My sandals protect my feet from the blistering sidewalk. The sun shines bright under an azure sky. Sweat beads begin to trickle down my face. The day just started and I’ve already drank a liter of water. But I have to be here. This is my call – this is what I must do to sleep at night.
My name is Enoch and I'm a sidewalk prophet. I bet you haven’t seen a sidewalk prophet in a long time. Their presence faded during the early millennium. We all thought that the advent of the new millennium would trigger the Y2K bug, collapsing the financial system which would then return us to the stone age. It was a harbinger of doom. Fortunately for you and me it never happened; we’re still alive and the world is a better place. Well, some of us think so.
In my hands is a sign board that states in bold lettering, Repent: The End is Near! I receive glares from strangers who pass me that say in decoded expression, “Dude, you had your chance. You were wrong; get off the street.” But I don’t do this for myself. I know that I have to give them a chance. I know that I have to state the truth.
The truth . . .
Then it hits me. I run into my car and grab The Inquirer. I hold up the front page so everyone could see in full sight the Truth! We live in a cruel and selfish world; a world where old white men receive hundreds of millions of dollars in benefits from corporation that brainwash mindless drones into purchasing on credit. We live in a world where politicians use money siphoned from fertilizer funds to use in their campaign. (I’m not sure about the validity of that last claim). This is the world we live in! Look at today’s headline!
“Black in White House.” Huh? (Real Philippine headline) “Change has come to America – Obama.” That wasn’t a headline I was expecting.
I look at my sign board, then back at the newspaper. It doesn’t matter: electing one person won’t create the change in social values, the cultural norms, the greed and ethnocentricity of a nation. That’s just one victory in a battle. We’re still fighting a war.
I glance up and see a caravan of cars. Six cars full of kids roll by. The kids are staring at me. They stick out their tongues at me. Then I think about the future and the leaders we are cultivating in our schools.
They stop a few blocks away at the science museum. I go back to my post and hold up my sign. The End is Near!
[Happy Birthday Oh-Sister-Of-Mine! You're Moby; You're Hose]
Friday, November 7, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
#6
“So how was school today?” My mother began her inquiries before I even entered through the door.
“Same old.”
“Did you learn anything new?”
“Yeah.”
“Well? What did you learn?”
“My Very Exhausted Mother Just Served Us Nothing.”
“What?”
“It’s a mnemonic we learned in school. It’s supposed to help us remember the planets in our Solar System.”
“Oh. Haha. Back when I was in school there used to be nine planets. Pluto used to be considered a planet, but recently they decided to reclassify Pluto as a dwarf planet.”
“Yeah, we learned that too. Oh, which reminds me, you need to sign this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a permission slip. We’re going to the museum next week. Gonna learn more about the solar system and all that junk.”
“The solar system isn’t junk. It’s part of God’s creation and once you learn more about the planets, you’ll realize just how beautiful they are. Hmm . . . You haven’t been to the museum since you were in third grade. You better behave this time; you almost got us kicked out last time.”
“Hey! It wasn’t my fault. They need bigger ‘Do not touch’ sign boards. They shouldn’t make scaled models that accessible.”
“I’m just saying, just behave during the field trip. Miss Grothoff is a great teacher and I think you’re old enough to not be babysat anymore. Now go upstairs and wash up – we’re having dinner soon.”
My mother should know better – if you’ve been classmates with the same people for six years, you shouldn’t expect anything less than a riot on a field trip. Anyway, we’ve already decided what we’d do. Dan visited the museum two weeks ago. He claimed he spent the whole day there and knew the place inside out. He claimed to have spent hours reading descriptions about the universe with his father. We had our inside man. We just had to get the materials before next Wednesday.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
#5
In class today, we followed the American presidential election. That's one perk about living in East Asia: when the polls close, you're waking up and you get to listen in on the results while kids in the States are sleeping through all the excitement. And my class is super lucky, our teacher Miss Grothoff is the daughter of a current US Senator whose position is up for reelection now.
So here we are now. We’re all sitting in class staring up at the results, being projected from a projector that was borrowed from the library. We waited as the little box figures representing states started filling up with either red or blue.
Miss Grothoff was pretty excited about it and it showed. She kept rambling on and on about how this election was special because this was the first time an African American had any remote chance of reaching the white house. Her word per minute left us thinking she was on a sugar high; her prancing back and forth explaining the electoral system left us dazed and confused.
“Why are we using the electoral college system? Doesn’t that mean you can be elected as president with fewer votes than your opponent?”
“Yes! Actually, eight year ago Al Gore won the popular vote but still lost. Do you know what popular vote means? It means that Gore actually received more individual votes than his opponent George Bush, the current president.”
“Isn’t that unfair? Shouldn’t the more popular candidate win?”
“Well, our founding fathers purposely chose to have the elections held this way; it’s fairer for smaller states. Students, please look up at the screen. California, here, has an estimated population of 36 million. Now compare that to New Hampshire that has an estimated population of 1.3 million. Even though New Hampshire is a small state, it still deserves to have a say. It’s like our discussion yesterday, with representation. New Hampshire would barely have a say in who becomes president, but if we converted the votes into electoral college votes, smaller states can collate and support one candidate, giving smaller and less industrial states more say in the federal government.”
“Miss Grothoff . . . I still don’t get it.”
“Miss Grothoff, I agree with Terrence. How can you lead a country if you don’t get the popular vote? I mean, it’s not democratic at all. I thought with democracies, the majority always wins.”
“The United States is actually a constitutional republic. If we were a democracy, you students could take over the class.”
We went silent after that. Well, silent as in we didn’t ask anymore questions. But in our brains everyone had the same idea going through their minds: take over the class.
After our math lesson we switched the projector back on and checked the results again. Obama won by an electoral college landslide, and Miss Grothoff’s father had lost his seat in Congress. She was a republican. The rest of the day was pretty gloomy after that.
[Congratuations America!]
So here we are now. We’re all sitting in class staring up at the results, being projected from a projector that was borrowed from the library. We waited as the little box figures representing states started filling up with either red or blue.
Miss Grothoff was pretty excited about it and it showed. She kept rambling on and on about how this election was special because this was the first time an African American had any remote chance of reaching the white house. Her word per minute left us thinking she was on a sugar high; her prancing back and forth explaining the electoral system left us dazed and confused.
“Why are we using the electoral college system? Doesn’t that mean you can be elected as president with fewer votes than your opponent?”
“Yes! Actually, eight year ago Al Gore won the popular vote but still lost. Do you know what popular vote means? It means that Gore actually received more individual votes than his opponent George Bush, the current president.”
“Isn’t that unfair? Shouldn’t the more popular candidate win?”
“Well, our founding fathers purposely chose to have the elections held this way; it’s fairer for smaller states. Students, please look up at the screen. California, here, has an estimated population of 36 million. Now compare that to New Hampshire that has an estimated population of 1.3 million. Even though New Hampshire is a small state, it still deserves to have a say. It’s like our discussion yesterday, with representation. New Hampshire would barely have a say in who becomes president, but if we converted the votes into electoral college votes, smaller states can collate and support one candidate, giving smaller and less industrial states more say in the federal government.”
“Miss Grothoff . . . I still don’t get it.”
“Miss Grothoff, I agree with Terrence. How can you lead a country if you don’t get the popular vote? I mean, it’s not democratic at all. I thought with democracies, the majority always wins.”
“The United States is actually a constitutional republic. If we were a democracy, you students could take over the class.”
We went silent after that. Well, silent as in we didn’t ask anymore questions. But in our brains everyone had the same idea going through their minds: take over the class.
After our math lesson we switched the projector back on and checked the results again. Obama won by an electoral college landslide, and Miss Grothoff’s father had lost his seat in Congress. She was a republican. The rest of the day was pretty gloomy after that.
[Congratuations America!]
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
#4
“The Stamp Act and the Townshend Act triggered the frustrations of the American Colonialist. These two acts, as we discussed the other day, created a tax for the American colonialist. Everyone pays taxes – so what about the Stamp Act and the Townshend Act unsettled the colonialists?”
“The Stamp Act and the Townshend Act were unfair because the people had no say in it – just like how my puppies at home don’t have a say in what they have for dinner.”
“That’s correct. The two acts were created by the British Parliament without the representation from the colonies. Who would like to share with the rest of the class a modern example of this issue? Yes, Mike?”
“Well . . . well, it’s like . . . A giant monster that has big feet. But the shoe company that makes shoes, they don’t make him his size. Because like, they’re just too big. So the monster is shoeless. And it’s unfair for the monster because the shoe companies only make a certain size. And . . . and . . . the monster has no representation!”
“Thank you, Mike. Would anyone else like to give an example? Timmy?”
“Taxation without representation is a lot like baseball. So take for example, you’ve got Chris Young throwing fastballs. You’ve got the umpire calling balls and strikes. If the umpire makes a bad call, the team’s manager can challenge the call – and he represents representation. He has a say with the decision. But the guy sitting in the bleachers with the Rangers jersey and baseball glove has no say. He’s can scream and yelp all he wants, and even if he’s right, his say has no merit.”
“That’s a good example Timmy. So on December 16, 1773, American colonists protested against the British. Do you remember what they did? It was in your reading assignment last night. I’ll give you a hint: The Boston Tea Party.”
“In the middle of the night, under the moonlight, the American colonists boarded the British trading ships and dumped tea into the ocean.”
“That’s right May. Carl, would you like to share with the class what happened afterwards?”
“Uh . . . Tremors . . . uh . . . were felt throughout the country?”
“Well, that’s true. But can you be more specific?”
The class continued on in this type of manner. The game for the day was similar to yesterday’s game where secret words had to be spoken in class. This time, it was the student’s goal to incorporate the magic words into their answers. The day’s magic words: Puppies, Monster, Fastball, Moonlight, and Tremor.
[Writing stories is a hassle because you have to do the research. It's like school, but you don't get a big, fat letter A when your paper looks good. Doing research for blogs only garners you an eProp, and the occasional pat on the back.]
“The Stamp Act and the Townshend Act were unfair because the people had no say in it – just like how my puppies at home don’t have a say in what they have for dinner.”
“That’s correct. The two acts were created by the British Parliament without the representation from the colonies. Who would like to share with the rest of the class a modern example of this issue? Yes, Mike?”
“Well . . . well, it’s like . . . A giant monster that has big feet. But the shoe company that makes shoes, they don’t make him his size. Because like, they’re just too big. So the monster is shoeless. And it’s unfair for the monster because the shoe companies only make a certain size. And . . . and . . . the monster has no representation!”
“Thank you, Mike. Would anyone else like to give an example? Timmy?”
“Taxation without representation is a lot like baseball. So take for example, you’ve got Chris Young throwing fastballs. You’ve got the umpire calling balls and strikes. If the umpire makes a bad call, the team’s manager can challenge the call – and he represents representation. He has a say with the decision. But the guy sitting in the bleachers with the Rangers jersey and baseball glove has no say. He’s can scream and yelp all he wants, and even if he’s right, his say has no merit.”
“That’s a good example Timmy. So on December 16, 1773, American colonists protested against the British. Do you remember what they did? It was in your reading assignment last night. I’ll give you a hint: The Boston Tea Party.”
“In the middle of the night, under the moonlight, the American colonists boarded the British trading ships and dumped tea into the ocean.”
“That’s right May. Carl, would you like to share with the class what happened afterwards?”
“Uh . . . Tremors . . . uh . . . were felt throughout the country?”
“Well, that’s true. But can you be more specific?”
The class continued on in this type of manner. The game for the day was similar to yesterday’s game where secret words had to be spoken in class. This time, it was the student’s goal to incorporate the magic words into their answers. The day’s magic words: Puppies, Monster, Fastball, Moonlight, and Tremor.
[Writing stories is a hassle because you have to do the research. It's like school, but you don't get a big, fat letter A when your paper looks good. Doing research for blogs only garners you an eProp, and the occasional pat on the back.]
Monday, November 3, 2008
#3
“Guys, could we not do anything that would affect my grades? My parents flipped out when they heard that I didn’t do my homework,” Patty squeaked.
“Yeah, and you heard what Miss Grothoff said. ‘If this ever happens again I’ll call your parents,’” Tom said in his best impression of Miss Grothoff – hands on hips with a furrowed brow.
“I think that’s bogus. There’re too many of us. She’ll spend the whole night calling our parents if she meant what she said. And my parents don't like being called late at night,” Paul argued. We were still bitter towards him for what he did the other day. We all agreed we’d get him back, but right now we were thinking about tomorrow’s game.
“Okay, we’ll stay away from our grades. We’ll think of punishments that are non-academic related. Let’s take a vote.” Everyone raise their right fist. Jeff was the natural leader – we all looked up to him to be the mediator when we had our arguments.
“Okay, it’s settled. What’s the game tomorrow?”
“Let’s have a magic word.” I said. I could feel eyes magnetize towards me.
“What d’ya mean?” Jeff asked.
“We’ll come up with a magic word, and whoever gets Miss Grothoff to say the word, that person wins . . . And instead of a punishment, the person gets a prize. Let’s say they get a portion of everyone’s desert during lunch.” Last year, our class came up with superlatives for everyone. They said I was the most likely to host a reality TV show.
“That sounds like a plausible idea.” Jeff said, surveying the group’s response. He saw a couple of nods. Carl was giving a thumbs up. “So what’s the magic word?”
“Bloody,” I said with the biggest grin on my face. We were studying the American Revolution that month. Miss Grothoff had conservative values and an even more conservative diction. It would be our goal to coax the magic word out of her.
The next day in class we took our seats and propped ourselves up in our chairs, awake and alert. Miss Grothoff gave each of us a suspicious look. We figured she knew something was up, but we were too eager to get the word “bloody” out of her mouth to care that our game was close to being exposed. From the way she started talking in front of our class, I could tell she was pretty giddy about finally having attentive students.
“So class, let’s begin today’s lesson with the Battle of Lexington . . .”
“Miss Grothoff!” boomed Jerome, a bit too eager to win the game, “what kind of battle was the Battle of Lexington?” We all knew what he was trying to say, and even after class he admitted that his first inquiry was very amateurish.
“Well, it was the first battle of the American Revolution. Did you ever learn about the minutemen last year?” We took that as a rhetorical question, because we begun to volley our questions.
“Did people get shot?!”
“Was it as bloody as The Gladiator?!”
“How many people died!?” We were all batting around the bush. We didn’t know how to ask the right questions. Then all of a sudden we heard a quiet and hollow voice from the corner of the room. It was Sue, the class thespian.
“Miiissss Grothoff…. I think I cut myself.” She revealed to us her finger which was drenched in a red liquid – we presumed it was blood. The girls froze in shock, some squealed. The guys, on the other hand, were pretty skeptical . . . and entirely jealous that we didn’t come up with the idea ourselves.
“Oh my word! Sue, your finger is . . . bloody.” There she said it; loud enough for everyone to hear. “Go to the nurses office, right away! Sam, you go with her!”
Sam? That’s me. Miss Grothoff ushered us out before you could say “hot potato.”
Sue and I took our time. There was no hurry – no real emergency at hand. I could tell by the way the red ink dried up without caking. “That was pretty sneaky of you.”
“I always wanted to be an actress,” she said through a huge grin. She had outwitted us all – she really did deserve to win.
We arrived at the nurse’s office and from the nurses office we were redirected to the principles office. Principle Walker reprimanded Sue for deliberately faking an emergency – these types of pranks are not funny, he emphasized.
“You’re not very funny,” Sue said under her breath, quiet enough so Principle Walker wouldn’t hear her. I snickered to myself. I was sent back to the homeroom afterwards to explain to Miss Grothoff that it was all a joke. Miss Grothoff looked both relieved and irritated. I looked at my classmates and everyone had the same expression: envy.
[I really don't know how long I can keep this up . . . I'm already running out of ideas.]
Sunday, November 2, 2008
#2
At the end of yesterday's recess we decided the following:
Tomorrow, you have to wear the exact same outfit as you wore today. If you wear a different shirt, different shorts, different shoes, or even different socks you have a punishment: you have to forfeit tomorrow's math assignment.
Everyone thought they could pull it off. There was nothing difficult with wearing the exact same thing as you wore the day before. After recess everyone came up with their own excuse that explained to their parents why they have to wear the same thing again, without breaking their oath of secrecy. I was no good with excuses, so I figured I could put today's clothes in my bag and change once I got to school.
What happened after school ruined everyone's plan. The bunch of us went to the playground to play our after school game of freeze tag, but during the game we heard Wilma cry out, "Ahh! Someone threw something on my back . . . and it's weeeet!!!"
All of a sudden it started raining . . . mud. Paul and Carl, the two meanest guys in class, were hurling muck at us. We were all addled by their action, and extremely ticked off. While the girls started whining and running like . . . little girls, the guys spread out and got on the offensive. They started picking up mud that had fallen on the grass and started throwing it back to where they came from -- at Paul and Carl, who eventually ran away snickering to themselves, as if their prank was the coolest thing they had ever come up with.
The rest of us huddled together to compare our battle scars.
"Stupid Paul and Carl. Why'd they have to do that?!"
"Yeah, my mum's going to kill me when she sees my dirty dress."
It all of a sudden hit us. Why did Paul and Carl throw mud at us? So we wouldn't be able to wear the exact same outfit the next day at school. We all went home that day feeling dirty and cheated. Paul and Carl's ruse left us itching for revenge.
The next day no one wore yesterday's outfit. And no one even attempted to do their homework. Miss Grothoff gave each of us a look of disappointment and disapproval (all except Marvin -- who was as diligent as always). We were punished though. We didn't have recess that day, instead we spent the half-hour that was usually designated for recess, doing our assignments in class. And despite everything, no one even made a peep about the game.
Tomorrow, you have to wear the exact same outfit as you wore today. If you wear a different shirt, different shorts, different shoes, or even different socks you have a punishment: you have to forfeit tomorrow's math assignment.
Everyone thought they could pull it off. There was nothing difficult with wearing the exact same thing as you wore the day before. After recess everyone came up with their own excuse that explained to their parents why they have to wear the same thing again, without breaking their oath of secrecy. I was no good with excuses, so I figured I could put today's clothes in my bag and change once I got to school.
What happened after school ruined everyone's plan. The bunch of us went to the playground to play our after school game of freeze tag, but during the game we heard Wilma cry out, "Ahh! Someone threw something on my back . . . and it's weeeet!!!"
All of a sudden it started raining . . . mud. Paul and Carl, the two meanest guys in class, were hurling muck at us. We were all addled by their action, and extremely ticked off. While the girls started whining and running like . . . little girls, the guys spread out and got on the offensive. They started picking up mud that had fallen on the grass and started throwing it back to where they came from -- at Paul and Carl, who eventually ran away snickering to themselves, as if their prank was the coolest thing they had ever come up with.
The rest of us huddled together to compare our battle scars.
"Stupid Paul and Carl. Why'd they have to do that?!"
"Yeah, my mum's going to kill me when she sees my dirty dress."
It all of a sudden hit us. Why did Paul and Carl throw mud at us? So we wouldn't be able to wear the exact same outfit the next day at school. We all went home that day feeling dirty and cheated. Paul and Carl's ruse left us itching for revenge.
The next day no one wore yesterday's outfit. And no one even attempted to do their homework. Miss Grothoff gave each of us a look of disappointment and disapproval (all except Marvin -- who was as diligent as always). We were punished though. We didn't have recess that day, instead we spent the half-hour that was usually designated for recess, doing our assignments in class. And despite everything, no one even made a peep about the game.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
National Everything Month
Today marks the beginning of National Blog Posting Month. Simply put, it means daily blogging for 30 days! My sister joined two years ago and it's been the highlight of the year (when it comes to blog feeds). The tough part is churning up the ingenuity that's required for writing something interesting everyday. Therefore I'm going to combine NaBloPoMo with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)! NaNoWriMo is actually a near impossible feat, but maybe if I post my stuff on here I'd get more done. Anyway, here it goes.
30 Days of Recess
Rule #1
My chair is tilted forward, held fast against the bookshelf behind my desk. I glance up at the clock and watch the second hand drift closer and closer to the twelve. I lock myself to my runner’s block and brace for the bell to sound off and explode. But I’ve still got 28 seconds left.
I glance over at Daniel who just finished knotting his shoes. Yesterday one of the strings was loose and he tripped right before he could reach the door. He would’ve been the first one out, too. They call him “the wind,” that’s how fast he is.
I glance to my left and see Marvin sitting poised as always. I could never understand that nerd. Didn’t he care about recess? Didn’t he care about being free? How can he sit there like that? How can he focus his ears so intently at Miss Grothoff?
BRRRIIIING!!!!
Before I could react to the bell I could already hear shoes scuffling as my classmates pounce at freedom that teased us from the door. I had broken my concentration; I took my eyes off the clock! I was doomed to be the last one to the tarmac. And being the last one there had its consequences.
I make it to the blacktop and see 27 toothy smiles. We came up with “the punishment” yesterday. Actually, I came up with the punishment yesterday: last one to step onto the blacktop had to run around the playground’s basketball court three times while shouting the school’s alma mater.
When we first made up the game at the beginning of the year, we all signed a contract that bound everyone to secrecy and pure obedience to the rules. If we had a kitchen knife, we probably would have made a blood pact, but we settled for spit hand shakes instead – all 27 of us. Marvin was the only one who refused to take part of our game.
Kenneth B. was one of the smallest boys in the class, but he had the lowest voice among the 12 other boys. And it was always Kenneth who begun the chanting, “Rule number one! You whatever rule we decide on, you have to do it!” He put the heaviest emphasis on the “have.” We knew what would happen if we didn’t follow the rules.
First, we’d be kicked out of the game . . . That was a bad enough punishment. If you were banished, you were alone for the rest of the year – and who knows how many years after that.
The second punishment was black mail. I’ll explain that another time, because right now I’m running laps and screaming at the top of my lungs, “Alma, our Alma Mater, the home of Faith and Wisdom . . .”
30 Days of Recess
Rule #1
My chair is tilted forward, held fast against the bookshelf behind my desk. I glance up at the clock and watch the second hand drift closer and closer to the twelve. I lock myself to my runner’s block and brace for the bell to sound off and explode. But I’ve still got 28 seconds left.
I glance over at Daniel who just finished knotting his shoes. Yesterday one of the strings was loose and he tripped right before he could reach the door. He would’ve been the first one out, too. They call him “the wind,” that’s how fast he is.
I glance to my left and see Marvin sitting poised as always. I could never understand that nerd. Didn’t he care about recess? Didn’t he care about being free? How can he sit there like that? How can he focus his ears so intently at Miss Grothoff?
BRRRIIIING!!!!
Before I could react to the bell I could already hear shoes scuffling as my classmates pounce at freedom that teased us from the door. I had broken my concentration; I took my eyes off the clock! I was doomed to be the last one to the tarmac. And being the last one there had its consequences.
I make it to the blacktop and see 27 toothy smiles. We came up with “the punishment” yesterday. Actually, I came up with the punishment yesterday: last one to step onto the blacktop had to run around the playground’s basketball court three times while shouting the school’s alma mater.
When we first made up the game at the beginning of the year, we all signed a contract that bound everyone to secrecy and pure obedience to the rules. If we had a kitchen knife, we probably would have made a blood pact, but we settled for spit hand shakes instead – all 27 of us. Marvin was the only one who refused to take part of our game.
Kenneth B. was one of the smallest boys in the class, but he had the lowest voice among the 12 other boys. And it was always Kenneth who begun the chanting, “Rule number one! You whatever rule we decide on, you have to do it!” He put the heaviest emphasis on the “have.” We knew what would happen if we didn’t follow the rules.
First, we’d be kicked out of the game . . . That was a bad enough punishment. If you were banished, you were alone for the rest of the year – and who knows how many years after that.
The second punishment was black mail. I’ll explain that another time, because right now I’m running laps and screaming at the top of my lungs, “Alma, our Alma Mater, the home of Faith and Wisdom . . .”
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