Some people in Chem? Oh, they love to talk about chemistry. They love to talk about their researches. They love to brag about the foreign universities they'll be going to once their contract as being an instructor ends. They love to brag about how much money they are making with their sidelines. They love their intellectual masturbation, exchanging chem questions left and right without any real objective but to hear the sound of their voices.
Some people in Chem? All they think about are their careers. All they think about is getting more recognition. If you ask them about their love life, they wouldn't know what you're talking about. If you ask them about their personal lives, they will scold you for focusing on such mundane things. If you ask them whether they are happy, they will tell you that there are more important things than that.
Some people in Chem? They don't seem to care whether the people around them are happy. They don't care whether you're okay, as long as you get your job done well. They don't ask about the things which make you fulfilled. All they want to know is whether you are on the right track to becoming a soulless scientist like them. All they want to know is whether you passed this exam or not.
Some people in Chem? Oh, they don't really care about teaching. They don't really care about the nobility of working for UP. All they see is money. All they see is that teaching is but a convenient stepping stone towards where they are going. They are not really teachers. Their passions lie elsewhere.
But I am in their world and I have to fit in with people like them. I have to understand that everyone is different and that each have their own goals, their own ideas of what is good and what is right.
Only sometimes I wish that they'd look outside once in a while and appreciate how blue the sky is.
Just once in a while, so that I can feel like I belong because I'm feeling lost, reader. I feel so lost in a crowd of others.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Jewels
Grandma has always considered my mom the most beautiful of her children. And when grandma died, she bequeathed my mom her most precious diamond earrings and her portrait, taken when my grandma was in her twenties. She was beautiful in that portrait, and I am not only saying it because she was my grandma. Despite wearing a pristine Imelda Marcos kinda dress, she almost didn't look like a Filipina at all, which makes sense since her father was an American soldier.
My mom isn't the most vain woman in the world, but she does try to look her best, especially on special occasions since after all, she was a pretty one in her youth. And she always wears those diamond earrings when we're going to meet her relatives, as if to show that it was she who will continue to bring in my grandma's legacy of beauty. I sometimes comment that her earrings were too extravagant for her clothes but she is adamant in wearing them. When my parents are short of money, they pawn those earrings so they can make it through, the useless son that I am. But my mother cannot bear to be separated with her most precious possession for so long, so eventually I had to pay the pawnshop to get those back.
One time, my uncle went home from Dubai and my mother paid him a visit in Manila, wearing her heirloom. My mother somehow expected my rich uncle to give her some money since, after all, they were kin and my mother needs it. But my uncle has somehow lost control of his finances through his iron-fisted wife, so my mother went home quite empty handed. Forlorn, she walked through the corrupted streets of Divisoria. She was about to ride a jeepney home when a girl accosted her, and pulled her earrings to steal them. My mother was not on her guard, and the expert thief did it so fast. The shock of it almost concealed the pain of her bleeding earlobes. She felt lost, and it was a while before she recovered and realized that there was nothing she can do about it.
I was the one who opened the door for her when she got home that night. Her voice was tight, and she told me about the theft in a neutral voice. The fool that I am, I even told her that it was her fault she wore those earrings in that place. I only realized later why she did wear them, and an overwhelming sense of sadness for my mom rushed in after. If we were that sort of family, I would have hugged her and cried with her for that tremendous loss. I know the importance of those earrings to her... And to lose them so suddenly in that unfair manner! But what happened instead was... life moved on. My mother wasted no time on tears. In my whole life, I've only seen her cry four or five times. She can't give in to weakness, with all the pressing problems my family is facing.
It was similar to the time when I went home to hear, upon crossing the door, that my pet cat Baby had died of old age. I wanted to sit down there and then, and cry myself out. I loved that cat! We've been together for eight long years... He was my only companion during my loneliest nights. But I didn't cry. Not one whit. I kept it to myself and my unshed tears evaporated within me and left me colder. Even when we were having dinner that night and my mother said something about the absence of meowing under the table, I held my tears. With all the strength I could muster. I barely made it. I didn't even know what I was doing but somehow, I knew that crying in front of my mother should be avoided at all costs. It didn't really make sense but that was my instinct.
And I remembered the time when I handed my mother the silver ring my ex-girlfriend gave me. It was during those days when I gave up on attempting to live a straight life. I thought that the ring symbolized that lost future, so I gave it to my mother instead since I will not be able to fulfill her dream of having grandchildren anymore.
And so I think of my mother, and her strength. On how I keep failing her. On how I spend money on my clothes instead of buying her something special. On how I spend my money on my so called albums and launch parties instead if providing food for my parents and my demented brother. On how I chose to go on with having a boyfriend instead of bringing my son to her waiting and loving arms. And despite all these she is still behind my back. She still polishes my grad pic in the living room til it shines. She still displays all the medals I've garnered since kindergarten. All of them properly labelled. She even made a collage of my pictures, including those embarrassing ones which should have been burned ages ago. She kept the Hogwarts crest I made and pasted facing outside my bedroom window.
The house is in debt. My cowardly father is reduced to running errands. My schizophrenic brother wreaking physical and emotional havoc. No food on the table. Her eldest son became gay and became a useless, party animal. Vermin waging war against her efforts to keep the house clean... My mother is facing a lot more problems than I do. Than we, of our generation do. But she stays strong. And she even finds the time to give up sleep just so she can mend my shirt because I am leaving early in the morning.
And we, the emo generation, make our own problems out of thin air, just so we can say we are suffering from something.
***
A defining moment in my life was when I had my ear pierced. It was most unexpected by everyone, because I had this image of being a good boy since birth. It was late when I got home, and I woke my mother to show it to her. She helped me disinfect it the first time. We were on my bed, and I ouched as the alcohol bit on the fresh wound. She smiled at my pain and said, "Hay nako, ganyan talaga kapag lumalandi..."
I was about to laugh heartily with her but I remembered we were not that sort of family so I kept my mirth to myself and saved it until she was out of my room.
My mom isn't the most vain woman in the world, but she does try to look her best, especially on special occasions since after all, she was a pretty one in her youth. And she always wears those diamond earrings when we're going to meet her relatives, as if to show that it was she who will continue to bring in my grandma's legacy of beauty. I sometimes comment that her earrings were too extravagant for her clothes but she is adamant in wearing them. When my parents are short of money, they pawn those earrings so they can make it through, the useless son that I am. But my mother cannot bear to be separated with her most precious possession for so long, so eventually I had to pay the pawnshop to get those back.
One time, my uncle went home from Dubai and my mother paid him a visit in Manila, wearing her heirloom. My mother somehow expected my rich uncle to give her some money since, after all, they were kin and my mother needs it. But my uncle has somehow lost control of his finances through his iron-fisted wife, so my mother went home quite empty handed. Forlorn, she walked through the corrupted streets of Divisoria. She was about to ride a jeepney home when a girl accosted her, and pulled her earrings to steal them. My mother was not on her guard, and the expert thief did it so fast. The shock of it almost concealed the pain of her bleeding earlobes. She felt lost, and it was a while before she recovered and realized that there was nothing she can do about it.
I was the one who opened the door for her when she got home that night. Her voice was tight, and she told me about the theft in a neutral voice. The fool that I am, I even told her that it was her fault she wore those earrings in that place. I only realized later why she did wear them, and an overwhelming sense of sadness for my mom rushed in after. If we were that sort of family, I would have hugged her and cried with her for that tremendous loss. I know the importance of those earrings to her... And to lose them so suddenly in that unfair manner! But what happened instead was... life moved on. My mother wasted no time on tears. In my whole life, I've only seen her cry four or five times. She can't give in to weakness, with all the pressing problems my family is facing.
It was similar to the time when I went home to hear, upon crossing the door, that my pet cat Baby had died of old age. I wanted to sit down there and then, and cry myself out. I loved that cat! We've been together for eight long years... He was my only companion during my loneliest nights. But I didn't cry. Not one whit. I kept it to myself and my unshed tears evaporated within me and left me colder. Even when we were having dinner that night and my mother said something about the absence of meowing under the table, I held my tears. With all the strength I could muster. I barely made it. I didn't even know what I was doing but somehow, I knew that crying in front of my mother should be avoided at all costs. It didn't really make sense but that was my instinct.
And I remembered the time when I handed my mother the silver ring my ex-girlfriend gave me. It was during those days when I gave up on attempting to live a straight life. I thought that the ring symbolized that lost future, so I gave it to my mother instead since I will not be able to fulfill her dream of having grandchildren anymore.
And so I think of my mother, and her strength. On how I keep failing her. On how I spend money on my clothes instead of buying her something special. On how I spend my money on my so called albums and launch parties instead if providing food for my parents and my demented brother. On how I chose to go on with having a boyfriend instead of bringing my son to her waiting and loving arms. And despite all these she is still behind my back. She still polishes my grad pic in the living room til it shines. She still displays all the medals I've garnered since kindergarten. All of them properly labelled. She even made a collage of my pictures, including those embarrassing ones which should have been burned ages ago. She kept the Hogwarts crest I made and pasted facing outside my bedroom window.
The house is in debt. My cowardly father is reduced to running errands. My schizophrenic brother wreaking physical and emotional havoc. No food on the table. Her eldest son became gay and became a useless, party animal. Vermin waging war against her efforts to keep the house clean... My mother is facing a lot more problems than I do. Than we, of our generation do. But she stays strong. And she even finds the time to give up sleep just so she can mend my shirt because I am leaving early in the morning.
And we, the emo generation, make our own problems out of thin air, just so we can say we are suffering from something.
***
A defining moment in my life was when I had my ear pierced. It was most unexpected by everyone, because I had this image of being a good boy since birth. It was late when I got home, and I woke my mother to show it to her. She helped me disinfect it the first time. We were on my bed, and I ouched as the alcohol bit on the fresh wound. She smiled at my pain and said, "Hay nako, ganyan talaga kapag lumalandi..."
I was about to laugh heartily with her but I remembered we were not that sort of family so I kept my mirth to myself and saved it until she was out of my room.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Heathen's Heaven
In this godless path I chose, I struggle to find meaning.
I search within. In my ability to learn to love and be content with whatever I have. In my ability to learn from others and absorb their skills. In my inner clarity. In my innate cruelty and insensitivity. In my laziness and escapism.
I search my soul of music. In my albums. In the simple melodies. In my ever changing taste. In expression. In forcibly crossing the borders of your world with my relentless spirit.
I search in the people who have occupied spaces in my heart. In my mother. In my lost brother, long buried in the deepest crevices of memory. In my estrangement with my father. In Esme's bracelet. Joy's laughter. Rhay's ring. Lui's silence. Ian's dreams. In my husband, Darwin's love. All my friends. How easily I can let go. At least on the surface.
I search in the upturned faces of my students. In how I open up their minds but destroying their innocence in return. In passing the flame. In pulling them close so tightly to my heart I crush them and move on. In sembreaks and the never ending cycle of letting go. In the eventual certainty of forgetting their names with the influx of new faces.
I search in nature. In the beauty of the sky, the night, and the mountains. In the force of the wind. In my cigarette smoke as it swirls up in patterns. In the peaceful face of Jupiter as he lies sleeping on my lap.
I look at my life from the outside. And I see myself going through the motions. Finding real happiness and real pain. Taking notes and learning, highlighting. Leaving fingerprints on everyone I get to interact with. Because I know I'm never going to heaven. And this is the only heaven I'll get to know.
Earth is my heaven. My life is my heaven. Music is my heaven. My teaching is my heaven. In his arms, lies the only heaven I will know.
After this life, there is nothing left for me. I rely on my strength and my courage in accepting the nonexistence of an after life.
When you understand too much...
When you think and feel too much...
When you question and resist too much...
When you demand for proof...
That is when you should stop.
Because at the end, you will only see the futility of living.
Stand up and open your arms. Close your eyes and ask, "What is the meaning of my life?" as the camera swiftly zooms away from you to the planet to the whole universe, where your voice will not even echo.
I search within. In my ability to learn to love and be content with whatever I have. In my ability to learn from others and absorb their skills. In my inner clarity. In my innate cruelty and insensitivity. In my laziness and escapism.
I search my soul of music. In my albums. In the simple melodies. In my ever changing taste. In expression. In forcibly crossing the borders of your world with my relentless spirit.
I search in the people who have occupied spaces in my heart. In my mother. In my lost brother, long buried in the deepest crevices of memory. In my estrangement with my father. In Esme's bracelet. Joy's laughter. Rhay's ring. Lui's silence. Ian's dreams. In my husband, Darwin's love. All my friends. How easily I can let go. At least on the surface.
I search in the upturned faces of my students. In how I open up their minds but destroying their innocence in return. In passing the flame. In pulling them close so tightly to my heart I crush them and move on. In sembreaks and the never ending cycle of letting go. In the eventual certainty of forgetting their names with the influx of new faces.
I search in nature. In the beauty of the sky, the night, and the mountains. In the force of the wind. In my cigarette smoke as it swirls up in patterns. In the peaceful face of Jupiter as he lies sleeping on my lap.
I look at my life from the outside. And I see myself going through the motions. Finding real happiness and real pain. Taking notes and learning, highlighting. Leaving fingerprints on everyone I get to interact with. Because I know I'm never going to heaven. And this is the only heaven I'll get to know.
Earth is my heaven. My life is my heaven. Music is my heaven. My teaching is my heaven. In his arms, lies the only heaven I will know.
After this life, there is nothing left for me. I rely on my strength and my courage in accepting the nonexistence of an after life.
When you understand too much...
When you think and feel too much...
When you question and resist too much...
When you demand for proof...
That is when you should stop.
Because at the end, you will only see the futility of living.
Stand up and open your arms. Close your eyes and ask, "What is the meaning of my life?" as the camera swiftly zooms away from you to the planet to the whole universe, where your voice will not even echo.
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