waggly tail.

You want attention. You wear this to beach. Let me know what happens next.

I leisurely took my time as I tried to examine every piece that took my fancy.The bras were very nice. There were elegant ones, delicately embroidered with intricate designs and embellished with fine lace. You can go from cheap, to moderately priced, to expensive and very expensive.They were available in a kaleidoscope of colors. It comes in different sizes and flavors if you can call it that way. There's the good, the bad and the ugly. It depends on what mood you are in.

So what is the rule in finding a good bra? Very simple. As they say, a good bra is like the perfect man: good-looking, supportive and will never let you down.

In my case, I would always choose the bold and elegant ones, rolled into one. When I say bold, it should be strong enough to carry my assets, supportive in other words, but elegant enough to make them look very adorable. Sometimes, I also prefer to be brazen. I love lion and leopard inspired designs. It makes me feel like some predator waiting for its prey.Animal instincts on the move. So powerful. Utterly amazing. Roar!!!

If there's one thing I can't understand, it is the fact that why can't we wear our bras outside instead of hiding them. Look at the men's briefs section. Those manly but elegant designs that exudes male sexuality. Like bras and panties, if you ask me, all those fine pieces of men's underwear should be shown to the world. Maybe once a week it would be fine to have a free day. A respite from our structured environment. Imagine your boss, who always terrorizes you, wearing his brief outside. It would be a breath of fresh air, I think. I must admit, too. I am a staunch defender of the idea that Superman was always right. He wore his briefs on the outside.

I can't usually find my shoe size at the ladies department. I got feet. My shoe size would be from 34-35. It's so difficult to find high heeled shoes for me because they're usually a lot bigger than my feet. But when it comes to bras, I marvel at the creativity of our designers. I admire women who are gifted. Well-endowed. But yes, I also admire a woman who couldn't care less whether the size of her breast is comparable to that of a miniature muffin. In this world of size does matter, some women would go through the extremes to give their breasts some extra lift and meat. They think having it well endowed is easy.

Not all the time, my dear.

It can be difficult during that time of the month. It could be scandalous especially when riding a car or jeepney. Whenever my period is coming and it is as if everything swells and aches in my body, I am always tempted to hold my precious assets whenever there's a bump on the road. In times like these, I always have my supportive sisters, bras with underwires. They are always ready for heavy duty.Okay, I would have to be honest. Scrap tempted, I have done it several times actually. I hold them precious assets securely with my two hands when the road ahead is rough and bumpy. Don't give me that look! Of course, I do it discreetly. Though I tell you, it takes a lot of intelligent moves not to attract untoward attention to yourself. For those who are interested on how to do it, just email me.

So if you still think that well endowed women got it easy. Think again.

As I am writing this, my cousin is chanting her favorite mantra. I must! I must! I must increase my bust! I told her to offer some chicken eggs in exchange for prayers of miracle for her 32A bust size. No amount of exercise will give you a whooping increase from 32A to 36B. That's her dream size by the way. She would looked at mine longingly and tell me, she wants to have them, too. Okay, she can borrow mine every MWF but not on Saturdays and Sundays. Those days are my dating days. I don't want to shock my date and make him think I had inflatables instead of real breasts.

Some men wants it big. Some men wants it small. But the question is, what do you want? It's not what they want that defines you as a woman. It's what you want that defines yourself.Nothing fascinates me but to see a woman who struts her stuff with such unmistaken confidence and with a "I couldn't care less attitude." It makes me want to cheer and shout, "You go girl!!!"

I am a firm believer of the idea that I don't need to dress and act like a man when I can be feminine and powerful as a woman.

I admire women who are comfortable with their feminine sexuality. Women who are never afraid to express themselves. Be it innocent, classic, bold or brazen. It defines who they are. If they're satisfied with it, whether it's 32A or 40D, this world is going to be one happy place.

These assets might be heavy at times but nevertheless, I am thankful. I would always be proud to have them. It's a natural gift. Something to be cherished and treasured. A girlfriend of mine told me that when God gave out assets, both of us woke up early and made our way to the front line. We waved our hands tremendously that we received such huge blessings. I couldn't agree more.

Indeed, the early worm catches the boobs.

When Majority Turns Major

I’m certainly no fan of beauty pageants and no, I don’t hate it either.

I sat dazed for a moment when my friends at facebook wrote something on my status about how I forgot my password for my email account. They said it’s a major major problem and I should seek a major major solution.

I was out of touch with the world for quite some time when the hullabaloo over what majority of us called as a major disaster took place. My mind was too busy trying to organize my thoughts for the gender sensitivity trainings that I was about to conduct and it was only two days later that I managed to read the news and I found out what the major problem was.

The most recent experience I had as a judge on one beauty contest confirmed the truth albeit not as grandiose and prestigious as The Miss Universe Beauty Pageant. I was actually amused by some of the questions I had contemplated on asking the contestants. Such as, " If you only have one eyebrow left, where will you put it? Left or right? Why?" Or maybe I could also ask something like, “If you have three hairs left on your head, what do you want to do with it? Will you have it together or separate from each other? Why?”

Of course, that’s just the funny side of me. No,I didn't ask them that.

Venus Raj landed 4th among the 80 candidates and all we could harp for was that she failed to bring home the bacon. And for those who would say that they could have answered the question this way or that way, yes, I know your IQ is above average. But please, spare me from all your claims of superior intelligence.

Fact is, you’re not a candidate for Ms. Universe. Period.

It was too prejudicial for us to hinge our reactions solely on the basis of how she repeatedly used the word “major”. Are we reacting like this because we deem to see it as a major blow to our reputation as good English speakers? Are we afraid that Koreans would stop coming to the Philippines to learn the English language lest we produced major major English speaking Koreans? I guess as Filipinos we always pride ourselves as proficient in the English language. One of the best in this part of Asia, perhaps. However, my major impression is that we are not so observant with the fact that in this part of the world, the Philippines, we have honed the language so as to suit our own purpose.

Let me share with you what happened to my class a few days ago.

We were discussing the relationship of the development of nationalism, imagery and the Filipino intelligentsia in the 19th century. The class was silent as they tried to digest and process the questions I have been throwing at them.

“Rizal sees nationhood as transhistorical. What do we mean with this?” I asked. You could have heard the pin dropped as silence engulfed the room.

One student raised her hand and said “Maam, I’m not so sure but I’ll try. I have a little little idea about it.”

Suddenly, all hell broke loose as her classmates laughed out loud. The student who bravely raised her hand to answer my question turned beet red. She was a Chinese mestiza which all the more heightened the reddening of her cheeks as she nervously laughed with embarrassment along with her classmates.

“I mean I only have a very slight idea about it but I want to try. That’s why I said little little,” she profusely explained.

I smiled.

“No need to explain Miss. I understand what you wanted to convey. Now you know what Venus Raj must have felt when she was trying to answer the question.”

They all nod in agreement.

I’m no self-proclaimed linguist. I have lucid moments wherein sometimes, I can’t even spell the simplest and easiest words anymore. Believe me, we all have moments like these. No sleep, information overload and intellectual indigestion. Put them together and they are a perfect combination for my lucid moments. These are the times that I have to correct myself because my nouns and adjectives don’t agree with each other. My verbs and adverbs are in a state of proverbial love-hate relationship. And I have to check my written work so as not to commit a major laughing stock of myself.

Okay, let’s be bloody about this. If we want to be really strict with it, we are all liable to commit major blunders in the English language.

Case in point. What is a bloodletting activity?

Bloodletting was a historically practiced medical procedure which involved removing a set amount of blood from the veins of a patient for therapeutic purposes. Historically, physicians believed that many illnesses were caused by an excess of blood, and bloodletting was a frequent prescription for a wide range of conditions. It was the most common medical practice performed by doctors from antiquity up to the late 19th century.

This was based on two key concepts: one if blood could not circulate, it could stagnate at the extremities, thus the need for a bloodletting, second, the concept of humoralism. The theory of Humorism goes back to the concept of Hippocratic medicine. It believes that the body is made up of four basic substances, called humors, which are in balance when a person is healthy. All diseases and disabilities resulted from an excess or deficit of one of these four humors. . The four humors were black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood. The blood was believed to be the dominant humor. When a patient was suffering from a surplus or imbalance of one fluid, then his or her personality and physical health would be affected.

Thus bloodletting during those times emerged as an answer to a plethora of medical problems. It is good for asthma, acne, leprosy, tuberculosis, herpes, indigestion and yes, insanity, just to name a few. If this is the case then I think I may need to enlist many of my friends for a bloodletting activity for they have periodic cases of insanity one time or another on their lifetimes. I’m sure they could keep the blood banks in the Philippines busy the whole month or so.

In blood donation, people can get a sense of what therapeutic bloodletting might have been like. However, most blood donors donate less blood than bloodletting would have removed. In the Philippines, donating blood is known to be a bloodletting activity.

At this point, let me ask you. Which one do you prefer? Bloodletting or blood donation?

A lot of factors come in when we try to contextualize everything. Language changes. It's fluid and is never stagnant. The fact also remains that nobody has a monopoly of the English language. And if you don’t agree with me, that’s your major major reaction and it’s your prerogative to do so.

Someone used to tell me that the type of English language that evolved in the Philippines is that of the Americans. That’s why our English is flawed. He said Americans can’t speak good English unlike the British. He comes from a continent that has a long history of British colonization and therefore I can surely understand his reaction. So I bluntly told him, the British are snobs that’s why. He laughed. He got my point.

Venus Raj was attempting to clarify a point. She was trying to emphasize something. We may not be aware of it but some of us may have been unconsciously using the same expression in our everyday conversations. It goes to say that as non-native English speakers, we Filipinos have certain nuances when it comes to speaking the language, a type of language that may not be considered acceptable in the greater English speaking world. If there’s such a world called as greater English speaking world that is..

Venus Raj's answer in totality is maybe, yes, off tangent. She had a chance to correct her mistake but I don't know why, in the end, she faltered. But the criticism was not even on that aspect. Her major major speech caught the world by storm. Well, maybe you can say I am not a perfectionist when it comes to beauty pageants. That's not my forte. But I have to lord it over her. I have every reason to believe that being fourth among the 80 candidates was no easy feat I guess.

We glorify our victories as one nation but in times of mistakes we are least forgiving to our own kind. I guess we too often remember the mistakes more than the victories. The follies of human nature.

Me, Jesus Christ and Sponge Bob

In the Name of Confession

I looked at it incredulously and I began to wonder where on earth I was.

It was a quiet and cozy Thursday afternoon as I strolled my way to the church grounds. Perfect, I told myself. Just the way I like it. The sky was magnificent as it was dressed in majestic blue peppered with cotton candy looking clouds. The birds were oblivious to the heat of the sun as they continued to serenade and flirt at each other with their melodious voices. I smiled. I was in a happy mood.

As I entered the billowing entrance of the church, I was engulfed with a feeling of serenity and peace. I eased my way to the aisle and rows of holy saints that looked like silent sentinels of its devoted flock. The intricate patterns at the ceiling fascinated me as I quietly walked my way inside. Suddenly, I stopped dead on my tracks. I stood and looked at the sign posted just below the image and statue of Jesus Christ on the cross. I contemplated whether I should light the candle in my hand.

The sign read, “Only candles bought from the church cooperative are allowed to be lighted here. Please support our cooperative.” I was wondering whether something happened at the bat of my eyelash like I was suddenly transported back to the Spanish period in the Philippines. I was expecting Padre Damaso and Padre Salvi to appear nowhere and start their sermons of fire and brimstones to poor hapless sinners like me. I cringed.

I lighted my candle anyway.

It looked different from the rest. I was unmindful of the stare of an elderly lady who was standing beside me. I nod and smiled at her, acknowledging her presence. I closed my eyes and began talking to Him. I have to be honest. I can’t concentrate. Somewhere at the back of my mind, those words seem to haunt me. This might be the reason why, I have always valued praying inside my room or somewhere far away from temptations of the human senses.

As much as possible I refrain from writing something about religion because it generates so much discussion that sometimes, out of academic discussion you earn resentment from other people. Unconsciously, of course. I respect other people's opinions, regardless of their race, color or religion. I have no qualms with those who are vocal about their faith and the values they uphold. I bestow them great respect. Not everyone can do that. Not everyone can go to the street and preach about things that they truly believe in. Not everyone can actually sit down and ask you if you want to talk about God. The only amusing thing is that we seem to get the impression that those who professed great faith in God are only dressed in white robes with halos on their heads. Or much worst only those who hold the bible everyday of their lives deserve a place in heaven. I have to say that I have met some people who don't looked like angels at all but they have a big heart. Theirs is a quiet devotion seen in acts rather than words.

They are ordinary people with extra ordinary hearts.

My childhood years were spent watching Flying House and Magic Book. My mornings were spent trying to digest the idea of Moses parting the Red Sea. It doesnt help too that it was called Red Sea when in fact it was not red. So I sat there trying to problematize everything. In my young mind, I wish I was an Israelite, I bet it would be fun to take a walk like that. Imagine yourself getting stuck in the mud, trying to look for Nemo and Dory. Not to mention you get to encounter the 44 species of shark that can be found in the Red Sea. It's going to be one cool awesome adventure of a lifetime!

I was transfixed in front of the TV as I imagined myself travelling through space and time and getting up close and personal with Judas Iscariot. I wondered why nobody seemed to like him that much. In my book, nobodys’ are as much as important as somebodys’. So no doubt, Judas Iscariot is on my to do list.

I grew up with parents who came from differing religions. My mother is a devout Catholic. My father is a Protestant. They were able to settle their differences when it comes to faith. My Dad goes to church on occasions of death and baptism.

Was he bad because of that?

I never saw him as such. He was one of the kindest and most generous persons I have ever seen in my lifetime. I never saw him holding the bible but today as a grown-up I realized he exemplified more than that. He didn’t preach but he practiced it to the fullest. My mom was the one who answered our questions about angels and demons, God and the concepts of eschatology. She grew up from a spiritual family. My dad is a soldier of fortune. So I think I have the best of both worlds.

I attended Sunday school. My elder sister told me it was fun. You get to use your crayons to color Jesus in any fashion that you want. In my imaginative mind, it was encouraging so I went. Turns out, our next door neighbor was a pastor from Doane Baptist Church. He encouraged my parents to send us every Sunday. I can still vividly recall Pastor Ariel. He would laugh as I would race to him and showed him my work of art. Jesus Christ feeding the multitude with five loaves of bread and two fish. Only that Jesus Christ looked like Sponge Bob and the multitude of people looked like dots because unlike my gifted sister, I don’t have much talent in drawing and painting. Nevertheless, in my eyes it was a work of art.

Abstract to be exact.

I studied in a Chinese school where there was no subject of religion or whatsoever. When Dad died, my mom transferred from the city to their ancestral home at the province. My high school years were basically spent with my elder sister. Together, we toughed it out in the real world. We remained at the city to pursue our studies. There was nobody to teach us the regiments of a true blooded Christian. Whatever that means. I learned to pray Hail Mary's and Our Father on my own. I guess when you are ready to learn, everything comes easy. Until now, I still pray in English and I know God don’t mind at all.

I went to a university where ideas get to be challenged when the occasion calls for it. I was far away from my family. Completely on my own, I met a few real life friends who introduced me to Students For Christ. I became a member of SFC for some years and at the same time was also an active member of the radical student org, The League of Filipino Students. Some people just couldnt reconcile the idea. In their eyes it’s like mixing oil and water. I don’t know why.

There are things that I don’t get with the church and the teachings in the Bible. I have always thought that religion is a personal thing. It is between me and my God. Through the years, I have been searching like the rest of us, for the truth, the light and the way. I read. Enlightened myself. I joined religious groups. Drifted in and out. Was in fact, disillusioned by some. The social scientist in me tells me that the bible is written by humans who are supposedly under the divine inspiration of God. But as humans, aren’t we all susceptible to bringing our own biases into writing? The bible has been interpreted in so many ways by people who claimed that they were divinely appointed and inspired by God.

Forgive me for saying this but I have met a priest recently who acted like he was no priest at all. He got angry with the little kid who was crying inside the church.Instead of carrying on with the sermon for the day, he lectured about parenting and crying kids and all. His voice was scolding and his eyes were blazing. I looked at my mom and asked her, what's the problem? He was clearly wound up so tight he forgot he was supposed to deliver the mass. He was a perfect picture of Padre Damaso that I was at the point of telling him so.

My mother turned to look at me and with her eyes, she was obviously telling me to behave. I have great respect for my mom. I have none for the priest. I have learned through the years that it pays to count from one to ten before you say anything. It helps you ease the tension and gives you space to say something enlightening and wise. I reached number twenty. I inhaled and exhaled many timesIt's like I was being made to choose between human follies and divine attributes. I reminded myself that I am here to worship, not to criticize.

I do recognize the fact that priests are humans, too. Pardon me but I am less forgiving when it comes to these things. If it was only once, twice or even thrice, it's pretty understandable but if they've become a habit, then there's a problem somewhere. If they can't act according to the words they preach , then they don't have any business telling people how to save their souls from the fires of hell.

You walk the talk. Period.

If I question some teachings in the bible, does it make me less of a Christian? Someone told me before that if you have great faith, you wouldn’t even ask. In his perspective maybe that’s the rational thing to do. In my mind, it was not. Isn’t it tantamount to blind obedience? Or yes, maybe even to zealousness and fanaticism?

He told me that I don’t know how to differentiate a bible from a history book. I could go on forever and argue with him but of course, I always keep in mind that much has been done in the name of religion. Lives lost and much bloodshed. It wouldn’t hurt him if he only recognizes the fact that people have different perspectives when it comes to things and should at least respect the fact that we were not born from the same tree. And yes, the flip side of me tells me that it wouldn’t help also if I throw my hard bound huge history books in his face.

I ask because I want to be enlightened. Some would consider it even blasphemy to question some teachings in the bible. But yes, come to think of it. If I don’t give a damn, I wouldn’t care to ask at all. But fact is, I’m interested to know. Isn’t that fair enough? I strongly believe that God gave me rational mind to evaluate things and be able to decide for myself. Be able to discern which is right and what is wrong. It’s a God given gift that I intend to use to the fullest of my human potential.

My candle flickered slowly as it dances in the slow breeze of that one faithful Thursday afternoon. I have a gut feeling that God would still hear my prayers even if I didn’t buy my candle from the church cooperative. I questioned myself whether there must be something wrong with my judgment and conscience that day. I don’t know if I have violated some rules, whether human or divine, I am not sure. But the weird thing is, I wasn’t feeling guilty at all. I only have one thing in mind as I returned the smile of the elderly lady as I was leaving the premises of the church, I am only accountable to Him and nobody else. I am firm with my faith and I know what I want and where I am going.

It’s like being grateful to Him when you’re feeling good and yes, still graceful when you’re feeling bad. Either way, they are the best options you have in hand.

Buhay U.P.....Tatak Pinoy

So what makes you a certified UP student?

You never did buy yourself a decent book. For a seasoned Iska, books aren’t meant to be bought. Believe me. You never buy them because you can find them in the library. If you were lucky enough, they only have one copy. So you go fight with the rest of your classmates and when things turned really NASTY, everybody settles to nominate the official person to oversee the photocopying of the materials. (Intelligent blokes aren’t we?)

You go to class wearing your night clothes. Sometimes a short and a T-shirt that says I’m a gorgeous babe. But you looked like a runner perspiring all over as you sprint your way across the gate in a frenzied hurry because the fact is, you have a long exam to catch. You wake up and you freeze as everything stands still when you find out you have ten minutes to go before your first long exam. To date, that professor of yours never did allow his students to be late. You didn’t stay up late that night only to end up not being able to take the exam. Moral lesson, buy yourself an alarm clock, loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood.

You know the library like the back of your hand. Your talent goes beyond this one. Ask anybody to give you the book’s call number and you assure them that you MIGHT just find it for them, too. Such is your skill in what we often call as “book hunt”.

If the professor says it’s a reference book, you know he’s probably joking. What he means actually is, you should have them photocopied and read them before you get your awesome butt inside the class. Or maybe you might just find it interesting to undergo a bombastic lecture about the perils of an empty mind. And when he says read, he means read not just one book but a number of them. He’ll even be generous enough to recommend an endless list of readings for you to enhance your “beautiful mind.” You wouldn’t even dare to have forty winks at night or you end up having a nervous breakdown before you enter the class.

Coffee is an integral part of your body system. You start to think, maybe your blood have turned into cappuccino or what from all the “drinking sprees”. Downing SIGNIFICANT AMOUNTS of caffeine night and day. Two sachets are not enough to suffice your discriminating taste, meaning you can’t stay awake with two cups. Morning comes, your eyes are very expressive. Droopy eyes. Dazed look. But heck, everybody’s sporting it!! Welcome to the jungle.

You meet a freshman and you want to give in to the urge to tell him…WELCOME TO HELL. (Grin) Nah! You know how it feels to be paralyzed with fear with all those talks of terror teachers lurking somewhere. So you choose to tell her, it’s going to be okay and you give the poor soul a conspiratorial wink while saying “If I were you I’ll have my library card signed as early as the first day of school.”

Being aware of your social responsibility is a way of life. You and your friends are suckers for current events. Everybody is expected to share their thoughts and opinions about issues in the society. Much to your chagrin,you forget that you have to write a term paper because you end up arguing with your friends about your stand on a certain issue.

You don’t check out the latest fashion at the magazine stand. That would come later if you have enough money left after having VOLUMES and CHAPTERS of books photocopied. By the time, you go out of the university to check out that cool backpack that you’ve been eyeing for sometime, you don’t even have a single coin left to buy yourself a chewing gum. So where is justice in that?

You feel intelligent. Of course, you have every reason to feel that way. After all you passed the UPCAT, right? You now belong to the country's premier university and so they say. But something inside you tells you that something is wrong with that idea. Remember the FIRST TIME that you've failed an exam? It hurts a lot I'm sure. But don't worry, if it's any comfort to know, many of us got their first heartache (on a failed exam) probably in this university. Cheer up, kiddo.

Do not judge a book by its cover. You couldn't agree more. That guy who looks like Barok fresh from the cave is actually a Math genius and a national champion in chess. You wouldn't dare compete with him. That shy girl beside you who aces her exams in history is actually a singing diva at a local pub. And of course, you don't give a damn whether he's the son/daughter of so and so. You know very well that no one is above the law in this institution.

Love life? Of course, you have one. They think just because you bury your nose in a pile of readings for PI 100 or STS, you're an ice maiden!! What they don't know is that, You are constantly checking out that cute guy in the front row with an adoring look fit for a king. Not until your professor calls out the result of the exams, you pass the exam but Mr. Cute scored zero. Suddenly you wanted to move on with your life without him. You turn to look at your professor instead, despite of his nerd look, the terrorist actually looks cool in his new pair of eyeglasses!

You have mastered the art of cooking pancit canton. Not that you can’t afford to buy yourself a decent meal but you know very well that “TIME IS GOLD.”

Enrollment gives you the chance to practice what your mom usually tells you….Patience is a virtue. You couldn’t agree more. And you begin to wonder whether UP stands for University of Pila.

Now, let me ease the topic in a different direction. After four years of being a student, your role changed into something more challenging. Now you have become a UP teacher.

So what makes a UP teacher?

You say, get one half piece of paper and students echo your instructions like parrots. One-half Maam? One-half Prof? One half Miss? Ano maam, one-half? Isn’t it that this university is supposedly the institution for the exceptionally talented and the brightest students in the country? Yes, class, one-half. And you eventually succumbed to the truth that they all have hearing defects despite being gifted.


You say good morning class among your freshmen students and they give you a
puzzled look. You tell yourself I should have worn something formal, like a killer slacks and a Victorian styled blouse. They expect to see a school marm but they end up seeing their reflection, jeans, t-shirt and a back pack. Next time, you know better than to shocked your students about not being “respectable” in their eyes.

Read the newspaper everyday. . It will save your hide during exams. Do not memorize rather understand what you are reading. Don’t just read. Think. Be creative in your presentations. I don’t like half bake papers. So give me your best shot. These are your favorite mantra. And pretty soon, your students get nosebleeds.

A deadline is a deadline otherwise you’re dead. And you hear that familiar groan across the room. But you stand firm. Somehow you feel the need to inculcate the value of discipline no matter what. No excuses. Come deadline and you try to wear the toughest look to prove to them that you mean business. Most of the time, it’s effective. They’re too afraid to cross you, knowing your favorite line is….. DO NOT PROVOKE THE ANIMAL INSTINCT IN ME. With a gentle smile, of course.

You begin to wonder whether it’s high time to have yourself a boyfriend for fear of ending up as the honorary member of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club. But nah, you tell yourself, real men want intelligent women. No need to hurry. You have to get your MA and your PhD first. But of course, you know that maybe you are asking too much.

You study your lessons well. Check your presentations and lectures. You never go into class unprepared. It’s your worst nightmare. You always remind yourself that these are not just ordinary students. Come to think of it, you might be talking to the future president of the country. A privilege of course. But at the moment, he surely knows that it’s a privilege and honor to attend your class.

Once in a while, you spot a genius, (everybody’s supposed to belong to the cream of the crop, right? I can see my students grinning like Cheshire cats.), the one who aces your exams effortlessly and delivers witty lines during recitations. You wonder, however, why you don’t see him lately. Somehow you find out that his scholarship allowance is delayed. No money. No food. He is forced to choose between feeding his mind and feeding his stomach.

You get yourself to reflect that despite of the modest salary that you received and despite repeated offers of very well-paying jobs, you stick to this institution simply because it gives you a certain pride to educate the scholars of the nation. And that it gives you a certain sense of serenity and happiness that you have inspired them. Inculcate the value of serving others. This you continue to do even if the logic of that reasoning is simply vague for your friends and family.

You are then reminded of the simple fact that the institution you work for is the University of the Masses, where poor but brilliant minds are given the chance to fulfill their dreams. Where promising minds forged their dreams of being and becoming and that you feel that you can make a difference in their lives.

Above all, somehow in the face of trying times, you never forget to tell them never to lose their faith to their own people. And that you fervently hope that someday, when the going gets tough, they will remember that, THE FILIPINO IS WORTH LIVING FOR.

Having said this, you go into sleep with that beautiful music that softly plays in your heart. What more could you ask for?

Are You Man Enough to Cook?

Isquando de la Cabornit. Ever heard of this? If you did, then maybe we’re siblings.

It is my dad’s specialty. Not even the finest restaurant in town or the grandest hotel in the country could ever equal this sumptuous treat. It’s a dish that comes with a history of obscure beginnings and relative endings.

We are a family of cooks. Napoleon Bonaparte would be honored to have us in his army. Baking is my sister’s forte. Her apple cobbler and cinnamon rolls are to die for! Pasta and meals are mine. I can cook up a storm in a jiffy. Mom is great on both worlds. My brother? He’s my father’s protégée. Dad is the cast iron chef and when he cooks, expect it to be the best!

I’m going to cook tonight. Let me show your mom who’s the king when it comes to the kitchen, he jokingly said as he showed the family out to the living room. You got to lord it over my Tatay to make my mom know that indeed she’s the queen of his heart.

He’s not just famous for his Isquando de la Cabornit but for his Soup Number Five, too. I remember the first time he asked my mother to cook it. My mom was horrified. For the record, Soup Number Five tastes good but you got to have the balls to eat this. It’s a soup that has earned notoriety through the years.

How do you eat a cow’s testicles without ending up entertaining Freudian thoughts?

A taste of this soup can make you feel elated, not so much because of the hype they have put into the idea that it’s an aphrodisiac. Actually, it’s more of a culinary treat. The contrasting flavors tickle your senses like no other. It’s definitely a hot stuff.

I was nine years old and being the youngest in the family, I get the chance and opportunity to sit beside him and be useful. Useful means I get to chop the ingredients according to the chef’s specifications. Eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath. I guess my dad is no fan of Shakespeare because the heavenly smell of sautéed garlic and onions soon wafted throughout the house. Lilies of the kitchen as they are known, garlic and onions would always time and again grace our adobos during rainy days, sprinkled lavishly over some peanuts or at times just fried and eaten like chips ahoy.

Soon, he adds the major ingredients. I watch him carefully as he goes about the kitchen. He hums a lively tune as he cooks. Until now, I can still hear him sing his favorite rendition of Matt Monro and Frank Sinatra songs. I didn’t pay attention to the fact that his voice is as bad as a broken record. For me, it’s as good as it gets.

After sometime, Tatay tasted his masterpiece and looked at me with that mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Everything’s done princess. Fix the table and call everybody. Eating together is a family tradition. Standard rule at home. Nobody eats unless everyone is present. No late comers for dinner or else we all end up hungry. Call it slightly military style but we learn discipline that way.

Our dinner was superb. Along with boiled okra dipped in soy sauce and calamansi, some broiled fish and dad’s Isquando de la Cabornit, we ate heartily that night. Compliments to the chef. After dinner, my sister washed the dishes. My brother wiped the table. I swept the floor for some crumbs. Nanay and Tatay drank their coffee. I sat beside the chef and asked him, Tay, what’s the name of your recipe? Nanay gave him a surreptitious glance as he answered, Isquando de la Cabornit. Sounds funny, right? It’s neither Spanish nor a French cuisine. It’s certainly not Filipino either. But it sure sounds like fine dining to me. Until now, I’ve never found the recipe anywhere else but inside my cherished childhood memories of my dad’s cooking abilities.

I always prefer home cooked meals. Served piping hot. Delicious aroma that fills your nostrils. Aaahhh! Just heavenly. I’m actually salivating at the moment with the thought that only four weeks left and I’ll be home. I already called my sister yesterday to let her know that I’m eager to witness her baking prowess once again. The moment I step right out of the airport, I’d throw my arms around her and ask my favorite question. What did you cook for me? Your cinnamon rolls are sitting nicely at the oven. Your veggies and guinataang tilapia are ready. I feel blessed. God is good to me. He gives me a sister who never leaves me hungry and makes all my gastronomic wishes come true.

I have ventured into cooking myself. With a history book on one hand and a spatula on the other, I’m sure we can make baking and cooking an interesting subject. I don’t view cooking as a chore. It’s always an art and it should go beyond traditional. The extra oomph that goes with it matters a lot. Put a little more love and I’m sure it would always taste good.

Oh,by the way. I remember it now. Innards. That’s what they call it. Dad’s infamous Isquando de la Cabornit is borne out of a pig’s entrails. It seems like it may not be much of a food but you got to taste it before you make your judgment. For us his children, the love that goes with it makes it special.

I don’t know about the rest but I have great respect for men who know how to cook and who are unabashed of that fact. Truth be told, I’m quite partial to those men who have talent in that department. It may not be mutually exclusive but I think they are more independent because they can take care of themselves.

What’s more? Men who cook are sexy. Period.

I am a Filipina

I am the wife and the virgin
I am the mother and the daughter
I am the arms of my mother
I am barren and my children are many
I am the married woman and the spinster
I am the woman who gives birth and she who never procreated
I am the consolation of the pain of birth
I am the wife and the husband
And it was my man who created me
I am the mother of my father
I am the sister of my husband
And he is my rejected son
Always respect me
For I am the shameful and the magnificent one……


- 3rd or 4th century B.C., from the Nag Hammadi documents


The poem is an excerpt from the Hymn to Isis. Isis is a prominent goddess in Egyptian mythology. A goddess of rebirth, she remains to be one of the most known images of utter femininity and empowered women. Every inch a woman. Isis embodies the strengths of the feminine, the capacity to feel deeply about relationships, the act of creation, and the source of sustenance and protection.

Beautiful. This was the first thought that came to my mind after reading the Hymn to Isis. Zoe gave the poem to me. Zoe is a friend whose passion for literary works and historical imaginations has given her a special place in my heart. Despite of the thousand miles that separate us, we never fail to keep in touch with each other. With the passage of time our friendship grows like the flower that blooms in the garden. Reminding ourselves that we must continuously live for others to show that life is beautiful despite of everything.

For Joyce, for being a woman like me. Short but meaningful, those simple words of dedication from her made me realize that this friend of mine has come a long way from her journey in life. No longer the uncertain and almost clueless girl that I met during my first year in college, she has emerged from her cocoon like a butterfly in a metamorphosis. I have known her story and I know life hasn't been easy for her. She has earned my admiration not only because she is a good friend but more importantly because she is an example of the few women I know who always stand tall with their head high in times of adversities in life. Never losing the courage and faith in their self and to the Man above.

Well-endowed and beautiful in her long curly hair, she exhibits a picture of femininity that has long earned admiring stares from men. Gentle in character yet she speaks with that great conviction about things that truly matters to her. Family, society and life in general. She has her own mind about almost everything under the sun. She married early but she confessed to have never regretted this decision. She has chosen a different path from us when she decided to marry her knight and forego the chance to be a career woman. When the rest of us are busy pursuing our master's degree and PhD, she is also busy pursuing a different kind of graduate studies, only this time with diapers, teething problems and marital blues. Despite of these things,however, she continues to believe in the beauty of her dreams. After all these years, she has not given up the idea of writing her ideas down and have them published. Tom, her husband, has been supportive all the time. She would often mused that to me. And in times like these I would always smile and just be completely happy for my friend. I guess, she has found her place under the sun.

Women have always held places of honor in ancient history. We have goddesses that personify the attributes of beauty, intelligence and courage. In the days when history was recounted around the family fires, people worshiped a supreme female creator. Beginning with the Neolithic period around 7000 b.c., women, revered as wise, valiant, powerful, just, and immortal, were honored.

They were called by many names, including the Great Goddess, Divine Ancestress, Mother Goddess, Creatress of Life, Mistress of Heaven, Our Lady, and High Priestess.

The female's ability to produce a child made her the object of the male's worship; women were the magical birth-givers and breast-feeders who nurtured the young. These words from Sandra Fold Walston's "Courage: Heart and Spirit of Every Woman", illustrates how some of us today have forgotten the beautiful gift of giving life. Not every woman can actually say that she has the privilege to experience both the pain and joy of giving birth. It is always an honor for a woman to be a mother. I think it is one of the most wonderful personifications of femininity. Zoe and all the women like her have shown that to me.

With a radiant smile on her face, she would always say that being married to a wonderful man and having kids are one of her greatest achievements in life. Now, how many women could actually say that? Because of this she has earned my utmost respect. Maybe she has chosen a different path from mine. But her faith in herself and the way she stands firm with her decisions in life are traits that makes her as a a woman of substance. Zoe is married to an Austrian and this simple fact often becomes the source of discrimination against her. She has often been accused of marrying her husband as a ticket out of poverty. Simply absurd if you ask me. She belongs to a prominent family and is a graduate of a well-respected university in the country. There are people who think (foreigners and sadly yes, Filipinos, too) that Filipino women who are married to foreigners are gold diggers. If I may say, some of us are just ignorant fools.

In the eyes of other people,Zoe is maybe an ordinary housewife. But she’s the best mom any child could wish for and the best wife a man could ever have. I am not saying this because I’m her friend. But her loyalty and devotion to her family is simply amazing. In everything she do, she do it with much love and affection. A fact that brings into mind the importance of family in the Philippine culture. Many women have decided to give up their careers and invest their time and energies in rearing their families. If that is their choice, who are we to question it? If we are proud of those women who made a name for themselves in fields dominated by males, why can't we be equally proud for those who have chosen a different path? I come from the opposite pole but I have never looked down on women who have opted to travel the road to motherhood and exchange their wonderful careers for it.

Sometimes some of us think that a woman could only be successful if she makes a name for herself in areas where men have dominated. Truth be told, yes, this maybe the trend. But there are other ways to show them that we are NOT just sugar and spice and everything nice.

Behind every great woman is herself. In many ways, the phrase captures the essence of being a woman in the Philippine society. At times, it is tough to go against the glass ceilings and having to deal with the multiple burdens. However, I have met quite a number of our own empowered women who were never afraid to go against the grain. Physically, emotionally and spiritually beautiful. Witty. Wise. Empowered. Because of them, I have always been proud to say I am a Filipina. . With all the Filipina mail order brides and porn sites in the internet, I still stand firm to my belief that our women are not just easy on the eyes. We have real brains and character to reckon with. It's not enough for us to say that we are proud to be Pinays. We should act on it. We should walk the talk. Those words become meaningless if other people cannot find something noteworthy about us.

This is not something new. Filipino women are regarded with respect as our history would tell us. Our pre-colonial social structure gave equal importance to maternal and paternal lineage. This bilateral kinship system accorded our women enormous power. Egalitarian relationship existed between the native Filipino men and women. Male and female offspring were both regarded as an important part of the family. Women had an honored position in the society which had been disregarded with the coming of the colonizers.

Like the woman that Isis portrays, women's multiple roles in the society are reflections of their resiliency and flexibility in the face of adversities as well as their power to breathe life and color in this earth. It’s not basically the question of who welds power over whom or who is the stronger sex or what have you. In the end, it all boils down to the concept of making choices that truly empowers an individual. A conscious choice that brings out the best in us and makes us a nation of people who are proud of our women and our culture.

I am a Filipina and I’m proud of it.

Habagat, Bulan, Amihan: What’s in A Name?

Amihan. Habagat. I don’t know why I like these names so much. Maybe because I am a historian and an artist by heart. Or maybe because I am truly proud to be a Filipino. Before, I told my friends that someday I would name my daughter Merry Ligaya Joy. And her nickname would be “Happy”. I tend to view life with that positive outlook. We only live once, so we better make the most out of it. Isn’t it cute? MERRY LIGAYA JOY. I bet she will never get the feeling that I have forsaken her. Okay. Don’t give me that look. I am joking.

What’s in a name? A lot, I guess. Kidlat. Daguob. Makisig. Amihan. Habagat. Nobody would say it’s of western influence. My name is undeniably of Western origin. Until now, I never get to ask my parents about this. There are a lot of women in this world named Joyce. Not to mention that my name is too long. Maybe when I was in Grade I, I must have missed the first questions in my exams because I have to write my complete name. Once, while surfing the net, I come across an article about a woman who was a victim of a heinous crime. Exactly. You’re right. Quite different but the spellings are exactly the same. Heaven forbids.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not writing this because I am not satisfied with my name. My parents gave it to me with good intentions. Otherwise they could have given me the name, “Kutimoy” because I am a premature baby. However, there are times when I wished that some of us should think twice before we christen our children with names that sounded like a curse from nowhere.

I wanted something that is unique. Something different. Something exotic. Not ordinary. So I wrack my brain for a good one. That’s how it all started. Amihan and Habagat were born while listening to the radio about the weather one evening. Amihan for a daughter and Habagat for a son. Bagani. Bagwis. Magayon. Lin-ay. Bulan. Bituin. Bulak. The list goes on and on. And why not? I have always been proud to be a Filipino. I wear it like a crown. In fact, I wear it like no other.

I wanted my children to learn the tales of Mariang Makiling, Pedro Penduko and the likes. Before they read Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys or Jane Austen, they must learn to appreciate Ibong Adarna, Florante at Laura, Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo. They must learn to hum and eventually sing the songs of the EDSA Revolution. Explore Philippines and Asia before they decide to take a vacation somewhere in Europe or the United States.

Serve their country. Enjoy and appreciate their own culture.

A friend laughed when I told her about this. I know there is nothing funny about the names. As a historian, I truly believe that giving such a Filipino sounding name is the way to go. I advocate it. There is nothing wrong with it. In the future, if I name my son Kidlat and my daughter Ma-anyag, so what? Being agile and beautiful are wonderful qualities. But just don’t overdo it. A friend of mine suggested names such as Talahib, Kulunaknit, Pagong, Palito, Tabatsoy, Budyawi and Bangenge. You don’t want your children to curse you, don’t you? Fine. They sound truly Filipino. However, envision your children’s future 10 to 15 years from now. They will be the butt of jokes somehow among their classmates. And certainly you don’t want your children to live up to such names.

Don’t name them Mamon, Kapog or Monay simply because you love to eat these foods. Or much worst name your child Pancit, Hototay or Batchoy because it smells and sounds so good. Maybe I am exaggerating. But I am truly honest when I tell you that I know somebody named as “Kapog”. The poor girl has to live with the name for the rest of her life.

I must also admit. I have my own secret to reveal. No. I was not named as Soup Number Five or Dinuguan, some of my parents’ favorite foods. Rather I was given the nickname of “Agok”. I am a sickly child before. I suffered from bouts of asthma attacks. Until now, sometimes I still do. Sisigok-sigok. That was how it all started. In the end, “Agok” was born. It might sound cute for someone who doesn’t have a single idea about it. But I’m telling you. Don’t you dare call me by that name. I am kind to animals. But in times like these, well, I think it pays to know a little about karate. Now here’s the tricky part. What if your partner doesn’t agree with you? Simple. Merry Ligaya Joy or Amihan? Choose the latter. Take it or leave it.

So, what’s in a name? A lot. Choose carefully. Think not just once. Not twice. But a number of times before you decide. The stakes are high. Eventually you’ll learn that your children will be thankful that you have chosen the right names for them.

Wanted: Pambansang Bayani ng Pilipinas

Little acts of heroism in our time is often ridiculed as outmoded. Often we assume we are too young or too old to become heroes

.

Profound 'di ba? This is a quotation I have read six years ago sa aming paper. Medyo matagal na rin yun pero hindi pa rin mapagkit sa aking isipan hanggang ngayon. Naaalala ko 'to sa tuwing nakikita ko ang mga pagpupugay at pagbibigay galang ng ating mga Presidente tuwing araw ng mga bayani. Nakakalungkot isipin na parang wala nang halaga ang mga okasyong ito para sa isang ordinaryong Pilipino. Oo nga nman di ba? How can you think of these celebrations kung wala ka ngang pagkain na mailagay sa hapag-kainan mo, walang damit, hindi makapag-aral at walang trabaho. Mataas na ang presyo ng mga bilihin ngayon. Wala na yatang libre. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Lahat may kaakibat na presyo.

Iisipin mo pa ba si Rizal o si Bonifacio na baka magtampo kasi hindi mo naalala ang kaarawan o kamatayan nila? Syempre hindi. Siguro maintindihan ng ating mga bayani kung bakit sa bawat taong pagbibigay pugay, ilan sa mga mamamayang Pilipino ay hindi makaalala sa kanila, abala sa paghahanap buhay para may maipakain at maitaguyod ang kinabukasan ng sariling pamilya. Wala namang masama dun eh. We are living in a society which is family-oriented. Pero minsan, tuluyan na nga talaga tayong nakalimot sa mga bagay na may koneksyon sa ating nakaraan. Sabi pa ng bestpren ko, nagka-Alzheimer's disease na yata ang ilan sa atin. Gayunpaman, sabihin man ng ibang tao na walang kwenta pang pag-usapan ang mga nakarran, na wag na natin pang buhayin ang mga patay, let them rest 'ika nga. Baka kasi tuluyan nang bumangon si Joe at Bonnie nito pag nagkataon. Naniniwala pa rin akong marami tayong makukuhang mahahalagang aral sa ating kasaysayan.

Sino si Rizal? Sino si Bonifacio? May katuturan pa ba ang mga taong ito para sa isang karaniwang Pilipino? Ni hindi nga alam ng ilan sa atin kung sino nga ba talaga si Bonifacio at Rizal. Ang masaklap pa nito, lagi nating inihahambing ang dalawa. Uso pa ba sila? Tama na! Sobra na! Ito ang sigaw ng utak mo. Isipin mo na lang ha? Mula grade one yata hanggang kolehiyo magkasama kayo nina Rizal at Bonifacio sa paaralan. Sukang-suka ka na sa kwento ng buhay nila. Tapos si Maam, ang lupit!!! Walang awa kung gumawa ng exam, dapat i-memorize mo lahat, kulang na lang yata pati kulay ng paboritong brief ni Rizal itatanong pa sayo. Tuloy nung graduation, naipangako mo sa iyong sarili na putulin na ang ugnayan mo sa kanilang dalawa. Tama na yung minsang nasaktan ka. Buong gabi mong tinutukan yung RA 1425, tapos itlog lang pala yung magiging score mo sa exam. Masakit di ba? Ngunit ngayon, pagkalipas ng maraming taon, heto ka't nagbabasa tungkol sa kanila. Ang buhay nga naman ano?

Sino ba si Rizal? Sino ba si Bonifacio? Bayani ba kamo? Sinong bayani ha? Bayani Agbayani? Bayani Fernando? Fernando Poe? Aaaahhhh!!! Hindi mo na maalala ano? Sige, tumingin ka sa iyong paligid. Nakikita mo ba ang lalakeng nakasuot ng camisa de chino, may dalang itak na animo'y laging handa para makipaglaban? "Sugod mga kapatid!" Mga katagang hindi mo malilimutan habang ika'y nakatingin sa bantayog ni Ka Andres. Ito ang ating pangkaraniwang paglalarawan sa kanya.Stereotype image. Ngunit teka muna, nausubukan mo na bang itanong sa iyong titser noon na kung pagbibigyan ng pagkakataon, ano kaya ang gustong sandata ni Bonifacio, itak ba o baril? Ang walang kamatayang itak laban sa baril.... HIndi ka si Pilosopo Tasyo ngunit marahil alam mo ang sagot dito.


Pag-isipan mong mabuti, paano kung isang araw sa iyong paglalakad nakita mo si Bonifacio, ang tangan niya'y baril at hindi itak, makisig sa suot na barong tagalog at nakapantalon, suot ay sapatos? Tingnan mo ang monumentong ginawa ni Guillermo Tolentino, ang taong naglilok at humubog kay Oble, naiiba hindi ba? Makisig sa suot na barong tagalog, sa kaliwang kamay ay isang revolver at sa kanan nman ay isang itak. Hindi ko nga lang alam kung alin sa Mausser at Remington ang pipiliin niya. Marahil marami pa tayong hindi alam sa buhay ng ating mga bayani. Masyadong mataas ang tingin natin sa kanila, na talaga namang karapat-dapat ngunit wag sana nating kalimutan na sila'y tao rin. May mga pagkakataong mainit ang ulo, kumakain ng tuyo at sardinas( isa sa mga paborito ni Rizal), marunong tumawa, nagkakaroon ng utang, naglalasing, nagmamahal at nasasawi rin sa pag-ibig. Mga karaniwang tao ngunit sa kabila ng lahat ng kanilang mga pagkukulang, pagkakamali at kapintasan, natutong bumangon at nakita ang paghihirap ng bayan.

Ngayon, bilang isang Pilipino sana maisip natin na sa kabila ng pagiging karaniwang tao, tayo ay may kakayahan na maging bayani sa ating munting paraan.

Bread and Roses: Women Hold up Half the Sky

And I tell you, feminists do fall in-love……These words make me smile. There is something about it that captures my attention. It goes to say that in some ways I do belong to one of those untraditional women as what other people calls us. Why are we untraditional? Is it because we don’t fit the institutional stereotypes of women in the society? When a girl reaches the age of twenty something, people tend to ask the question when does she intend to marry, as if this is the only thing she wanted to do with her life. I don’t know why each time they ask this, I feel the urge to give a bombastic lecture. In times like this, I am always prepared to go into war. The animal instinct in me is awakened and I am tempted to practice my Pedro Penduko moves. I have to restrain myself and practice great patience. They don’t have the license to question my choices. I am still young and that I have a lot of things to do first. Time and again I always make it clear that I have nothing against the idea of marriage. It is sacred for me. I grew up in an environment where the concept of marriage and family are important. This is the reason why I just don’t want to make haste and plunge myself headfirst into marrying just about anybody who comes into my way. I'm maybe idealistic in some ways but I want to grow old graciously with the person that I intend to marry.

I want to enrich myself. Enjoy life. Learn new things. Study. Savor the beauty of nature. Paint my world in a kaleidoscope of dreams.

After all life is full of choices, it is not meant to be boring. If you choose to be different with the rest of the females out there, it’s a conscious choice. It is our choice.

I have read it somewhere that one should look the world straight in the eye. The challenge is to be yourself in a world that is trying to make you like everyone else. I agree.

I am not alone. A number of significant persons in my life share the same sentiments with me. My nanay is one of them. She is a perfect epitome of a woman full of strength and wisdom. Having been widowed at a young age, she struggled and successfully managed to send us all to school. I know that life for her was not that easy but she made it through the rain. I have to say that she is my living inspiration. Forgive me if I am biased but I think she is the best mother in the world.

March is a woman’s month. And there is nothing more fitting than to pay tribute and honor to the women in our lives. In the process of remembering and honoring our women, I would like also to express my appreciation to some of the other half of the population in this world. Sometimes they are referred to as “New Age men”. These are the men in our lives who shower us with love and affection, promote our advancement and never afraid to encourage us to reach our fullest potentials. They support our yearnings to explore the world and the endless opportunities it offers. They go by different names; father, husband, brother, son, boyfriend or simply a friend. I have known and met a number of men who fit this definition. I honestly love and admire them. They are in touch with their feminine side. Unconventional males. According to Julia Wood, a leading gender communication scholar, these are male feminists who think that in restricting men’s ability to understand and experience feelings , society has robbed them of an important aspect of what it means to be human. These are people who encourage men to get in touch with their feelings and to be more sensitive, caring and able to engage in meaningful close relationships.

Come to think of it, if all of my male friends are like them I don’t think I would have to go through lengthy explanations why we women spend much time to bond and talk about our feelings and emotions. Why we couldn’t just relax and hang out together like guys do. Why is there a need for us to do intense talking all the time. Why do we need to talk and pour our emotions. Unafraid of being transparent. Open and trusting without being naïve. We are realists. If we’re in-love, then we’re in-love. If we’re heartbroken, then we acknowledge the pain. If it hurts, it hurts. We are never afraid to acknowledge it. All it takes is a cup of coffee, a bar of chocolate and a good friend who cares to listen. Okey. Maybe we can add a box of tissue for a dramatic flair. And if that doesn’t help, a friend suggested that maybe a drink or two will do. The mere fact that you’re there, it’s already enough. We talk about it and after the storm, we move on. If we fell in-love and end up being hurt, so be it. It’s not easy to be heartbroken. It hurts like no other. Cry if you must. Shout if it helps to release the pain. But letting yourself bleed to death is another thing. Remember, according to Albert Schweitzer,

the tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.

When problems loom before us, what do we choose? Fight or flight? Choose the former and if you fail still, just think that sometimes we just have to learn some lessons in life the hard way. But life must go on. It doesn’t stop there.

Through the years, I have met inspiring women who make me feel that being a girl and a woman are one of the best things in life. My bestfriends, Nova, Wani, Heidee and my very own sister, Pearl. They are the likes of Gabriela Silang, Aung San Suu Kyi, Jane Godall and Oprah Winfrey, only younger. They are women of substance. Gentle in spirit but tough when the occasion calls for it. Beautiful inside-out and definitely successful in their chosen fields. Indeed, times have changed Some women have been stereotyped as an iron maiden. Does it follow that to be unfeminine means to be independent, competitive and tough? I don’t think so. Can’t a woman be beautiful and intelligent at the same time? Gentle yet tough at the same time? Women are perfect examples of grace under pressure. We are humans. Fully functional. We are rational beings and yes, I tell you, feminists do fall in love. Truly….madly…deeply…Believe me.

As we celebrate the International Women’s Month, let us make a difference. Stand up and be heard. Let them hear our voice. Ours is a continuing advocacy.

The ride ahead is still bumpy. Addressing the issues about the advancement of women and womancipation is still sorely lacking in other countries around the world. A lot is needed to be done. But hope springs well. I must agree and admit however that it is much easier to be a woman today. It’s the best time ever to be female, because we can have it all. We have real choices. We can be successful, have a good job, a family and at the same time enrich our lives in ways that celebrates the woman in us. This is not just an affirmation rather this is a reaffirmation of the significance of the persons who hold up half the sky. Breadwinners and fighters. These are stereotypes usually associated with men but today, it’s not an uncommon thing to hear these familiar words being attributed to women. I couldn’t agree more with Mao Tse Tung when he said that women hold up half the sky.

Each woman goes through the process of either being a friend, sister, daughter or a mother. No matter what category you fit into, celebrate the woman in you. Live. Love. Laugh. God has given us the ability to do certain things well. It is never too late to learn new things. Do something that makes you happy. Engage in volunteer works. Fall in-love. Have fun. Be funny. Be weird. Be who you wanted to be. Stand tall. Be heard. You are God’s masterpiece. Be proud, sister. The world is yours for the taking.

Happy International Woman’s Month.