THE TRUTH

[March 1, 2013]

Prepare for the worse, or, expect the unexpected, as an old cliché goes, because you’re gonna find yourself in some trap unknowingly get caught. Like being caught in camera spearheading a Chinese Dragon parade in the city quite recently, when all you did was walk passed by it only but someone took your pic for mistaking you as Coco Martin or any other matinee idol on TV.

Like last Wednesday.

For the very first time in my entire life in this province and in Iloilo City, I was surprised when being suddenly called to take the trial court’s witness stand which is a seat actually. And this is my unsolicited “legal” advice to the people of the Philippines, legal and illegal aliens including, settle your conflict swiftly, do not dare to sue or be sued in this beloved country called Land of the Morning.

It’s because regardless whether you’re a complainant or defendant in the offing you’ll have your day in court where both lawyers would come hard on you, pouncing. I was thankful neither from both parties did get the services of one of the most dreaded courtroom brawlers-cum-counsel. The kind of interrogator deadly than the friars during the Inquisition who wouldn’t care if his questions are immaterial and irrelevant so long as he wants witnesses to grill.

Of course, it’s our civic duty to appear in court any time of day once it needs our testimony, but sometimes you wish soon comes the time when all courts in this country don’t need to subpoena anymore but just browse at anyone’s FB. There, they’d see all kinds of facts and all any other information available, including your entire “crushes” and “loves” in life that are now, like you, no longer available.

Further, the worst thing in taking the stand is that your principle would compromise or differ, especially when you grew up saying only the words that are kinder since in court you’d be compelled to swear. When I was asked if I’d swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and “I swear” went my reply, I was tempted to add the words in familiar tune, “by the moon and the stars in the sky.”

But I had no second thought in scrapping the plan immediately, knowing that I “canst make one hair white or black” (Matthew 5:36) in deference to the preaching of the Man from Galilee.

I did also entertain the idea of literally abiding to the letter by what I’d been sworn into, i.e., to absolutely tell nothing but the truth. Yet, do you think you wouldn’t be locked up in jail if you’re asked to state your name and you say, “Truth,” age, “Truth,” and civil status, “Truth”?

I’m happy although I escaped not unscathed and barely survived that incident of no-holds-barred question and answer. I knew I would, for I just did my job without malice, favor and fear, and have always this cold neutrality of an impartial ice plant worker.

Now, since I’ve already had my baptism of fire as far as court grilling is concerned, the only hearing left and the one I fear the most is on Judgment Day, where I won’t need to swear in for truth anymore because all incontrovertible evidence will be laid down right there before me, for everyone else to see.

NAMING NAMES

[February 28, 2014]

Some things—like reputation and identity as well—never change. Even the likes of Miagao PUJ veteran driver, the ageless Mansing.

Last Wednesday, I got the chance to get a ride in his jeepney again early in the morning, and though I never saw his face at first, there was no doubt it was Mansing, judging from the engine’s roaring. Name it, he had it, fast motorcycles, similar PUJ’s, Ceres bus, SUV’s, taxi, van and Volkswagen, in that same instance, Mansing had them all easily overtaken.

In local parlance, they would describe him unanimously as, “daw wa-râ ti atáy.” No wonder in that morning, despite waking up late, I’d still catch work on time. His fine maneuvering in curves and smooth sailing at top speed made me wonder hard why his nickname is “Haló,” Kinaray-a for monitor lizard. In native vocabulary, “halo” connotes stupid, dim-wit or mental retard, yet, if I’d rate Mansing’s driving from one to ten, he’d get eleven, thus that means he’s exceptionally smart. Nevertheless, whether Mansing likes it or not, to him his nickname would be endlessly stuck.

It’s like the case of another city-loop Lapaz-Iloilo PUJ driver who, just a few years ago, despite his being already an octogenarian ‘Lolo,’ was still active in “byahe” or “pasada” but of course he’d run his jeepney practically in slo-mo, which made him earn that sluggish moniker “Ba-ó.” “Ba-ó,” which in local tongue literally means turtle, would drive too slow, hence, students who’d love to catch classes right on time waved their hands when the old man’s jeepney was coming, signifying a “No!”

His much advanced age made him above the law of traffic in the city as he was just ignored by a police auxiliary, who ignored the more his vintage jeepney that reeked with rusty smell (“amoy kalawang”), including its seats’ foamless upholstery. I didn’t see “Ba-ó” around I think for at least a couple of years already, therefore I could only assume he’s now “amoy-lupa” literally and finally.

If I’m wrong I hope you would not blame me as it’s the only logical reason I could think of despite knowing that assumption is the mother of all stupidity. It’s because I presume too that in the court of law anywhere in the country, logic and practicality, when absent of any malice, enjoy this privilege rule called a presumption of regularity.

We are defined by our pet names or nicknames most of the time according to our ability or personality. Some, however, are given a name opposite exactly to what they are just in the name of sublime irony. Great nicknames are given to great personalities like a sportsman, a popular figure and a gentleman debonair. Michael Jordan’s nomenclature did glare because according to Magic Johnson himself, everything Magic did on the ground Michael would do it in the air.

Even the Lord Jesus, because of His greatness, long before His birth, had been given by the prophet Isaiah some several sobriquets: “[A]nd his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6).

So that to be saved, in His name we must believe (Acts 4:12).

THE REJECTION

[February 28, 2012 at 12:31pm]

The prosecution’s request to the impeachment court for the issuance of subpoena for a Supreme Court justice, regardless of the argument’s purposes, was expectedly rejected. With the likes of then graft-and-corruption-hater Miriam The Fire-eater and “Pag Bad Ka, Lagot Ka” preacher, The Joker, at the frontline, you would feel dejected.

A feeling of rejection is the most hurting sort a heart could’ve ever known. The one with the most excruciating pain at that, its experience could haunt you for life like a cat does the rat. 

Ask former Speaker Jose De Venecia, who was rejected by the voters and whom Erap trampled in the 1998 polls. After that moment of truth, JDV was never the same again, he lost big time and was taken for fools.

Ask Gloria, whose endorsees in the last elections were rejected too by the fed up Filipinos. Most of her allies then, for a long time, as well as her perceived friends, are now officially her foes. Nothing’s full of shame and horrifying in life than experiencing the throne and be jailed for life.

Ask yours truly, whose purest love offered was resoundingly rejected by the same woman not once but twice. And such rejection nearly shattered my belief that women are a spice and everything nice.

Or better yet, ask Christ, whose love, life and blood He offered for free to everyone who believes, are immediately rejected by unrepentant sinners as well as His own nation and race.

A feeling of rejection. Who on Earth had not experienced it even once in his/her lifetime? Everybody, my friend, from the greasy workmen who cry and whine to the kings and princes who dine and wine.

Even the world’s most well-loved superspy was not spared of such feeling of rejection. One time at a party, he confidently approached a beautiful woman with full affection.

He let out first his killer smile and waved his glass of martini, stirred not shaken, to begin his signature familiar introductory:

Superspy: “Bond. James Bond.”

Woman: “Lost. Get lost.”

THE MOTHER

[February 28, 2013 at 5:10pm]

This is all about women, again. And their great love and pain.

While I was in one of my dull flying moments one time, I remembered my Nanay. I asked myself what kind of real comfort I should give her in return for her long years of emotional and physical hard work and sacrifice.

As I gazed at the clouds hovering down under from where I was while my window stayed ajar, and since the destination of an iron eagle carrying my full weight was still exceedingly far, I couldn’t help it but get curious about the coming Rapture which the believers are hoping for before the Last and Final War, while at the same time fearfully anxious knowing that He Who’s to come is far greater than any Hollywood star.

Maybe a lot of people are still taking this coming mother of all phenomena as another parable which any interpretation thereof by any self-proclaimed prophet would be fairly acceptable. Well, as Ma’am Chung loves to say, “Sige, pagbigyan.” But one thing’s for sure, anytime it will come!

And that grieving mother of five “only,” who lost all her sons who fought the 'war' fairly, would be then given comfort long due her, along with those who suffered and died for the Kingdom since its foundation, finally.

I’m not referring to the Ryan Family which heart-rending story about it during the Second World War was magnificently presented by my favorite Steven Spielberg in his best war movie, for me, so far. Although like ‘Lincoln’ this year, in that year too, “Saving Private Ryan” closely lost the war, as it failed to take home that most coveted Best Picture Oscar.

In that story, the reaction of the Ryans’ mom was not shown quite up close but captured only from afar and through her silhouette, yet, the grief was more than just depicted seeing her fainting immediately upon each receipt of news of each son’s death.

In real life, it happened likewise then to a certain Mrs. Bixby, mother of that five to whom Lincoln sent a compassionate letter, wherein any reader could feel her anguish through the President’s words which also show that Abe was also a great comforter.

But the most moving story I ever heard about a mother which never fails to shake my spirit everytime I remember it is that of the mother who loved to send her sons as missionaries to spread the Gospel somewhere in one of the world’s most dangerous continent, more deadly than a snake pit.

She was a very faithful and strong Christian that despite the death of her first two sons in the mission field she never shed a tear, knowing what would be her children’s ultimate end in the life hereafter.

When the news came out about her third son’s demise in the same field, for many days, she was inconsolable as she wailed no end. Her reply when asked by someone why it was only now that she cried when she didn’t do the same for the third son’s late brethren: “Because I have no more children left to send.”

THE RIGHT MELODY

[February 23, 2012 at 1:39pm]

My heart wailed with the father of that recent hazing victim who initially presumed perhaps he’d have a bright life with his chosen fraternity to join in. But the father thought it all wrong ‘coz it turned out what his son had gotten was great sorrow for his entire family and loved ones, as well as his friends.

If you’re a father, you could easily identify the pain and the torture within. Since the beginning of time, it’s a father’s nightmare to bury his children.

However, If you’ve yet to enter in any fraternity since birth I know you couldn’t fully fathom the reasons behind the intention of another individual for such organization. There are a million reasons but one common is to establish another identity especially if one is living a life bereft of challenges as if he exists like a virtual unknown.

I tell ya, I know it. It’s because I knew it.

I was a naïve first-time enrollee in San Ag who just walked, wrote and listened my way to and from school and barely talked inside the campus and the classroom. Not here nor there, as they say, for I found out it ain’t easy indeed to gain stable emotional condition and folks of different strokes gave me more confusion.

And one day, a silent but friendly classmate approached me and broke it to me gently. His convincing power easily attracted my consenting power to try joining in his fraternity. Due to which I met someone with an unforgettable name in my annals about women history.  It was a resounding name because it would always be like a song:  it was simply Melody.

I met unchained Melody along the campus’ avenue where our fraternity and sorority group met frequently. I was still under ‘initiation’ period then when I was asked by one of the “masters” to kiss the cheek of an approaching young lady. I nearly pissed my pants when she passed us by but fear of the “master” prevailed over my fear of such innocent beauty.

What followed was a scene like culled from a rom-com movie: I ran after her till I overtook her in the portion heading to the exit gate. I blocked her path, vowed my head, my both hands on my back waist.

After a couple of “ahems,” I began my soft rendition of the first few lines of the Beatles song: “Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something, I think you’ll understand, When I say that something I want to hold your hand.” And I was more surprised when she sang the chorus in a higher octave, “I wanna hold your hand, I wanna hold your hand.”

We laughed more surprisingly as we finished the song in duet and in more romantic manner thereafter, I plead my cause and my main purpose. She hesitated at first but when I explained to her that on that moment my life depended on her, she begrudgingly obliged and did no more oppose.

And the rest is history, of a soft and gentle kiss on a softer cheek of a gentler lady. Despite those months of searing pain from hematoma of bloated limbs caused by forceful paddling, there is something I am eminently grateful to the prestigious fraternity that yesterday I had chosen.

Tears slowly flowed down from my nose and eyes as I tremblingly sang Alice Cooper’s “I Never Cry.”  Just to keep myself sane, I reminded myself that I was a “Seeker of the Right,” the frat’s battle cry.  Yeah, and merely a couple of years after that incident, I finally saw that proverbial “Road to Damascus.” It was where the real happiness, joy and satisfaction lead to, because it was trodden by the righteous.

LOST IN TRANSLATION

[February 24, 2012 at 3:16pm]

Language is a living thing. As life goes on it does grow and change. Who knows, the word “hate” today could be meant “love” tomorrow, which could also transform into “bitter bliss” something considered “sweet sorrow.”

Just like how they call persons who are totally cloth-less “naked,” while chickens which are absolutely featherless are universally acknowledged “dressed.”

We read in the Bible history that discord and disunity caused misunderstanding among men after the fall and destruction of the Babel Tower. That moment was the birth of all languages in this world, Filipino or Tagalog included, whether you’ll dissent or concur.

The tower of Babel was a manifestation of one of the human race’s worst characteristics: dissatisfaction. It breeds greed and more hunger riches and power that’d compel men to commit mayhem and murder in wild abandon.

Mastery of languages could take us anywhere, from Aparri to Jolo, New York and California. Look at the linguistic Dr. Jose P. Rizal, he’d gone from Calamba to España and all Europe to Luneta. When I first read his “Mi Ultimo Adios” in college in my first year, I had then that burning desire to visit Spain to become a suicide bomber.

Is English honestly accepted as the international language eversince? Then how do we consider Chinese given that language omnipresence?

There was a time recently when I doubted English to be the international tongue. I was then waiting for a Cavite-bound bus across the church in Baclaran.

Suddenly, there was this Chinese mestizo, a Jeremy Lin look-alike, carrying a heavy backpack, who remorsefully apologized to me as he passed by after he stepped on my Nike.

I could sense genuine contrition on his face as he murmured something unintelligible to me but I heard the word “sowi.” I smiled in amusement as my thumb was waving before him as I declared, “No problemo, it’s alright, it’s okay.

He was speaking in tongues again as he bombarded me another litany with only the words “how” and “eh-poot” fully registered in my ears. I presumed he meant “airport” so I replied “bohd a cah, a taxi, tell drivah you go to eh-poot” in Bostonian accent after my English failed to converse.

But my efforts still proved futile as I saw further wonderment on his face as he pointed to his bloated backpack and repeatedly said, “Noo, eh-poot, noo.” Frustrated, I spontaneously answered, “Paparaha taxi kag kun-a dul-ong na kaw sa Naia, bayad lang kaw sakto kag indi sagad reklamo.”

To my surprise, he vowed his head twice, let out a sweeter smile, and said, “Ahh, okee, okee, tang you, tang you,” and flagged down a taxi marked “Pasada.” Ahh, sooner or later, the world will embrace the true international language, and it’s gonna be my dearly beloved native tongue: the one and only “Kinaray-a.”

SURPRISE

[February 24, 2014]

“… [F]or there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known” (Matthew 10:26).

Judging from the surprising and sterling performance by the young Christian Michael Martinez in Sochi Winter Olympics, I’d say, given enough funding, training and other resources, our country has a bright future too in an ice contest. And one event that surprisingly caught my choosy attention, although only in passing, was this first time I’ve seen, the very interesting and so amusing sport called Curling.

I think long before Olympic organizers came up with this bright idea of a game that looks like street sweeping revolutionized and did upgrade, we’ve already an abundant supply of potential talent, pure Philippine-made, in Metro Manila alone, i.e. in the person of a metro aide.

If metro aides could sweep everything from Pasay Rotunda to Monumento in so short a time, why not a mere Olympic arena of ice with no presence therein of any grain of dust a cloud of which in EDSA shines?

And how do we start training those metro aides? Well, first things first, while on duty let them wear roller blades. Don’t surprise them to go and train directly with ice skates, they would be discouraged, I tell you, I’ve had such similar experiences.

During its height of popularity in the early years of an ice rink in Megamall, a cousin surprised me with some complimentary ticket for the facility and all. As I presumed it to be right at first sight of then biggest SM’s dry ice, I was sure everything would be as easy as A-B-C despite not learning yet to use roller blades at the time. After they put the skates on my feet while I was beaming wide and told me the rink was now totally mine, I quickly took two steps with pride and ended up swimming on it like a tortoise so drunk with wine.

Without any help from others on the rink, I could not even make a stand and give others a wink. And I spent the next couple of hours hugging the railings as if they were long lost friends, and moving around on all fours while staring blank like an Egyptian Sphinx.

After that incident, I totally abandoned whatever love I have had for ice, well, except halo-halo. And I vowed a vow never to set foot in Russia and Antarctica or any other icy regions too. But lately, I was surprised such love has returned unintentionally because of Christian. And I did start dreaming again we’d get a medal, both in Summer and Winter Olympics, yes, the Filipino can.

We only have to totally renew our conventional and basic trust in every Filipino. Well, maybe except for politicians who are lying in wait, lurking around, and ready to pounce on you? Christian reached the stage he reached in Sochi without any help from a politician who loves to stage robbery on a treasury.

In truth and in fact too many ordinary Filipinos like a taxi driver and a janitor, and lately a waitress in Italy who brought to this country enormous pride and honor. They did so by returning the money or kind they found anywhere, because right at the very first moment they knew it wasn’t theirs. In direct contrast with a shameless politician, who rather destroys such honor, and our future, by raiding the ‘kaban ng bayan.’

And look how developments surprise everyone regarding the emergence of witnesses in big-time thieveries in the past. Truly, soon or late, our past sins would catch us up especially if we wouldn’t grieve and ask forgiveness from God. Since the beginning, life definitely always has full of surprises. Though we have to expect anytime for the worst, let’s hope for the best.

Like a story I read about a lying and dying old man who was asked by his children on what would he prefer, to be interred in a tomb or be cremated simply. He was so touched by this gesture that, fighting back tears, before his last breath, he just smiled and struggled to say, “It’s… up… to you, well… just… surprise me.”

BETTER NEVER THAN LATE?

[February 23, 2015 at 12:41pm]

In a democratic society in general, in a court of law of the human race, a word can surely make or break a case. In this country, on the court of basketball, Pinoy’s sports’ craze, a word could make a jaw break with ease.

Such is the case of PBA import Daniel Orton who, after he and his team were beaten to the pulp by Kia, played for and coached by Manny Pacquaio with a master stroke, displayed typical American arrogance during press interview and showed an attitude obviously a freedom-of-speech overdose, by calling Pacquiao the player the PBA’s big joke.

I have this strong gut feeling that immediately after the much awaited record-breaking bout between Manny and Money Mayweather on May Two, the people of the Philippines will be clamoring for a Pacquiao-Orton fight, win or lose over Flamboyant Floyd for the Filipino boxing hero.

Nevertheless, if we take seriously Daniel’s words per se, it seems the nigger has raised a valid point there, man, and I must completely agree. The way I see it as it is how on the court he would move and play, I found Pacquiao wanting in the league and for his 5’6” size he’s no extraordinary.

And to tell you further what I feel honestly, as I throw caution to the wind along with modesty, I assess even I could defend him so well one-on-one like I’m guarding a lamp post only. But let’s face it, the American import may be a persona non grata being a loudmouth who talks like a prating housemaid, but he was just telling the fact, man, like that child who told everyone the Emperor actually had no clothes and thus truly naked.

That’s the problem sometimes with our culture as they often said, because of someone’s status in society we hesitate to call a spade a spade. Like, just because they were then also some of today’s LP’s close friends with benefits, they can’t tell Peping and Norberto Gonzales to shut up as in them no more anyone believes.

Of course, like any other previous prez, P-Noy and his people created a mess, but in sum, its magnitude is merely a tiny fraction of what the previous administration’s gang did even after GMA left. So, let’s just wait for next year because P-Noy definitely will leave, do not listen to the “Resign” cry because since its inception in 1969 it’s the only word memorized by the so-called “Left.”

But I can’t blame the Left because it was their patriotic comrades who sacrificed the most, yet when the tables were turned after the first EDSA revolution they were left out in the cold. No wonder, at the slightest hint of any administration’s blunder and mess, they would always march and howl “Resign” as if it’s the road to happiness.

However, discerning citizens today are apparently unwilling to share that kind of happiness as if there’s someone or something they dread. As if they’re certain of that someone’s avarice and false promise the way a comedian was sure that a man doesn’t know what happiness is until he is married.

By then it’s too late. 

By then it’s too late.

AND HERE’S TO YOU, MS. S. ROBINSON

[February 21, 2013 at 10:41am]

One fine Valentine’s Day, I made a lot of money. Not enough for a house and lot though, but for a minimum wager, it was way above what stipulated by law. And for someone of my species plus of the task’s familiarity, the goal would be attainable even with my eyes closed, as they say.

The mission: to deliver in person a bouquet of red roses to a certain “Ms. S. Robinson.”

The sender was an incurable romantic former roommate who, whether he’d deny or admit it, was also a member of society of “dead” poets. At first, I did hesitate, thinking at this time and age, doing such thing would be found ridiculous by the general public. But as what in politics people have repeatedly proven, when money talks everybody would listen.

I carried the flowers so carefully, smelling them myself occasionally, on my way to the place of a banking system’s office. After some brief inquiries, I finally found my target, which, after accepting the bouquet and its card was read, slammed it quickly to a nearby waste basket.

I did freeze for a few minutes; it was not my first time to hand over the roses, but to witness right away having them go straight to the waste bin, somehow it affected my sensitivities. Good thing she just stared at me and never said a word, for I think I was already then in a fighting mood.

But it just went on briefly since the moment I set my eyes on her lovely face, I instantly understood why my friend insisted on resorting to that love’s old school tricks. Actually, I consented to his request too because I was fed up of hearing the topic about her almost the entire moment we’d had together. I analyzed he had a story about “Ms. S. Robinson” in every Earth’s corner, imagining her image in every little thing they used to share.

And I remember my own story in the past when I was visiting someone, having that loving feeling with roses, chocolates too, in both hands. Yet, I never had experienced, at least right in my front, of having my flowers done the way Michael Jordan did the ball when he would dunk.

When “Ms. S. Robinson” gathered her wit thereafter I think she became my sympathizer, as she quickly recognized the fact that I was so embarrassed, as personally, we didn’t know each other. And I just calmly said in jest after I managed to even smile at her, “Next time, Miss, since you don’t shoot a messenger, in his face, don’t also throw away his flowers.”

But I’m thankful I never had the same face to say this further to her seriously: “Besides, those flowers were not from him actually. They’re for you… from me.”

REST

[February 21, 2012 at 1:28pm]

I’m tired. So so tired. I could hardly tilt my head without having to move my shoulders first to the desired direction of the head. Like my heart, muscles are in pain, despite Omega’s help, the hurting remains.

The five-night starless trek to the land of the revolutionaries is now taking its toll. I could now understand their travails then and the why’s and wherefores of their passion for freedom in full.

With an eye in the sky and the clouds at shoulder level, you can’t help it but admit that life is fragile. You can do nothing but leave your life to the hands of the One who also holds the life of someone who holds the life of the proud and mighty iron eagle. As sure death awaits everyone who’s under the eagle’s belly if one system malfunctioned anywhere in the bird’s part and parcel.

Or what if as we fly the Supreme Judge repeals the law on aerodynamics to immediately enforce the law of gravity? People are powerless if God would impose His will on anything as there’ll be nothing of help or remedy.

And from there we’ll realize that all our striving for personal glory and honor will end up for nothing. As a life apart from Him would be a wasted life because of the fullness of its folly and sins. We strive to live for what, for fortune and fame, for men’s accolades, for temporary power by instilling in them great fear? We may acquire those things in our lifetime but we forget that the same would be around only for a season, my dear. 

And in our lonesome we’ll figure out everything in this world would be of no value and all our labor is in vain. All that we worked for ourselves will not be worth it and we kept the money for nothing. Then suddenly you feel tired and the pain all over your body. Ahh, the joys of our struggle for almost eternity. 

And as you lie in bed to ease your feeling, you heard the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love” and thought it would be a better soothing balm if not the best. But then you realize later the message conveyed by the Fab Four is wrong ‘coz after every endeavor, at the end of the day, you forget about everything, all you need is rest.

PAPY

[February 19, 2016]

“I thank my God upon every remembrance of you. . . .” (Philippians 1:3)

Among my so many acquaintances and personal friends, not quite a few had reviled us—jokingly or not, I was not sure then—right upon learning that I am called “Papy” by my children. Well, here’s its legend, it’s my personal tribute to and in lifetime remembrance of the venerable the late Jose G. Abdallah, one of government service’s “a few good men.”

Actually, to be frank about it, the modifier “good” is an absolute understatement. The man was far better than that, as he was one of the brightest and the excellent.

By far, his children Dr. J, who opted to use an Abdallah’s brain in medicine, and pretty boys Jet and Lipoy still remain the only ones in this life I heard calling their father “Papy,” no, not even in fiction until today. My first-born Caleb was just starting with words when Judge Abdallah passed away, thenceforth, with carrot and stick with me, I made sure that “Papy” would be one of the sweetest words he would first pronounce clearly.

The incomparable Judge Abdallah was one if not the most well-respected judge in the history of our local courts, take it from me. And I felt so blessed for having the chance to work under his tutelage, I was, still am, so proud to be his protégé, and always will be.

Although from deserving promotions he was severally bypassed by Padre Faura’s gods—well, I blamed it to his non-worship of men of politics—still, he never learned to hold a grudge. And best of all, when it comes to the administration of justice, proceedings’ conduct and wisdom to lodge, he always made sure he’d show this so-called neutrality of an impartial judge.

I was there when the late Congressman Raul Gonzales, dubbed by some local media as “Da King,” then merely wearing short-sleeved polo shirt clothing, appeared in the court for and on behalf of his no-show son-lawyer to manifest something. But Judge Abdallah interrupted and did no more entertain him and minced no words in reminding “Da King” that a lawyer not in proper dress code would mean no personality in court, or simply, lacking decorum, thus barred from court proceedings.

To Ma’am Jo and the rest of the amiable Abdallah Family—Dr. J especially—for eternal kindness and boundless compassion for me and my house, I thank you so much today. But I thank you more for being a continuing legacy of one of the greatest pride of our judiciary: my great mentor in law and order, my cherished friend, your dearly beloved “Papy.”

WHO DARES WINS

[Daring memories on February 20, 2014]

Anent his rare, remarkable achievement, I’d like also to have for him a little short piece for I am so very impressed with this purely Filipino-blooded Christian Michael Martinez. He proved to all and sundry that regardless of one’s geographical location, the iceless sun-rising East that is, even freezing cold dreams could also be hotly chased.

In Sochi Winter Olympics, where mostly Caucasians and rednecks and countries with regular snowflakes and fog blitz have the skills if not the right to participate, Martinez showed that a Filipino can also try, and make, the improbable, if not the impossible, when it comes to ice skates because, in sports, there’s no such thing as fate.

Everything is a result of hardwork and determination to succeed; everything boils down to one’s capability on how to hurdle hardship. To try to achieve what the mind can conceive, recognizing that perfection is attained only through diligent practice.

Okay, last I heard, Christian Michael just landed on the 24th place, but more than a crown, he earned what matters the most: world respect. Allowing a tropical creature exposed to parched lands and dried tundra to compete against the icemen in the ice arena, would be like pitting an ambitious polar bear in the desert for a sprint race against a hungry hyena. A mismatch would be an epic understatement. It’s like unleashing Pacquiao in your neighborhood boxing tournament.

But alas, Christian Michael did surpass, or overcome, whatever doubt he’s had, as well as the naysayers whose admiration of him now is as ubiquitous as Metro Manila’s floods. I remember the story of the four Jamaicans in the movie “Cool Runnings,” where their team was also officially qualified in Olympic Winter Games for bobsled racing.  They may not have won any medal but they captured the most coveted, most captivating award any Olympian could ever dream about: the hearts of human beings. More than gold, silver, and bronze that brightly shine, world respect with love and praises would last even beyond an athlete’s lifetime.

Unlike Christian Michael Martinez, many of us don’t realize that opportunities in this world are definitely limitless. We fear to get out of our shell of mediocrity and smallness because we’re thinking of failure rather than success. At his young age of seventeen, Christian has already attained a great something that had been reached only by a few Pinoy young men: becoming an Olympian. Being qualified therein alone would already be considered a rare achievement as it is the elites’ place where he who’s listed to play out there is the best among humans.

The British Special Air Service believes, “Who dares, wins,” as only the gutsy satisfies his doubting soul, as only in giving everything can a man see his brightest best and personal capacity in full. The Preacher said, “the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all” (Ecclesiastes 9:11).

In the Olympics, not only the winners are cheered, loved and cherished, but also those who have fallen got up and hobbled to finish the race. In the mission field, “let us run with patience the race that is set before us,” that in the end we’ll say too, “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith” (Heb. 12:1; II Tim. 4:7).

To borrow those Jamaicans’ coach’s line: “See you at the finish line.”

THE SPEAKER

[Speaking memories on February 20, 2013 ]

I felt tremendously honored two weeks ago after a faculty member from my elementary Alma Mater broke it to me gently they were considering me as this year’s commencement exercises’ speaker. It felt exactly like being in love with a virtuous woman who’s at the same time a stunner, who I thought kept on ignoring my adoring stares, and suddenly confessed she loved me too through her official messenger.

Right at first bat, without batting an eyelash, I said “NO” in capital letters even if tempted with a check or cash. 

Nothing could persuade me to do it even if PNoy himself would bid since by just thinking about it I’m already getting a nosebleed. I told myself my school probably knew me inside out, for they sent a lovely lady representative who unleashed all her charms out. Yet all of her diligent efforts still proved futile, regardless of the lady’s magical eyes and hypnotic smile.

You want some top secret reasons behind why I don’t want to speak? It’s because my spirit is willing but my tongue is weak. I discovered my Achilles’ Heel when I was compelled to deliver a speech decades ago, in that same school for that similar activities also. 

In that instance, I happened to suffer a mental block long before Alzheimer’s was heard in the Philippines and I found myself, for any word, groping. And the worst in me was revealed as in frustration I unwittingly uttered, with the mic on, that Karay-a’s equivalent of four-letter word of cursing, followed by a deadly “lightning.”

After the lady left, my mind was struggling if I did the right thing. Oh, No! For the very first time in my life, I said that scary word to a lady no less, pronto! As I followed the despondent lass with my eyes as she left, I was wondering, was that my instant reaction too, when some other lady told me twice that same word “NO”?

To be candid, that invitation initially tempted me to think I’d need this opportunity to redeem myself from that personal humiliation on that “unfateful” day. However, I have come to realize that that faux pas I’d had committed, with those words I messed, could never be undone still even by a soul-stirring Churchillian speech.

Once you’re already convinced you’re better read than heard, people would take your next speech only as a mere revenge of the nerd.

MY BESTFRIEND WEDING

[February 13, 2012 at 12:30pm]

I was racing against the clock last Thursday evening. We finished our ballgame at around 6:50 pm. The last trip back home would leave a little past seven. I couldn’t take a taxi to the terminal ‘coz I suffered economic meltdown in the morning.

I was relieved when I reached the terminal and found the bus with just a handful of passengers. Thanks to a speeding Villa PUJ, I arrived therein at 2 to 7, still barking were the bus’ two dispatchers.

After choosing a favored spot I swiftly pressed my head against the backrest and slumped in the seat. I needed to release at the time the anxiety and pressure I had moments ago off my chest.

I was still looking at the floor when I felt someone sit beside me. I moved a little left to the window without looking at my seatmate directly. I closed my eyes and took a nap as the bus began to move. But the scent of a woman beside me forced my eyes to open again and they started to rove. MY nose just continued guessing that smell of signature scent of a familiar brand name. My mind was torn between Victoria’s Secret and that similar something local but of equal fame.

The figure at my right was wearing a see-through red blouse which was artistically sleeveless. I could feel the softness of a lovely forelimb against my right arm’s epidermis. Ahh, the rattling movement of the bus as it rolled down the highway raised more my b.p. as I felt more pressing of skin to skin. I knew if I’d let my mind to wander a little and allow my flesh to some kind of indulgence I’d be found guilty as sin. 

I distanced a little left to view a face to my right. And I instantly was so sure of the creature before my sight: It was my old college pal Wedo, from whom I always copied all my assignments in Psycho. My goodness, I was shocked to find him “transformed” which at first hard to believe. But there he was, now an “ex-men,” not a boy but a “girlash,” a certified “positive.”

I learned he was based in Manila now and I just couldn’t help but reminisce his macho ways somehow. I still quietly stared at him when he talked like a river: “Di na ako si Wedo, kundi si Weding na, Sister.”

He pressed on: “Uy, Beki, over ka ha, ang byuti mo’y over sa shokot. Chorizo ha, friendship, ang pagiging men ko noo’y isang dakilang charot.”

We talked more as shoulder to shoulder we noisily shared that seven o’clock ride. And I suddenly felt a stomach discomfort and wanted to throw up that I leaned my head on the window side.

I was not certain if it was still due to an “aftershock” or the result itself of that horrible Visayan earthquake, folks. But all I knew was when I reached home, though too tired, I scrubbed hard my right shoulder when I bathed and soaked my entire right arms in a basin of boiling water with muriatic acid and zonrox.