Sorry Honey!
“Honey! Sira na yata ang electric fan.”
Ang wika ng kanyang misis kay mang Teban.
“Pakisuyo nga, pwede bang iyong tignan?”
“Sorry darling! I am not an electrician!”
Tila nagulat sa sagot na nadinig,
Napabuntong-hininga kawawang misis,
Tiniis na lamang ang matinding init,
At siya’y nagpatuloy sa paglilinis.
At nang dumating pang-display na inorder…
“O pakipako na lang nito sa pader.”
At ang sagot ni mang Teban kay kumander,
“Sorry darling! But I am not a carpenter!”
At pagkatapos, si mang Teba’y nagbihis,
Pasipol-sipol pa nang ito’y umalis,
Iniwan ang asawang inis na inis,
Hating-gabi na nang siya ay bumalik.
Nang ang pintua’y binuksan ni mang Teban,
Siya’y nagulat sa eksenang dinatnan –
Umaandar na ang sirang electric fan…
Si misis – display sa pader, minamasdan.
“Wow! Fixed na pala ang mga problema mo.”
“Yes!” Sagot kay mang Teban ng misis nito.
“Pag-alis mo… may dumaang estranghero,
Pumayag naman siyang tulungan ako.”
“Ngunit ang loko’y may hininging kapalit
Magbake ako ng cake o – kami’y magtalik.”
“Aba, oportunista pala ang lintik.”
Wika ni mang Tebang, halatang naiinis.
“Kaya’t pinagbigyan ko na’t sobrang kulit.”
“Ha? You mean ipinag-bake mo siya ng cake?
Sumagot ang misis, parang kinikilig –
“Sorry honey! I’m not a baker. I shouldn’t bake.”
Sa Kuwarto Ni Father
Tinungo ni father likod ng simbahan
Doon si sister kanyang natyempuhan
Dahan-dahang ito’y kanyang nilapitan
Nalingong madre ay kanyang tinanguan.
Sila’y tumingin sa kaliwa’t sa kanan
Ang nandoon ay silang dalawa lamang
Pagkatapos niyon sila’y nagngitian
Halos pabulong silang naghuntahan.
“Wala ka bang gagawin mamayang gabi?”
Madre’y di makasagot, mata’y nanlaki.
“Okay lang naman sister kung kayo’y busy.”
Di naman sapilitan… pwedeng tumanggi.”
“Teka po father…pwede naman po ako
Tatapusin ko lang ang pagrorosaryo
Ayaw ko kasi na ika’y magtatampo
Sige mamayang gabi…magkita tayo.”
“Salamat sister…ako’y pinaunlakan
Sa kwarto ko mamaya, ako’y puntahan”
“Sa kwarto po n’yo?” Madre ay nagulantang.
Si father tumango’t madre’y nginitian.
Sumapit ang gabi, bandang alas-otso
Itong si sister ay kabadong-kabado
Sa TIRAHAN ni father siya’y tumungo
Nakita n’yang bukas pintuan ng kwarto.
At ang sabi ng madre, “I’m here now father.”
Kumatok pa’t nagtanong…”Father, are you there?”
Pari’y tumugon…”Come in I’m waiting sister.”
Dugtong pa nito’y…”Please push the door then enter.”
“Ay Diyos ko po father… bakit po madilim?
Naku po… ano ba ang ating gagawin?
Naku po father… mahabag ka sa akin,
Pwede po bang ilaw ay ating buhayin?”
Bumukas ang ilaw madre’y nagulantang –
Kasama ni father… dalawang sakristan.
Cake at ng regalo siya’y inabutan
Kinantahan dahil kanyang kaaarawan!
Then Came The “Layered Meat”
Unabashedly that I made a confession in my article entitled “Love at First Bite” that I fell in love with kimchi. I have to admit though that with all the luscious Korean… DISHES, I wasn’t faithful to kimchi. I would later fall in love with other Korean foods.
Almost everyday that my new friends and colleagues would introduce me to a new local dish during my first few days here in South Korea. However, when I recalled what the doctor in the Philippines said during my medical examination before I flew here – that I need to lose weight – I slowed down a bit.
Then came the three-layered meat and the realization that losing weight is (and has always been) a “mission impossible.”
Before my first week in South Korea ended, we were given a treat by a fellow professor from the Philippines – Randy. He brought me and two other foreign professors (Deborah and Kenn) to a restaurant serving 삼겹살 (Samgyeobsal). That was after we claimed our Alien Registration Card (ARC) from the immigration office in Pusan to legitimize our stay in this country.
It isn’t enough to just say that I have tasted samgyeobsal that night. For me it was more than just eating pork belly. I don’t intend to sound dramatic but I guess it would be more appropriate for me to say that that night “I experienced samgyeopsal” instead of “I ate it.”
I consider the experience very special.
Why?
It’s a culture thing.
As we entered the restaurant, I saw Randy and the other professors remove their shoes. I did the same. We were escorted by an ahjussi (a middle-aged man) to a table and immediately left us after getting our order. There were no chairs, not like the set-up in that restaurant in the hotel where we had the orientation for our students. We sat on the floor. So, for the first time that I would experience eating while seated on the floor. I wasn’t comfortable sitting cross-legged but as soon as the ahjussi returned and placed on our table what sir Randy ordered, I forgot about my discomfort and started salivating.
Along with the slices of pork belly, we were given plenty of lettuce, perilla leaves, and enoki mushrooms. There were also raw onions, garlic and green chili peppers. We were also served with lots of small side dishes which the Koreans call 반찬 (banchan). Not to be missed among the dishes in the small plates is kimchi. There was a plethora of food in front of us. I promised not to eat much that night.
The ahjussi turned the portable gas griller on and the grilling began. As sir Randy held with a tong a slice of pork belly, like a teacher, he explained what samgyeopsal literally means: 삼- sam (three), 겹 – gyeop (layered), 살 – sal (flesh). His impromptu lecture did not end there. When the meat was cooked, he explained how to eat samgyeopsal the Korean way, that was after I excitedly picked up a piece of the cooked meat and had my first bite. He took a piece of meat, dipped it on a sauce then placed it on a leaf. Not done yet, he also added garlic and rice too. Then he rolled it up and stuffed it into his mouth.
“That’s the way the Koreans do it,” he said.
He made another roll and asked me to open my mouth. I hesitated at first because it was a little awkward. He explained that when dining Korean males usually do that and nobody would suspect them of “bromance.” So, I allowed him to stuff it in and returned the favor shortly after.
We learned quickly how to enjoy samgyeopsal . It was either sir Rhandy’s a good teacher or it was just our hunger. It didn’t take long before we had to order another round of pork belly.
There were two varieties of dipping sauces given to us by the ahjussi. Sir Randy told us that one is 쌈장 (ssamjang) and the other one 소금과 후추 기름 장 (sogeumgwa huchu gileum jang).
The kimchi served tasted differently from the one I first tried. There was no trace of sweetness. It was plain spicy.
While we were enjoying the “feast,” sir Randy who has been here in South Korea for a long time, recommended other Korean dishes that he said he was sure I would come to like.
The other customers in the restaurant were enjoying their samgyeobsal with 맥주 (maegju) and 소주 (soju). We wanted to also but we had class the following day.
We were one in saying that it was a sumptuous dinner.
For me, it was not a simple dinner. It was a wonderful cultural experience.
What about my promise not to eat much that night? Well, promises are meant to be broken.
Sa Alon Ng Pagsubok
Kapag umibig ka’t ‘di na makaiwas
Tiyaking handa’t kalooba’y matatag
Pagkat ang umibig parang naglalayag
Sa ganda’t panganib na hatid ng dagat.
Ihanda mo ang sagwan, layag mo’t katig.
Punuin mo ng tibay ang iyong dibdib.
Tandaan na pag-ibig dagat ay kawangis,
Ito’y sala sa lamig, sala sa init.
Sa duyan ng alon ikaw ay sumabay,
Tataas… bababa habang naglalakbay,
Tiyakin lamang na katig ay matibay,
Hampasin man ng alon ay’ di bibigay.
At kapag alon ma’y malakas ang hampas,
Kamay ng sinta’y hawakan, h’wag kakalas,
Tumingala sa langit sa Kanya’y tumawag…
Ang pagsubok ng alon tiyak na lilipas.
At kapag kamay mo’y kanyang binitiwan…
Kung pag-ibig n’ya’y bangkang sa tibay kulang,
Katig sa dibdib mo’y mahigpit hawakan
Lumangoy kang pabalik doon sa pampang.
H’wag hayaan na ikaw ay malunod!
H’wag pagagapi sa alon ng pagsubok!
Muling magmahal, muli kang pumalaot
Dagat papanatag matapos ang unos.
Should This Be The Way?
(A Declamation)
Do you want to know why I have this bloody knife in my hand? I just slashed the throat of a beast. Yes, a beast! No! That beast is neither a wolf nor a wild pig! Not even a bear. That beast is my neighbor – Mang Tomas. Why I did it? He raped and killed his 10-year old daughter. Would you call him a human being? No! He wasn’t. He was a beast. So, I butchered him. And if among you there are beasts clothed as humans… wolves in sheep’s clothing… then beware. Beware of me.
Do you wish to know who I am? Listen!
My father was a communist rebel. He was brutally peppered with bullets, ironically by his own comrades, when he attempted to give up his armed struggle against the government. We were not completely orphaned though. My mother is still alive. Unfortunately, she is currently languishing in prison abroad. That is for cutting the throat of her Arab employer who tried to molest her.
I do have an elder brother, a fugitive of the law. He is a drug pusher. He is hiding from a pack of beasts called police. That is the only job a high school drop-out like my brother could have. A job he was forced to embrace to support our needs. My elder sister is a vendor. She vends her own flesh. Yes, she is a prostitute. And our youngest brother, our five-year old angel, my only source of inspiration is… dead. He died of pneumonia and malnutrition.
Before he died, he asked me a question, a question I never thought an innocent five-year old boy would ask — “why has our family suffered so much?” I answered his query with a deafening silence. I groped for an answer to a question that I myself have asked God several times. He tightly held my hand before breathing his last. He looked at me intently. In his eyes was a plea for me to do something so that others my no longer suffer the tragedy of my family. He smiled at me before closing his eyes. That smile remains frozen in my memory.
That very day, I took this caliber .45 that my father gave me. By my brother’s grave I vowed: “I will cleanse society of dregs and scums…whoever pushed my father to embrace rebellion, made my mother decide to go abroad, taught my brother to take and push drugs, forced my sister to become a whore, and caused my brother to die a lonely and untimely death, will pay a dear price. I vowed to slaughter and deliver them all to hell.
Since undertaking this crusade, I have already killed several people, some scumbugs are gone from the face of the earth. Killing them came surprisingly easy. They were all unsuspecting for who would thought that behind this boyish look is a brutal vigilante.
My first victim was physician. Imagine how inconsiderate that greedy doctor could be. “Doctor, my brother is dying… But Doc, I don’t have money… Doc have mercy… Doc please! He refused to treat my sick brother saying his hospital is not a charitable institution. Then came the tricycle driver, our neighbor, who helped me bring my little brother to the hospital. “Please lend me money, they wouldn’t treat my brother without a deposit.” “What! You would lend me money only if I would…?” He told me that my sister has repeatedly agreed to that kind of agreement each time he would lend her money. When I refused and told him that I can not even pay that ride, in anger, he punched me in the face and kicked me several times.
Where are they now? In shallow graves! I gave each of them nasty holes in their skulls.
Right now, worms are heartily feasting on their corpse.
Before I brought my brother to the hospital that day, he asked if he could eat something. I rushed to the store: “Can I have some biscuits please, my bother is very hungry. Please… I promise to pay soon. The owner refused citing our unpaid debts. He even cursed me. There was a usurer in our place. From him I asked also for help. Unfortunately, he demanded to have a night or two with my sister in return.
Those two were disciples of Satan. So, what I did? I brought hell right on their doorsteps. I burned their houses while they were asleep. They were roasted alive.
I also murdered a well-known politician. That honorable gentleman who promised to build roads, bridges and school buildings. Those promises were never fulfilled.
Just a week ago I saw him in a brand new car parked in a dark alley, would you believe, my brother, yes my dear drug pushing brother, handed to him several wads of money. The following day, I saw that same politician in another brand new car entering a motel. The woman with him was my sister. Yes my whoring sister.
Guess what I did! Just the other day, while the honorable gentleman was in his car, waiting probably for someone, I detonated the bomb I placed right under the driver’s seat. His body was mutilated beyond recognition.
Now look at me… look at me… I said look at me!!!
Is this the way you want me to advocate social change. Is this the way we should change society?
Should my way be the way?
Is there any other way?
Why Do I Write?
I wrote this essay years ago. I reposted it because just lately, twice that I was asked by two colleagues in two separate occasions the following question – “Why do you keep writing?” I had this essay in my mind when I was asked that question but it would take long to explain to them all the points I made here. So, I just gave simple answers. “I ought to,” was the first and the second, – “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop.”
Let me now answer that question comprehensively.
*****
Why do I write?
Why do I keep writing?
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. I am not even halfway my journey to excellence in writing. I am not sure if I’ll get there before I breathe my last. I have a long long way to go. Perhaps I may need a dozen of lifetimes (or more) in order to surpass the accomplishments of William Shakespeare, Elizabeth Browning, George Bernard Shaw, Leo Tolstoy and other literary giants.
So, why do I write then?
Do I write in the hope that I earn money and become famous?
Not even!
Fame and money are not my primary motivations 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. Being the sole breadwinner in my family and with the projects I intend to embark on, I need additional sources of income.
“There’s no money in writing.” That is a cliche but that’s the truth. Writing is not very financially rewarding. Unless 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.
Anyway, I had received extra cash for some of the stuffs I wrote. For example, the university where I am currently employed gave me cash incentives for the research works that got published in international journals. The university also paid me for the articles I contributed to the school’s publication in English. That’s about it. The amount I received is not that substantial that would push me to write more.
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.
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 improve my works and to correct possible errors.
People may read or disregard what I write. If they do read, a million thanks. If not – no hard feelings.
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.
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 and have them scattered in a plot then I walked the path that Edgar Allan Poe and Guy de Maupassan paved. I write stories.
I just don’t keep quiet when I notice human follies, especially if displayed by my friends and co-workers. 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 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 poems, essays 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.
Ang Supportive Na Misis
Isang hapon sa kanilang tarangkahan
Nilapitan ng asawa si Mang Teban
“Oh darling, bakit wala kang kibo diyan.
Hmm… mukha yatang meron kang dinaramdam”
“Naku honey, huwag mo akong pansinin.
Ano man ang problema ko’y… kakayanin”
“Mag-asawa tayo Teban. Di ba darling?”
Kaya ang problema mo’y problema ko rin.
“Kaya Teban, pwede bang sabihin mo na.
Huwag mong solohin, ako’y iyong asawa.
Sige na… ano ba ang ating problema?”
“Honey… buntis si Inday… tayo ang ama.”
M.A.D. LIGAYA
M.A.D. L I G A Y A 