An Education

I think my professors at school share the same resentment towards the Philippines as me, though their understanding of the Philippines is more robust and knowledgeable than mine. They also have the benefit of living through the Philippine’s golden years when we were one of Asia’s finest. And today, any teacher above the age of 40 bemoans the fallen and lost empire that our country had the potential to be.

“When we were in college, companies would send us letters inviting us to apply to their corporation . . . each student would receive three to five letters, two from the government and three from the private sector.” Now, we’re paying entrance fees at job expos just so we could hand in our resumes.

“Bangladesh refused to do business here in the Philippines because our processes are too slow and inefficient. Imagine, Bangladesh is refusing to manufacture medicine here.”

“The Philippines is still using the feudal system. Our people still resort to dole-outs from the President. They expect the government to feed their mouths.”

And the one that stick out like a sore thumb is our culture. “Culture is the one thing that is holding back our country. If you look at other countries’ political parties, no one jumps from one party to the other. But here in the Philippines, people jump on the bandwagon of the majority, because that’s where the power is, and that’s where the money is.”

I’m bombarded with this almost everyday at school. How can I feel proud of my country when the role models I look up to at school have no faith in our government? How can I pretend to be patriotic when one of my professors refuses to even acknowledge the presidential election last May?

The country barely seems to be moving forward, and in a sense I feel my bitterness and resentment being justified by our limping progression. But then again – I have seen our country advance. The past election is evidence of progression as we successfully had an automated election (thank you Richard Gordon). The rebuilding of infrastructure in my neighborhood tells me that the local government is still operating, despite the slow process. And we’ve finally extended the LRT1 to connect with the MRT. But something within me yelps, “Is that all?”

The Philippines still has the potential to be big, to make a comeback. But I fear we’ll make the mistake of leaning too much on government and not enough on our own efforts to push us forward. I fear Filipinos will lose confidence in President-elect Noynoy when their immediate wants and needs aren’t gratified. I fear that our culture won’t change because we’re too resistant and too afraid of change. I fear complacency is what lies within all of us.

My professors at school have the right to be angry. They’ve done their part to pull the Philippines forward, and they continue to do so today through educating us in college. But instead of infusing resentment and bitterness into our minds, I wish our teachers would instill in us hope and hunger.

Borromeo

The construction in Taiwan is amazing. During my last trip to Taiwan last December I saw numerous buildings being erected all over the city. Gigantic, overwhelming monstrosities that make the uncapturable sky to look that much smaller. Roads are repaved routinely; black, silk asphalt that is layered and flattened over stretches of road in the midst of the night. Taiwan is a well oiled machine and it’s beautiful.

Outside my house is a road, constructed way before I came along, but never renovated until now. When I came back from my trip to Taiwan in January, construction workers started tearing up this road. Their loud and heavy machinery clawed away at the asphalt, removing large chunks to install new pipers. The local government finally decided our neighborhood needed better infrastructure. It’s June right now and they’re still not done. They’ve torn up edges of the roads to add a sidewalk – removing gardens and lots of grass in the process. The road is much wider now, but it is still in its cement phase. Walking the newly renovated street last week, I noticed a large crack and wondered when they’d cover the road with asphalt.

The process is slow. The beauty has been taken out of the process. We have giant piles of sand, rocks, and uprooted plants lining our streets. I’ve been meaning to document the process but didn’t want to pull out my camera. Now I resort to memory.

There wasn’t really a point in my writing this. I’m sorry if I sound bitter. I’m not that upset with the slow construction. I’m actually quite relieved that the road is new and not just repaired. New pipes, sidewalks, a really wide street, this is more than I could ask for.

It’s late. It’s 2:20AM now and I’m too tired to watch the Cameroon v Denmark game. Good night.

Eye Candy

Four times a week I take the MRT to school. It’s a long commute, but it mostly requires me to stand around while I’m whizzed by a steel machine. On this hour long commute, I am entertained by flashy images that pepper EDSA. Most of the ads are for clothes and prosthetics – I mean body care, read: a lot of billboards with attractive, half-naked Filipinos models. I can picture a contemporary Mad Men episode where Don Draper is faced with ad A) model in a tight jump suit marketing not the clothing but the abs that are clearly visible on the guy’s abdomen, or ad B) woman adorned with recycled rags representing what it means to really be an environmentalist. Draper would look at ad A and then ad B then say something like, “This isn’t what people want. No, men and women both want to be free – free from the city’s steel bars, free from the norms of society. [Dramatic pause] Think Free.” He then pulls out his own poster with two models barely naked, nothing but a loin cloth hiding the model’s private parts. “Ladies, gentlemen, Bench’s new direction – ‘Uncut.’ I think that’s actually what happened. I saw three fifty feet tall underwear ads. Three!

I’m surprised that there hasn’t been a car crash apocalypse on EDSA yet. Hmm… This sounds like a wonderful new idea for the game Burnout. We can call it Burnout: Deadly Distractions. And what you do, instead of driving a car into oncoming traffic, is place an ad beside the street that would distract male drivers, causing them to crash their cars. Leading to a multi-million dollar car pile up.

I wonder if anyone is as embarrassed by Philippines’ un-conservative marketing as I am. And people ask my why I shifted away from my advertising major.

It’s raining outside.

In the past month the Philippines has experienced minor downpours. The rain has fallen, running down sky scrapers, bridges, and light posts, into the street and taking with it the summer heat. I no longer sweat after exiting the house for more than five minutes. But instead of being drenched with perspiration, I now have to deal with soaked shoes, and wet jeans.

Yesterday I walked down Scout Midrinan with my umbrella in hand when the sky released its breathe and let down a heavy downpour. My small sized umbrella protected my head but anything below my knees was already beginning to feel like I’d marched part of myself into ocean. But this is the type of weather I love. The coolness, the drowning effect of the rain on rooftops and windows, the feeling of hope as maybe, just maybe school may be suspended for the day.

Rain can sustain our livelihood or it can be a force of destruction as we witnessed in last year’s Typhoon Ondoy. It makes life difficult as we sometimes have to trudge through floods that are ankle deep, or it can be a cleaning agent that washes away the dirt from tiled buildings or parked cars. It can limit our sights while driving, or it can clear away the smog that permeates our city. You can’t hate the rain. You can’t love it either. It’s just a part of life that we deal with on a yearly basis. Rain is.

It’s stopped raining outside. The only evidence we have of the rain’s existence is the puddles it left behind for us to stand in.

I attend a leadership class every Friday. I hate attending this class because every time I attend I feel like I’m being told everything that I’m doing wrong. You’re not proactive enough, you’re not supportive of your subordinates, you’re not taking your role seriously. It makes me want to scream, “I never wanted this in the first place!” But I’m here anyways. These classes aren’t about teaching – they’re about preaching, and it’s pretty heavy preaching. It makes the burden on my back feel 10 times its actual weight.

But at the same time, I need it. I need it to see my faults – to see the areas in which I can and should improve. The material isn’t about one aspect of my life, it’s about everything – they way I think, the way I talk and behave, the way I relate with other people. Leadership isn’t just about managing others, it’s about managing yourself. The class does emphasize on things I’m doing wrong, but it has made me stronger.

And in ten years, when I look back on my college years I hope to have made in impact. In a way I just want to leave behind a legacy – or a puddle.

Summer Cleaning

My mother spends most of her day cleaning the house. It’s one of her passions; it’s one of her obsessions. She sweeps, she mops, she dusts everything in every room. It’s a lifelong chore that she finds satisfying. And I’m proud of her; I’m proud of her work. At the end of the day the house always seems to sparkle. It makes me feel like a king whenever I visit her in Taiwan. But here in the Philippines, my place is a mess.

Ever since summer I’ve been either too busy or unmotivated to clean up. I receive comments from my sister and mother about how cluttered my room looks whenever we video conference on Skype. It’s embarrassing. So today I cleaned my room. I started with my desk. Then I swept the floor. I even organized my files on my computer. I was on a role. Then there was the task of cleaning the wall.

My mirror sits on my desk which allows me to see my whole room and the TV even though I’m staring at the wall. But it took up too much space so I decided to move it. In the mirror’s place is its dirty outline: a white wall with dark smudges, sticky-tack, and dust. The sticky-tack came off easily, but the dark smudges . . . Cleaning a white wall is impossible. The more I scrub, the more the smudges seem to spread and smear. Some day I’m going to repaint this wall a different color – or maybe I’ll paint a mural of the Justice League instead.

I love cleaning my room. I feel so accomplished when my room is neat and organized. And I expect my mom to be proud of me, even if she can’t see it. I just wish my life was the same way. I still have my 2009 New Years Resolution on my wall, most of which can be repeated again this year (e.g. raise GPA, go somewhere new). Last year I accomplished four of the ten resolutions. But there are always things I wish I did that I didn’t do. I’ve gotten most of the sticky-tack and dust off my life, but you’ll still find smudges of failures and shortcomings that refuse to come off despite the constant scrubbing. I know how clean I want my life to be, but no matter how I go about it I’ll always say something hurtful or negative to bring others down. I’ll eventually lose the motivation to continue to work at it, and in the end nothing will change. Dust will collect again; posters and pictures will fade.

I go through these phases of wanting to be, needing to be, a better man. I find it so easy to give in, to give up. But giving up is always a mistake. I want a clean wall.

Teach me your way, O Lord, and I will walk in your truth; give me an undivided heart, that I may fear your name. -Psalm 74:11

Memories

It’s been over a month since I’ve sat down and read a book. The last time I had done so was with A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, back in April of this year. Since then I haven’t been able to get past the third chapters of any book. I’ve tried – I got through 10 pages of A Life of Pi, and 30 pages of Slam. The busyness of school and orgs, and the distractions of Google Reader and podcasts have taken away my readers mojo and I’m determined to get it back.

On Monday I pulled The Yiddish Policemen’s Union off my shelf and made up my mind to get to the last page. My first time through the book was a chore; I struggled through every paragraph with its landmines of five syllable words and Yiddish references. In retrospect, if I told myself that the plot could have been summed up in less than twenty pages, I probably would have given up. But I have fallen in love with this book. This is my third or fourth time through and I have a much clearer understand of what’s happening. I can now sit back and enjoy everything that makes the book great.

The added pleasure of rereading the book is the memories that come with it. I found tucked in its pages a boarding pass from my trip to Tacloban, a slip of paper with the contact details of Bratpack, and a airline napkin that book marked the glossary. Before I used receipts which doubled as a book mark and a list on which I wrote vocabulary words. The receipt is now gone since I transferred the list onto my computer. You can download the vocabulary list by clicking here.

TYPU represents much more to me than just a book; it is a memory bank that brings me back in time. Grab a book off my bookshelf and I’ll tell you where it came from. Give me a song off my iTunes library and I’ll give you a memory. Journals, diaries, blogs can remind you of an incident, but those words are told in past tense; they tell of a time when you remembered an incident. They are a memory of a memory. The things you can touch, hear, taste, smell, or feel – those are the things that really bring you back.

I downloaded two podcasts this evening – both were re-aired interviews from March. And surprisingly, I knew exactly where I was when I first heard those interviews. The first interview was with the creators of South Park and I remembered I was across DLSU at National Bookstore looking for a present for my dad. I ended up buying him Blink by Malcolm Gladwell since he enjoyed Outliers so much. The second interview was with Kelly Kennedy, and I remember hearing the first half of the interview while I was waiting at the airport for my mom at three in the morning. I wasn’t able to finish the podcast as I saw my mom exit the customs area.

Sounds, feelings, emotions, things that created a moment for me. I am mesmerized at how my memory works. I wish I could utilize it for my education.

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I just noticed how sentimental I sound. I don't consider myself to be a sentimental guy -- I move around a lot, which disallows me to accumulate much. If I was evicted from my house on the unlikely premise that Nick Hornby wanted my room, I'd take my laptop, guitars, xbox, clothes and my books with me. I'd leave everything else to his disposal. I don't care much about the foam hand from my first UAAP game, or the lanyards from the different retreats I've been part of. Almost everything in my room are for decorative purposes only. What I'm trying to say is that the memories I was talking of are memories brought up by books and music.

*Sigh* It's hard to differentiate the two. Maybe I am a sentimental guy -- deep down inside. Maybe memories are what keep me sane. I'd hate to think so. Memories . . . they tell me who I am. Where I have been. What I have done. Memories -- please go away. I'm trying to live in the present.

Michel Foucault

Sometime in May I was standing in front of a urinal when my jean's button popped out and landed on the urinal's porcelain bed. My hygienic conscience prevented me from picking it up, so I left it. In the succeeding months I have depended on my belt and zipper to keep my pants from falling. I've since appreciated buttons.

I'm not a school person. School is a place for me to be judged on my output, not because they affect anyone or change anything, but because of the expectation of my teacher. How could I appreciate the Archaeology of Knowledge if I don't understand its text? What's the point of diving into this piece of literature when it has no effect on my life?

O weekend. Please come quickly.