Author Archives: M.A.D. LIGAYA
Triumph in Defeat: Defeat in Triumph
Gilas Pilipinas may have won just a single game, their last against Senegal, at the recently-concluded FIBA World cup held in Spain yet Filipino fans were euphoric as if the team brought home the gold medal.
Rightly so, for the way the team played Filipino fans could not help but feel proud. True to their battle cry “Laban Pilipinas! Puso!”, the undersized players gave their taller and heftier opponents scary moments. Three of the four games they lost were close ones decided only during the closing seconds of the game.
It was only after four decades that the Filipinos had a chance to play at the center stage of basketball and they gave a good account of themselves.
But something in me is withholding celebration…the presence of naturalized players.
We earned the ticket for the trip to the FIBA competitions in Spain by placing second during the FIBA Asia last year, that was with the help of Marcus Douthit. At the FIBA World, the team was reinforced by Andray Blatche, the team’s eventual top scorer and rebounder.
The question is, without those naturalized players how far could we have gone in those FIBA jousts. We’ll never know. Perhaps worse, but who knows, it would have been better.
We know that naturalization of players is allowed by the FIBA. And we are not the only country doing such. It was reported that there were at least nine players who were allowed to don the colors of another country during the latest FIBA tourney in Spain. Even basketball powerhouse Spain had one.
Why do we need to do it? Yes, we get dwarfed in international competitions and by naturalizing players we get to add ceiling to our national team. But by doing so we deprive some local talents the opportunity to be part of the national team. We also spend precious dollars for these naturalized players. It was reported that Blatche, for his efforts, were paid around a million dollars.
Would we really feel completely triumphant should we win a championship with a naturalized player in tow?
Having naturalized players can be construed as admitting that we are not talented enough to compete in the international level. I believe that while their inclusion to the national team adds ceiling it, on the other hand, lessens the respect of our competitors.
I am finding it hard to celebrate whenever Gilas Pilipinas wins because I would always wonder if we could have won without the help of a foreigner who, by technicality, became a Filipino, a Filipino only during FIBA tournaments.
In ending, I wish to mention what I consider as the best moments Gilas Pilipinas had in the FIBA World tourney. It was when Blatche was called for his 5th and final foul with less than two minutes left in the game between the Philippines and Senegal. The Filipinos stood their ground. It was when we saw the kind of heart the Filipino players possess. It was when we witnessed the kind of basketball talent that our home-grown cagers have. Those dying moments of that game is a proof that Gilas Pilipinas could compete even without the help of naturalized players.
Source of image used: http://www.behance.net
Why Do I Write?
Why do I write?
Is it to impress?
I don’t write to impress. I’m well aware of the fact that my writing skill is nowhere near excellent. It seems to me that I am not even halfway my journey to excellence in writing. But I am sure I’ll get there before I breathe my last. Right now, I am still inside the “room for improvement.”
Let me go back to the question – Why do I write?
Do I write in the hope that I earn money and become famous?
Not even!
Becoming famous and earning money are not my primary reasons for writing. Of course I need money. It’s hypocritical to say that I don’t like to have additional numbers to the farthest north of the first digit in my bank account.
But can writing earn you money?
Writing is very financially rewarding specially if you are a script writer of one of the popular TV networks or movie outfits in your own country or a novelist who belongs in the league of the likes of J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown, and Stephen King.
Yes, I am also earning from writing. It’s actually my secondary source of income. I got paid for some of the articles/papers I have written. When I began writing when I was young, I did not expect that someday it would be an additional source of income. I used to think that “there’s no money in writing.”
The university where I am currently employed offer cash incentives to professors for research works published in international (indexed) journals. Professors can also opt to apply for research grants We can get research funds in the process and just ensure to have the paper published within 2 to 3 years. They also give honorarium for articles contributed to the school’s publication in English.
I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to hone my skills as a writer and researcher, to possibly add to the sum of existing knowledge, to have my works read, and to even get paid in the process. So, I have been publishing papers in international journals and contributing articles to our university publication. In addition, I have been doing it (the publication of research papers) because university professors are supposed to publish. Our university is not requiring us but I consider publishing as a “professional obligation.”
Once in a while, some individuals would also commission me for writing jobs. There were times I did it for free. There were also times that I was promised remunerations for what I wrote but didn’t get any. I was also duped once by an online news organization who did not pay me a single cent for the articles I wrote for them.
I consider the cash incentives as my reward for doing what I love doing – WRITE. But it’s not all about the money. The money is not the reason I write.
The rewards that writing gives, for me, are hard to quantify. Such rewards are transcendental. That’s not me trying to sound philosophical. That’s just the way I feel about it.
What about fame? What about the accolades? Are those the the things that inspire me to write?
NOPE!
As a matter of fact, when I write and allow people to read my works I am unnecessarily putting myself under the microscope. I am putting myself in the line of fire if among my readers there are unforgiving members of the grammar police who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot on sight anyone whose spoken and written English are perforated with errors in grammar. When they start firing you can not hide. My missing the comma between the words “firing” and “you” in the previous sentence is something they could not miss.
So, instead of accolades I may get negative comments. This is the reason, a friend said, that he would never write for any publication or post any of his writings on any of the social networking sites. He is afraid he may not be able to take negative comments. He added he fears committing errors in grammar. He considers it embarrassing to be corrected for such mistakes.
In my case, criticisms and corrections are welcome. I won’t die if criticized and corrected. As a matter of fact, I have already received a lot of those and here I am – still alive and kicking. I don’t mind if somebody calls my attention for mistakes I committed. Just break it to me gently and constructively.
The reason erasers were invented and keyboards of computers have backspace and delete keys is… nobody’s perfect.
I keep rereading my stuffs in this website to correct possible errors and to improve them.
People may read or disregard what I write. If they do read, a million thanks. If not – no hard feelings. And for having reached this far into my essay, I want to say thanks to you.
I may have received some good comments from my friends for some of my writings in the past. But of course, those comments may have been either meritorious or simply generous. Sometimes there are people who give positive and encouraging compliments. Thanks to them.
But aside from good comments some of my works have also angered some individuals who were offended thinking that what I wrote pertained to them. Writing sometimes is a magnet for trouble. I remember quite well when I wrote a satirical poem in Filipino (about a wolf in sheep’s clothing) when I was working in a Catholic college. The parish priest who felt alluded to (and I was really alluding to him) reportedly asked the Sister-President of the college, my superior, to summon me to the latter’s office so he could talk to me about what I wrote. However he was dissuaded from pursuing his request. But even if he was able to convince the President and the College Dean then, I wouldn’t see him. Why? That poem I wrote and my act of writing it had nothing to do with my employment. My being a writer has no personality and office that could be connected to any of the lines that run vertical and horizontal in our organizational chart. In short, the priest had no authority over me. The priest never bugged me again but I wrote another poem for him (Habit and Habit).
My quatrains (in Filipino) are the ones that brought me some colorful moments. I have lost a friend or two (or is it three… perhaps more) for the quatrains I have posted in a social networking site. I once wrote a quatrain and a friend liked it. Almost a year later, I re-posted the same quatrain and surprisingly the same person who previously liked it was angered and gave me a mouthful. We’re very good friends so we talked about it. He understood, apologized, and we both forgot about it since then.
Also, my writings where my political beliefs are in full display had me losing very dear friends.
So, why do I write then?
Is it for the “likes,” “reactions,” and compliments I get when I have those poems, stories, and essays posted in my social networking accounts or in this website?
Not also.
Of course those things make me happy and I am so thankful for those friends who take time to read my works then reacted and commented on them.
Then, why? Why do I write?
It’s hard to explain. It’s something like a combination of the answers to the following questions: Why do people need to eat when they are hungry? Why do they need to drink when they are thirsty? Why do they need to take medicine when they are sick? Why do they laugh? Why do they cry?
There is a kind of hunger within me that only writing can satisfy. There’s an insatiable thirst in my soul that would go away only when I read what I write. I suffer from a very mysterious illness that goes away only when I write in sentences or verses the equivalent words of the thoughts and feelings that drown me during quiet moments in my life.
Writing is my endorphin.
I must release my pain, anger and disagreement by writing about them or else they will haunt me endlessly. When I feel wronged I have to respond, not by violent means. I respond in a creative manner – through poems – sometimes satirical. I do it usually using anthropomorphism.
If the spirits of William Shakespeare and Elizabeth Browning I could not summon through the glass to inspire me to express in poetry whatever I wish to say then I turn to Francis Bacon and Michel de Montaigne’s way of capturing into words – essays – whatever it is that I wish to convey. If I don’t wish to be so direct with my points and would like to hide my feelings and thoughts between lines and behind symbolism then I walked the path that Edgar Allan Poe and Guy de Maupassant paved. I write stories.
I just don’t keep quiet when I notice human follies displayed by my loved one, friends, and other people around me. Again I resort to anthropomorphism. I use animals to represent their irrationality. It may hurt them and make them angry but the truth may be bitter but sweeter than the sweetest lie. VERO NIHIL VERIUS. Nothing is truer than the truth.
This is not saying that I am a perfect human being. I am as imperfect as anyone else and may have, perhaps, done more terrible things. Thus, the satires I wrote are like boomerangs. They sometimes hit me also.
Pain is like a prison cell. It is by writing that I break free from that hell. As my heart churns out the words, I go through the pain, feel it, not escape from it. And as I write the final sentence or verse, as I put the final punctuation mark, the pain vanishes.
Even my happiness and satisfaction wouldn’t be complete if I do not write about them. I need to capture in either prose or poetry those moments so I can feel more deeply the joy they bring. I do write about them so I can relive those moments any time I wish to.
I need neither material rewards nor accolades for what I have written (and will be writing.) The essays, plays, poems, research works, and stories I create are themselves the rewards. I love and treasure them.
I write not to impress but rather to express my thoughts, feelings and ideals. Writing is my freedom, my happiness.
SCRIBO, ERGO SUM. I write, therefore I am.
PAIN’S BUT A MYTH
Venomous pain the Algea injected
In anguish and torment my soul screamed
“Journey to dreamland” Hypnos muttered
“Drown misery in my lake of dreams”
But Dionysus countered “Visit my vines
Feast upon my sweet magical grape
Submerge anguish in the lake of wine
Dream not in languor but while awake”
Aphrodite said “I’ll bring Helen
She can kiss your anxieties away
Frolic with her in Dionysus’ haven
While I hold Menelaus at bay”
When Thanatos arrived he whispered
“Down there anxieties have no domain
Hold tight my hands waiting is Hades
Let death vanquish distress and pain”
Rhea came last took my hand and smiled
Her turret crown beamed comfort and ease
On her laps I cuddled like a child
Then she told me “Pain’s but a myth”
———–
Image source: http://www.flickr.com
SELFIE (Playing With Words)
“Language is a wine upon the lips.”
I am so drunk with words that I could not recall the one who said the foregoing beauty.
So, let’s just drink to SELFIE, till drunkenness do us part. Better yet, let’s play with the word SELFIE with wild abandon. Let’s take a shot, not of ourselves as what we do in SELFIE but let’s take a shot at the word SELFIE itself.
SELFIE can also be spelled as SELFY. But people are more familiar with the variant SELFIE.
FYI, the term SELFIE is not new at all. The word was minted by Jim Krause in 2005. The Wikipedia explains that “a SELFIE is a genre of self-portrait photograph, typically taken with a hand-held digital camera or camera phone.” Generally, self-portraiture dates back to ancient times.
Now, let’s frolic in the playground of language. Let’s play with the word SELFIE. Let’s see what derivatives can we squeeze out of it.
- SELFIENATIC – a person who loves to take his self-portrait photos
- SELFIEISM – the desire to take one’s self-portrait photos
- SELFIEDOM – the sense of satisfaction a person feels after taking self-portrait photos
- SELFIESTIC – describes an artistically-taken self-portrait photo
- SELFIEGENIC – looking attractive in selfies
- SELFIESTICATED – looking elegant in selfies
There are new fields of studies born out of SELFIE namely SELFIEGRAPHY and SELFIETHERAPY. The former is the art of taking self-portrait photos and the latter is the process of eradicating stress by taking self-portrait photos.
Now, if you try to convince other people to try SELFIGRAPHY then SELFINIZE them.
So, if you intend to join the SELFIENATICS, if suddenly you develop SEFIEISM then you will have to undergo SELFINIZATION…the process of initiating oneself into SELFIEGRAPHY.
If ever a person has never taken even just a single self-portrait photo, then he is SELFIELESS.
If a person looks negatively at SELFIE or they have fear of self-portrait photographs then they may be suffering from SELFIETY.
Those people who are courageous in taking self-portrait photos and have fun doing it can be said to have high SELFIESTEEM.
Neither the people SELFIETYING nor those who have high SELFIESTEEM deserve condemnation. As the saying goes…”To each his own.”
To SELFIE or not to SELFIE is a personal call. If there are people who desire not to take their self-portrait photographs, that is within the bounds of their personal freedom. Conversely, those people who are having fun taking self-portrait photos be allowed to express themselves in a manner they see fit. But citizens of SELFIELANDIA need to exercise discretion. They must bear in mind the existing ethical standards.
For the uninitiated, there is an 11th commandment: “Thou shall not commit SELFIETY.”
Come on! Take a SIP (self-inflicted photograph)! Check your SELFIESTEEM.
Citizens of SELFIELANDIA, who may also be referred to as SELFIETIANS, do not forget the 12th commandment: “Thous shall not rest until the whole world is SELFIENIZED..
_________
It takes two to tango
Only one to selfie
There is no place for two
The frames are just for me
Sources of the Images: blog.inonit.in, mobilephotographyblog.com
ON BEING A POET
It’s never easy.
The literary genre most difficult to produce is the poem. Imagine putting together the elements of rhythm, rhyme, sound and imagery, not to mention the need to have a formidable vocabulary.
Writing stories may also have maze-like intricacies because mixing in bowl the elements of fiction within the bounds of the plot is not a walk in the park. But fiction writers have the luxury of using a lot of pages to serve their purpose. Leo Tolstoy needed more than half a million words for his novel “War and Peace.”
Conversely, a poet has a single page, sometimes not even the whole of it, to capture vivaciously and vividly the emotions and thoughts pervading within or around him. The Japanese, through their Haiku, would do it in a single-stanza poem with three lines consisting of a total of 17 syllables.
What adds difficulty when poets thread the rhyme zone is that they can not walk the path of sadness while wearing a smile. Neither can they frolic in the lake of happiness while riding the canoe of sadness.
Pain begets pain, joy engenders joy. This is seemingly the prevailing mood in the realm of poetry. Rare are the crying clowns who can masterfully inject sadness into the veins of their poems while they are cracking a joke.
The melancholic lyre sounds best when played by a poet who in one way or another licked some emotional wounds sometime ago in a desolate room. On the other hand, the trumpet of merriment can best be blown by a poet who has journeyed the clouds of ecstasy.
But life is a masterful musician who teaches poets to play both the melancholic lyre and the trumpet of merriment. Life enables a poet to play any of the said instruments at a given time.
If a poet intends to paint his canvass with gloom then he can easily prick an old emotional wound until it bleeds sadness. He can walk down memory lane and revive the pains inflicted by either a person or an event he would rather forget. That’s not masochism but rather a form of sacrifice, the poet ought to feel what he intends to write.
If it is the rainbow needed in his canvass then exactly the opposite of the foregoing he must be doing.
That‘s the beauty of being a poet. Poets can switch with ease to any emotions that they desire. Like an actor in a theater, crying one moment then in a jiffy burst into laughter.
Sometimes poets get misconstrued. When a poem tackles sadness and regret for losing someone the readers would think that the poet still loves and wants that someone back. Worse, the person who felt alluded to may either be excited or feel vindicated.
Lest we forget that poets are men of arts who write for art’s sake. Undoubtedly, they draw inspiration from someone or something. They need a motivation in pursuance of their art. But as it is, the end is the art and the motivation is but the means to achieve the end.
And what is the reward the poet receives for writing a poem? The reward is the poem itself. No reward can be sweeter than the poem itself which the poet chiseled with his pains and joys.
As to whether or not a poet who writes a poem of gloom and bewail is sad and regretful, only he knows.
ELECTIONS: Cyclic and Vicious
That’s how this writer considers elections in the Philippines… CYCLIC and VICIOUS!. Say viciously cyclic if you may.
Why CYCLIC?
Elections are repeated every 6 years for the Presidential derby and every 3 years for the so-called “mid-term elections” where 12 of the incumbent 24 senators finish their term and the people get to vote for their replacements. It is also during this time that members of the House of Representatives and local officials on the regional (for autonomous regions), provincial, city, municipal and “barangay” are elected. More often than not that the regional and the barangay elections are held irregularly, much to the delight of the incumbents in those geographic units.
Election is CYCLIC not because of the foregoing though. It is CYCLIC because of some conspicuous patterns of behaviors and events that would take place a few months before elections.
The incumbents, after hibernating in their air-conditioned offices and luxurious homes for a couple of years would suddenly come out in the open and initiate projects like road repairs and widening, construction of additional classrooms in public schools, medical and dental missions and other socio-civic projects. Then they will run for re-election, if lady luck laughs on them and they get re-elected, then they will again go into hibernation and just re-appear when the next campaign period comes. CYCLIC! Isn’t it?
Nowadays you would see maneuverings being done by politicians through their political leaders in the locales where they are seeking election (or re-election). They are mustering support and building alliances. They are putting forth organizations under the pretext that they would be helping the members have better lives.
Politicians would dangle as baits a few hundred of pesos and/or a bag of goodies for those who will register as members of the organization. They would indirectly buy the support of unsuspecting voters who because of poverty would bite. But immediately after elections, the organizations, whether or not their politician-benefactors win, will die a natural death then again resurrect on the next election period. Isn’t that CYCLIC?
Whenever you see in the roadsides billboards and streamer where written are words like PROJECT OF HON. WHO E. VER you are almost certain that elections are forthcoming
What are the other signs of the time (time for elections)?
Promises! Promises! Promises!
Suddenly, politicians who would dare not get out of their luxury cars during ordinary days would be walking, even in the muddiest rice paddies, greeting and shaking the hands of just about anybody. Smiling to just about anybody. Posing for pictures even with the lowliest of people.
You would see the politicians everywhere… in sports events, in the market, in schools, in terminals…everywhere! Even in wakes! Yeah, also on TV… there you would see them suddenly embracing an advocacy… championing a certain cause. But where are they between the period after the election and before they become visible again… Where? Boracay? Dakak? Or in a cruise ship either in the Mediterranean or Carribean? Perhaps in Las Vegas.
Cyclic! So cyclic…
Consider this… A politician, let’s say a Mayor, can no longer run due to term limits. So, his wife will run for the position he previously held. Then that politician will run for another post…as Governor perhaps. Assuming both the politician and his wife win and luckily get re-elected until they reach their term limits, is it the end?
Hell no! The couple will ask their son or daughter to run for Mayor. What about the mother? She will run for the post vacated by the husband-politician. She will run as Governor. What about the husband? He will perhaps run either as Congressman or even Senator. In case all family members win then for years that the power will run circles within the same family. The son (or daughter) is a mayor, the mother a governor and the father either as Congressman or Senator. When term limits are reached then they will just run for the position that a family member would vacate. Some siblings in the family are also occupying minor positions in the geographical unit where they reside..
Then of course they will tell the people that they do not belong to a political dynasty…but a family of public servants. Oh common…that’s a lot b&((@^%! Please define “political dynasty.” Please explain what a “public servant” is.
It seems that the only competent leaders in the different regions of the country are only those belonging to the same political clan lording it over in those areas since time immemorial. If so, then PHILIPPINES please evaluate the performance of these leaders who came from the same political clans who held the reins of power since VIVA ESPANA and HAIL AMERICA left the archipelago.
The same family names…same genes…in the seats of power in the country for decades now…same economic and socio-political performance for the country… round and round we’re going circles…cyclic…dizzying.
VICIOUSLY CYCLIC!
Why VICIOUS?
For the adjective VICIOUS, Merriam-Webster online dictionary gives the following definitions: “malicious,” “having the nature or quality of vice or immorality” and “dangerously aggressive.”
Even the simplest of minds can explain why the elections are VICIOUS?
Election is an important democratic exercise. It gives the electorate a chance to put into office the best and the most qualified among candidates. However, both the politicians and the electorate desecrated the electoral process.
The exercise of suffrage has become tainted and impure with the politicians doing just about anything just to win. Even to the point of killing. Remember the Maguindanao massacre? Remember the death tolls during the elections and the corresponding campaign periods. VICIOUS maybe an understatement!
So malicious and impure have elections become. It has become so VICIOUS. You would witness a lot of mudslinging during this period. Politicians have developed the propensity of opening their opponents’ “cans of worms” in order to cast doubts on their integrity and lessen their chances of winning. Indeed, anyone who wishes to run for any elective position must develop the art of exposing the chinks in his opponent’s armor while at the same time ensuring that the dirty tricks department of the other party would not be able to see the skeletons he is keeping in his closet.
What has become a dictum for politicians is the worse the publicity on their opponents are the better are their chances of winning. Well, that dictum is a lesser evil as compared to the idea that “the higher is their possibility of winning if their opponents would be dead.”
Politicians are by nature Machiavellian. Hasty generalization or truth?
Then surprise of all surprises, politicians throwing mud at one another during the past elections would become allies in the next election. This is the politics of the new era.
More surprising is the fact that in some areas there are politicians who would be virtually unopposed. It is either they are too good as incumbents that running against them in the next elections is both a political and a financial suicide. Or negotiations and backdoor dealilngs may have taken place.
The vote that is supposed to be sacred has become like a commodity in the market, it now has a tag price.
Vote buying is VICIOUSLY rampant. This is public knowledge.
The question nowadays is “Can a politician come forward and claim that he has never attempted to buy votes?”
What is sad is that the voters have become more than willing to cast their votes on the candidates who would put the highest bid. For them, the ability and qualifications of the candidates are not important. What counts is how much is a candidate willing to pay for their votes.
For P500 or P1000 (okay make it bigger, P2000), the voters are unwittingly selling their votes… their dignity… their future.
Thus, elections have become a business of sort. Candidates would be investing by buying votes and then they will have a chance to recoup their investments, with corresponding interests, when they are elected into office. And how? Through numerous commissions from government projects? By directly dipping into the coffers of the government?
Another question is: Can a politician come forward and declare that he is willing to spend millions of pesos during elections just to get elected for the sake of “public service” and expect nothing in return?
On the issue of vote buying, the politicians are not the only ones to be blamed. Equally guilty are the voters who put a tag price on their votes. “It takes two to tango,” so goes the saying.
But hope springs eternal. The vicious cycle will eventually come to an end.
When?
The viciousness of the cycle ends when finally the voters remove the tag price from their votes.
The viciousness of the cycle ends when the voters put into office the new generation of politicians… those who will be consistent with their commitment of serving the public… those unwilling to buy a single vote… those who will not suddenly come out on national TV and camouflage their political ambitions by suddenly embracing an advocacy only when an election is forthcoming… those who will run not for the sake of keeping alive a political dynasty… those who are visible not only during election periods… and those who will seek public office for the sake of public service and not because of the cravings for power and more money.
It is in the hands… in the conscience of the voters. Lest we forget, WE DESERVE THE LEADERS WE ELECT!
Father, Mother & Son…for just seven days (last of 7 parts)
Day 7 (Monday)
Plain and simple, we were deceived by the midwife, by the (un)real mother and (un)loving grandmother of Marc Andrei, and by (of all people) ate Baby. Never mind the first two… but my oh my, not sister Baby.
Not her, not ate Baby, I have respected her tremendously. I admired her courage as a leader and integrity as a person. I was hoping that what my wife’s cousin had confirmed was not true. Ate Baby would not allow herself to be a part of such a deception. She would not do that to me. We’re friends. We’re both officers of the homeowners’ association. We’re both Ilocanos.
The MIDWIFE? What wrong have we done to her? HELPING MOTHERS GIVE BIRTH is what she does, not ACTING. I believed her story. Yes, her story. I forgot that a story could either be a real or just fabricated. Fiction. Did I just say fiction? I did. Fiction is a product of the imagination. The TRUTH, indeed, is stranger than FICTION. In the lying-in clinic that Wednesday evening, in her own turf, she was the most credible person. I know that every professional is bound by ethical standards. I wondered what ethical standards a midwife like her follows. Was she not taught that it isn’t RIGHT to DECEIVE a CHILDLESS COUPLE so that the BABY of a HEARTLESS MOTHER will have security? Or could it be that the midwife has a problem with SEMANTICS. She probably thought that the word LYING in her LYING-IN CLINIC means telling something that misleads or deceives.
The (un)real MOTHER and (un)loving GRANDMOTHER. Well, what they did to Marc Andrei speaks volumes of what kind of people are they? They are like moon jellies – BONELESS, BRAINLESS & HEARTLESS.
I recalled that my wife told me that the grandmother kept batting in when she and ate Baby were talking that Tuesday afternoon when she brought home Marc Andrei for the first time. The grandmother kept reminding ate Baby about money matters in the lying-in clinic. At that juncture, my wife wanted to ask if ate Baby and the grandmother were both in the lying-in clinic when Marc Andrei was born.
I woke up that morning without my wife and Marc Andrei by my side. They were already downstairs. When I went down I saw my wife lovingly clutching our baby while humming a song.
We had a serious conversation again the previous night about our situation. She vigorously opposed my plan of giving up our son telling me that we should have just given him up entirely the first time around – that I should have not allowed her to be so attached to Marc Andrei if I would just surrender him after all. For whatever reason, she said, nobody should take away her son from her.
The tables were turn. It was her turn to say that everything between us would no longer be the same should I give up Marc Andrei.
My emotional rollercoaster continued its downward spiral. It was so steep a fall.
I tried hard to make her understand the same things I told him the previous night. That the family of that woman is known for their scheming ways. With that, I could not afford to make it appear on paper that we are the real parents of Marc Andrei as suggested by the midwife in the lying-in clinic. I became afraid that in the future that may be used against us, given the reputation of the family of that woman. Besides, how would Marc Andrei feel when finally we need to tell him of his being an adopted son and then he’ll discover that his real mother lives just nearby? What emotional wound that would create in him. What about if seeing daily Marc Andrei just around the corner the (un)real mother would develop fondness of the child then later on would demand that he be returned to her? Daily that we would be in pins and needles hounded by the thought that anytime, our Marc Andrei will be snatched away by the (un)real mother or any member of her family. And if and when the court of law would be asked to intervene, who would the honorable judge favor?
In making whatever decision, I told my wife that it should not be our feelings we should consider but rather the implications on Marc Andrei and to us as a couple in the long run.
That day, some of my colleagues at work asked questions about Marc Andrei. My response was a simple – “He’s doing fine.” I could not tell them the dilemma we were facing at that time. I wore a mask of happiness pretending that everything was fine.
My wife sent me several text messages that day at work imploring that we should not be giving up Marc Andrei. Exasperated, I responded once and said “We won’t give up our son if you will agree that we will bring him to my hometown in Batangas!”
She rejected the idea. My offer was serious, I really thought of it. I can easily find a job in Batangas, what was important with me that time was keeping Marc Andrei. And that was our best option then.
I saw a glimmer of hope that my wife was beginning to understand the situation when she told me through a text message that if ever we would give up Marc Andrei, we won’t be returning him to ate Baby but to someone else – to any of those who have shown interest in Marc Andrei that Tuesday afternoon and not to any of those who designed the scheme to make fools out of us.
At nightfall, I asked ate Baby through text message to come to our house for something very urgent. She came after 10 minutes, announcing her arrival through her trademark boisterous laugh and bass booming voice.
We waited until she got settled in her seat. I and my wife were just quiet. Ate Baby was not used to that kind of reception from me. Usually, when she’s loud, I would be louder. She probably sensed trouble which prompted her to ask if there was a problem.
Not wanting to beat around the bush, I told her that we have discovered that the mother of Marc Andrei was that woman residing two houses away from us. Thus, we were giving up Marc Andrei for good.
Upon hearing my firm declaration, my wife cried while looking at Marc Andrei who was soundly sleeping in the daybed not aware of how sad things have been turning unfavorably for him. My wife kept shaking her head. I didn’t know why. Did she get hurt by my decision? Or she could not believe that we were deceived in that manner.
My wife gave me a stare that was beyond description. I could not say with certainty if that was a gaze of an angry person or a look imploring that I reconsider my decision. Or was it a combination of both. I was suddenly reminded of how I felt about her when suddenly she changed her mind few nights back and wanted to give up our baby. That stare made me feel that she is accusing me of cowardice. She was seemingly demanding that I explain why we need to give Marc Andrei up and not keep him at all cost.
Ate Baby appeared surprised and confused. She asked who told us so. She claimed that she was even unaware that that woman was pregnant. (Reliable sources told me that she was one of those who brought that woman to that lying-in clinic… and yet she made that claim.) I said that after hearing unconfirmed reports about the DECEIT committed against us, we conducted our investigation through the help of some people. But I did not drop names.
I asked her pointblank if she knew that the mother of Marc Andrei was that woman. I asked her if she was part of the plan to DECEIVE us. Unbeknownst to her that we already know everything, Ate Baby swore by heaven that she did not know who the mother of Marc Andrei is – that she would never do that to me. She kept denying knowledge of that woman’s pregnancy and stood pat on the story they made us to believe – that the mother of Marc Andrei was a 19-year old woman from Manila. She denied as well (and vehemently) complicity to the attempt to deceive us. The bombastic that she is even warned that she would confront the grandmother saying that if what we said was true then she herself was a victim of the deception.
When I told her that the midwife herself admitted everything – that she was there when Marc Andrei was born and she knew who the mother is – that she took part in weaving the lie that the midwife told us – she began to weep. She talked like a sheepish dog caught in a corner and has no more place to run. She, however, maintained innocence and promised to talk to the midwife and clarify things. She continued to cry and tried to convince us that she had nothing to do with that hanky-panky.
After a few minutes, she said that she went there only to get the baby when the midwife called her and told her that there was a mother who gave birth but would give away her baby. But she never met the mother.
I cut short the story of ate Baby, not wanting to hear the end of another tall tale that she was beginning to spun. I did not intend to get stuck again in another web of her lies. I told her that we will not return to them our baby. That while we were not keeping Marc Andrei because of certain complications, we will ensure that our son would not be exploited and humiliated further.
When she recollected herself, she said that she would bring Marc Andrei back to the midwife and ask for explanation. I stood firm that they would never get Marc Andrei back, despite all her protestations.
Then I called the relatives of the couple, childless like us, who have also shown interest on getting Marc Andrei.
When they arrived, my wife started weeping again. I could see how sincerely she did not intend to give up our son, making me feel really guilty. I recalled how she suffered when we quarreled because she suddenly gave up being a mother to Marc Andrei that Thursday night. She more than redeemed herself from that fickle-mindedness and have proven that she could be a good mother. Indeed she is. I am a living witness to that. And I reflected for a moment then and asked myself, “Am I the one becoming a bad father?”
I am no moon jelly, not anymore. The decision I made was a product of reflection and prayers. The decision I made was an offshoot of the consultation I did with not just one but many people. All of them I deemed have wisdom, more than the little I have.
I could not possibly hurt Marc Andrei. I became a bad father twice already – twice I was a moon jelly. The first time was when I allowed my girlfriend to take our son away from me. The second time… how I wish I could tell you. Marc Andrei was my path to redemption. My ticket to salvation. I have been rectifying things with my a son. But what is painful is that I could no longer do that to my second child, supposedly a daughter.
People around me don’t know. I never told them. I was afraid to tell them, that such is the main source of my sadness, not the problems of the family where I came from, not theimperfections of the lady of my house, but my imperfections… particularly from my failures as a father.
Then when it was time for Marc Andrei to go, my wife did not hide her grief. She would not let go of our son.
Then I recalled Bertolt Brecht’s play entitled “Caucasian Chalk Circle” where there were two mothers each claiming to be the mother of a baby boy. The funny thing is the real mother was not there to join the tug of war for Marc Andrei. The other party who wish to lay claim on Marc Andrei was not there also. It was only the mother of Marc Andrei for seven days – my wife.
In the play aforementioned the king drew a huge circle with a line at the middle where he put the baby. Those claiming to be the mothers were told to race to the middle and grab the baby. Whoever succeeds in getting to the baby first would take him home. When the king gave the signal that the two women can begin only one of them moved to grab the baby. When the king asked the other woman why she did not move she said that she’d rather see her son taken away by another woman than to endanger his life and limb. Then the king issued the edict that that woman who did not try to grab the baby should have the baby for she’s the real mother.
The circle was drawn in the mind of my wife. She could either grab Marc Andrei from the middle of the circle or let him be taken away and grow up in a better physical and emotional environment.
While biting her lips and tried unsuccessfully to control her tears, she gave Marc Andrei to the relatives of the couple to whom we’re entrusting our son.
Upon learning that Marc Andrei will be brought that night to the next town then the following day to Manila, the still teary-eyed ate Baby volunteered to bring them to the next town using her vehicle – that they just needed to wait for a while for she must be informing the midwife that our son will be taken by another couple.
Before ate Baby left, she promised me she would clear her name. I chose not to respond.
When she was gone, I warned the relatives of the couple who would take care of Marc Andrei not to allow sister Babe to know exactly where our son will be brought because if the family of the (un)real mother of Marc Andrei would know then they may encounter problems. They heeded my advice and I told them that I would take care of Sister Babe when and if she still would have the nerve to show up in my house.
Before they left, I and my wife took turns in saying our painful goodbyes to Marc Andrei. Both our eyes welled with tears. Losing Marc Andrei was painful to both of us. But I could say that between us, it was more painful to my wife.
When I gave back Marc Andrei to our visitors, he cried. And while they were moving out of our residence, our son did not cease crying as if pleading me to take him back. Have I become a bad father again?
Our visitors walked through the same terrace where I saw sister Babe standing seven days ago clutching Marc Andrei. My wife ran to the bedroom upstairs when I closed the front door. She locked herself up. I had a key but I decided to leave my wife by herself and respect her grief over the loss of our son. Besides I also wanted to retreat to my room of despair and perhaps cry a river.
I went back downstairs and slept on the daybed where my son – MARC ANDREI – used to sleep. I closed my eyes and vividly saw the face of my son becoming crimson whenever I would kiss him in his cheeks, then I heard his shrieks and cries.
My emotional rollercoaster was not through yet with its descent. But I trust the grand designer of the tracks where my emotional rollercoaster is mounted. Soon I would climb up again and even there maybe more twists and spins and turns, I know I will never be thrown off the tracks for I always fasten my seatbelt called faith tight.
It may take time before my wife would understand why I needed to decide that way and forgive me for it.
My wife and Marc Andrei, MOTHER and SON… I and Marc Andrei, FATHER and SON – for just seven days.
– E N D –
