SENDONG REVISIT: ONE THING YOU MAY WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THIS TRAGEDY BUT HESITATE TO ASK

To commemorate the 10^th anniversary of the Sendong tragedy, I had lined up this article to come out in December, until I read a singer who has released her new Christmas song as early as September with this reason that I adopted: Why not?

RAYMOND:

In our work with the poor in Couples for Christ, we repaired roofs by sealing small holes and replacing damaged sheets. In one instance, heavy rain suddenly poured. All at once, the kids scrambled for containers, like pails or empty cans, and put them right on the spots where drops of water would fall from the leaking roof above when it rained. Everyone smiled after they learned that not a single drop of water had leaked from the repaired roof. The needless routine engendered a light-hearted feeling on the kids affected by the downpour. But, those who had been traumatized by the Sendong tragedy would even more so exude heavy-hearted feelings -- each time a torrent of rain comes.

Months before such tragedy, we drove to Orchids subdivision in Iligan and dropped by the newly-built house of Analiza, my wife's officemate. The site's low elevation and its topsoil that appeared to be a backfill drew my attention as a civil engineer. I told Analiza to be on alert in case of a sudden downpour.

On the night the tragedy struck, I had dinner with my wife and daughter. Everything seemed normal except this unusual event: drizzling outside, all of a sudden, our curtains rose horizontally due to a sudden strong rush of wind – too odd a sight amid the calm outside. The phone rang; it was our son calling from Jollibee -- two rides from our house. He asked me to fetch him because he was anxious about the rain getting stronger each minute. Driving home, I looked at the Tubod bridge and spotted the water level as not yet alarming. Felt safe, since our house sat on higher ground, we just slept the whole night away.

CHERRIE:

The phone rang; it was past six in the morning. Manny, our bank manager, called up and told me to cancel our reservation at Dad's Grill for our Christmas party that night. He said he could not get out of his house located alongside the river that had overflowed and flooded his house first floor. I called up Dan, my officemate, who lived near the party venue, and told him to cancel our reservation. Minutes later, he called back, his voice cracking, and narrated about the dead bodies that piled up on both sides of the highway. Later, ABS-CBN News reported:

Since the rains fell on regions where the natural forest had been illegally logged or converted to pineapple plantations, the heavy rains were able to run off quickly on the relatively barren soils and created devastating flash floods. Since the storm hit the middle of the night and affected an unprepared population that had no flood warning system in place, the death toll was tragically high.

Though unprepared, like all the folks in her neighborhood, Analiza, remembered what Raymond had tipped her off in case of a sudden downpour: get out of the place and seek higher ground. Hearing rocks hitting her roofs (concerned citizens waking their neighbors), she got off the bed and felt her foot submerged in water. Alarmed, woke her kids up and told them to run and go the distance to the elevated highway. Running the sloping up road herself while carrying her baby, she kept shouting to her kids running ahead of her. She kept up in screaming constantly in order not to lose them rushing through the pitch-dark night. From her ankles, she felt the water rising up to her knees, then up to her waist, right before she reached the elevated highway where she deeply breathed a sigh of relief.

RAYMOND:

The atmosphere was thick with grim stories. A mother and her daughter hung on to anything that was floating on the debris-filled flood and then found out at daybreak they had been holding on the whole night to a dead body. A friend living along a creek heard a rolling flood reverberated a sinister noise of a living creature. A neighbor trapped inside his own house and escaped through the ceiling because the brute force of the flood held back all doors and windows shut. After the tragedy wiped out over a thousand lives with hundreds missing, what positive thing can one say?

As I hit the keys on my keyboard today, Iligan is celebrating the Feast of Saint Michael. On the celebration of the Feast nine months after the Sendong tragedy, a Muslim crowd strangely gathered at the yard of the St. Michael's Cathedral. Coming to see and to hold in great respect St. Michael the Archangel, they truly believed he was the "giant warrior" that rescued them from the Sendong flood.

Amid the religious conflicts breaking out around the world, what can be more positive than this glint of hope for unity between the two largest religions in the world honoring the Archangel under the same one God?

   

STORY OF LULUT: OUR CANADA MIGRATION BOTHERED ME FOR TOO LONG

[ATABAY readers are invited to share their stories. "If a story is in you, it has to come out." – William Faulkner]

Knowing our plan to migrate to Canada, many had asked my husband Manny and me this question even before we left the Philippines: But why? It was well-meant and proper since we would leave a very comfortable homely life: parents, siblings, relatives, friends, and community.

We seemed to have started on the wrong foot. Trusting a friend in working out our immigration papers, we were crushed when he suddenly disappeared leaving our application astray. I thought of this snag as a cue that, perhaps, the question "But why?" appeared to be also right.

Shrugging off our migration plan, we moved on: took care of our children (corporate duo, a university graduating student, and a high school freshman), looked after our small business, and served our Church and the Couples for Christ community. At the end of the day, we sang this popular Don Moen's song as our prayer:

In his time, in his time

He makes all things beautiful

In his time.

Lord, please show me every day

As you're teaching me your way

That you do just what you say

In your time.

What came about afterward appeared to be our answered prayer. Taking our vacation in the US with our relatives there, we got a Christmas surprise gift: an e-mail from the Canadian Embassy in Manila for our interview appointment. Thereafter, our days were crammed with a flurry of activities brimming with excitement and expectation like an anxious first grader on his first day of school or a thrilled college freshman in putting together her first dorm room away from home.

Subsequently, we sold our properties, attended farewell parties, and picked up "survival" tips from been-there-done-that friends: to get ready not only financially, but also physically, emotionally, and spiritually in braving a different new world with different people, cultures, and language.

Start spreading the news

I'm leaving today

I want to be a part of it

New York, New York.

As well-wishers waved and blew kisses at the airport, I hummed softly the song, as my family and I were boarding the plane with bated breath to set about the first flight of our long journey to the land of milk and honey.

Our plane landed in Los Angeles, our port of entry from Manila, then in New Jersey. Ten days seemed not enough in wandering through "The Garden State" relishing its sights and sounds -- national parks, fine museums, and historical sites – touched up by dropping in resorts along the Atlantic Coast including the entertainment hot spot of Atlantic City. Wanting to be a part of the "City That Never Sleeps" as the popular song goes, we went to see the Empire State Building, took the Statue of Liberty cruise, and, of course, walked the famed Times Square.

Having not seen them for a very long time, we were guests of our relatives and friends living in the US made smoother by Manny's younger brother Yoying and wifey Jessielyn, together with their family, as our caring host and handy guide. My Dad's younger brother Uncle Naring and Auntie Purie with their family were always close by for us.

At Toronto, a welcoming entourage of familiar faces, former corporate peers in National Steel Corporation, took us by surprise. They stunned us with our "new home" in ready-to-move-in mode, furnished with a well-stocked refrigerator and adorned with elegant curtains. Being new kid in town, my family did grocery shopping with our friends lending a helping hand by taking turns in driving us to the market. Unbelievable.

Months passed; the face of reality took shape. In one unguarded moment, strange to say, I felt that life was passing me by. Yes, I got a job, but unstable. Sometimes, I have qualms about my ability in the workplace to excel, to meet high expectations, to achieve lofty goals. I've known full well I ranked among the finest staff in the agency evaluation. Weighing up my plight, I flipped through somewhere and came across this life's savory recipe: Good Luck = Preparation + Opportunity. Opportunities abound in this part of the world, yet am I ill-prepared? Or, like Covid-19, could this be just a side effect of homesickness in the long haul?

Looking back, I thought our family has grown and matured. Aside from having sent financial supports to our families back home in times of emergencies, we have found few and far between chances in sharing with them our precious time. Our family has become more closely knit by doing things together: camping adventure, road trips to visit relatives in the US, cottage escapades for several days, or get together on weekends and holidays. We go to church together on Sundays (do online masses together during the pandemic). Manny (thank God for his bank job) and I have focused our love and care on our family, let alone, being of service to our local Parish and our community.

Leaving PH, I recall this nagging question my friends asked us: But why?

In mulling over my answer, when all was said and done, what comes across my mind is the picture of our two daughters Ejay and Jo and their respective Pinoy husbands Mymy and John, our two boys, Ruru and Elson, still singles, and our two beautiful grandkids, Zeke and Emma.

Why did we leave PH and migrate to Canada? At long last, a bigger picture has dawned on me -- it is not so much about Manny and me today -- it is about the future of our children and our children's children. By God's grace, we have found a special place we can call our home: Canada, a country known for its maple syrup, northern lights, and unyielding politeness, among others -- whereby saying "Thank you" is ingrained in its culture. Thank you, God, for Canada.

SEEING GOD'S "FINGERPRINTS" IN ATM

 

"Finding God in all things" was the talking point my son, James Ryan, brought home when he took a short break from his Jesuit novitiate. Inspired by St. Ignatius of Loyola, the phrase summarizes the Ignatian Spirituality: the conviction that God is personal, active in our everyday lives, and present in our world. It chimes in with what Thomas Aquinas taught: God is in all things, "by essence, presence, and power."

The words "in all things" seem to fly in the face of the news headlines today on what have been happening around the world. Like on the global scene, the vaccination inequity is shocking: 10 rich countries have administered 75% of all vaccine doses; poor countries, barely 2% according to WHO. Or, close to home, pushing its economy to a downward spiral with prolonged massive lockdown, PH is doomed to become "Permanent Sick Man of Asia" according to a major business group. Or sundry items in-between: on corruption, oppression, racism, elections, conflicts, and a laundry list of run-of-the-mill news, so numbing, they no longer grab attention on front pages.

But, like an oasis in the desert, we find God nowadays, in small ways, much the same as the ways of Jesus of Nazareth, the carpenter's son, and his parables of "everyday stuff" such as the lamp, the weeds, the mustard seed, the fig tree, the lost coin, and the lost sheep, among others. Excerpted from "A Pocket Guide to Jesuit Education":

"In finding God in all things, we discover sacred moments in everyday life — grace-filled opportunities to encounter God in nature, our relationships, our academic pursuits, our own stories, and in the stories of those around us. In these sacred moments, we realize our connectedness to God and how we are called to participate in the transformation of the world in both big ways and small."

Even so, "amid the noise and haste" (to borrow the popular Max Ehrmann's "Desiderata" phrase) in our Covid-infected world today, a skeptic, there and then, may sneer: "In all things? Like a flat tire in the middle of nowhere? And a stranger that helps you is God? Really?"

Many years ago, my wife and I, as a couple, were involved in the Couples for Christ's work with the poor. Every weekend, we went off and turned up in a particular depressed area in the province and joined our community there in sharing our talents and resources in uplifting the lives of the poor. A whole day trip to the province would pose a dilemma to my wife as a bank officer at that time. She was responsible for keeping the smooth operation of the ATM: troubleshooting mainly every time the machine jams mechanically when a printed receipt gets stuck – hence, halting the ATM operation.

Imagine this bleak scenario. At the peak of one particular crowded cash withdrawal weekend, the ATM jams (she would get an alert message through her cell phone), and we are many hours-drive away in the province. Question: What would we do? Answer: We would pray it would never happen. So, we would pray for our one and only one preventive solution to such a dilemma. Before going off to the province, we would "pray over" the ATM asking God to take care of it while we're taking care of His business.

In that whole year when my wife was responsible for her bank's ATM smooth operation, not a single instance throughout our provincial weekend trips had she got a message from her cell phone about the jammed ATM. The wonder of wonders! At the end of that year, she got the top ATM management award among hundreds of her bank's ATMs operated all over the country. M. Scott Peck, M.D., author of the book "The Road Less Traveled," wrote:

In my primary identity as a scientist, I want and like proof. Being as much a logical sort as a mystical one, I expect statistical proof whenever possible to convince me of things. But throughout my twenties and thirties and as I continued to mature, I've become more and more impressed by the frequency of statistically highly improbable events. In their improbability, I gradually began to see the fingerprints of God.

To our skeptic friend: Yup, not only in flat tires would one see God's "fingerprints" but also in ATMs. And so one does, even in Covid-19 or in an election, a complex blueprint that may take a good deal of time due to revisions on His drawing board: the final master plan, for sure, would be a big breaking news story to read on a front page.

 

 

HOW I HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH GOD IN COLLEGE

Cleaning the basement, I found this letter I wrote my daughter Dionne Arae I edited for clarity to highlight this enigma: The first time ever I saw God's "face."

Dear Dionne,

I write this letter because your teacher told us, parents, to do so. I hope you will read this during your retreat. First, I will share this poem I've memorized since grade school just like where you are now.

In the heart of a seed

Buried deep so deep

A dear little plant

Lay fast sleep.

"Wake!" said the sunshine

And crept to the light

"Wake!" said the voice

Of the raindrops bright

The little plant awoke

And rose to see

What a wonderful place

The outside world might be.

 

Second, I will tell you something about your favorite subject – Science. Every morning you wake up you see through your window the sun rises behind the mountain. But that is very, very far -- 93 million miles away - so far that if we fly to go there in a jet plane, it will take us almost 20 years. By that time, you will have gotten married and have kids already.

It is also very, very hot – 5,600 degrees centigrade – so hot not only will it boil water, but also vaporize your hot chocolate cup like your superhero with laser eyes. This heat travels from the sun through outer space at the speed of light – 186,000 miles per second – as fast as lightning like your superhero. After 8 minutes of whizzing in outer space, the heat cools down, gets to earth as warm sunlight that you feel on your skin during the day. This perfect temperature cooks into carbohydrates the nutrients from carbon dioxide sniffed from the air and water sipped from the ground in the kitchens in the leaves of the plants – a process called photosynthesis – that has sustained life on Earth.

Just imagine this whole set-up goes on every second every day all year round even while you're asleep. Just imagine what will happen if the sun gets a little closer to earth – we will all be barbecued, yuck; if farther, we will all be frozen, like ice cubes, ew.

Dionne, the distance between the earth and the sun is so perfect that some guy is so cool and intelligent to have made such exact computation, just like the carpenter who made your desk and chair. The same guy you've always asked in your prayer before you go to sleep to watch over you the whole night. You call him, God.

Why am I telling you this? Sooner or later, you will meet someone who will tell you that God is a hoax, an alien, or a sky fairy. Say this: If that is so, then there's no intelligent guy behind the perfect distance between earth and sun: no intelligence, no design, and no order. Then, say this punch line: It's just saying you can make a brand new jet plane out of a heap of scraps.

But, I know you -- cool. So, just smile. You may recite the poem secretly, or look at a plant seed, or feel the warmth of sunshine, or catch the raindrops, and think to yourself: what a wonderful world -- reminding you of the intelligent guy.

Third, you may be too young to understand what I'm going to say to you next. But, I will do this as simply as I can. Here's this one thing – your Mom. The first time I saw her face, I could hardly sleep. I kept on thinking how beautiful she was. And I wanted to know more about her. In the same way, the first time I heard about this intelligent guy from a priest in our retreat in college just like you have now, I could hardly sleep. I kept on thinking about the "perfect distance" and how intelligent he was in coming up with it. And, just like your Mom, I wanted to know more about him.

Just as it was love at first sight with your Mom, so it was love at first "light" that has turned on my life by this intelligent guy – God.

Since your Dad is an engineer, I could only derive the one common denominator your Mom and God have with me – LOVE. I love them both, Dionne.

Luv U 2,

Dad

 

 

 

 

MY LIFE-CHANGING YEAR IN UP

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ..." – Charles Dickens, "A Tale of Two Cities"

It was my best year. Proud of me for graduating First Honor in Lagao Elementary School in General Santos City, my mother was delighted in choosing family members who would pin my ribbons for many subjects I topped. After graduation, she took me with her in a vacation in Iloilo, as my prize, to visit my two brothers and three sisters studying at the University of San Agustin and the Western Institute of Technology.

 Still basking in the sunshine of my achievement, my mother couldn't help but talk about me to Tia Miling, the landlady of my siblings' boarding house.

"Your bright boy must study in UP High," she urged my mother.

One morning, I found myself in a classroom of students, so different – in image and bearing -- from my former classmates in Lagao. For the first time, I felt overwhelmed after picking up tidbits of personal information: heirs to wealthy families, scions of political clans, first and second honors all, and so on. But, one bowled me over: she graduated from International School and spoke like an American I had watched only in a movie. Everyone seemed to hold their breath when I told the class I came from Mindanao – the only one. I told them my father's job: a rice mill operator – unintentional wrong choice of word since my father was a mechanic. That somehow covered up my being poor. It was the worst of times. It didn't take too long for my classmates to notice my poor status. During recess, while they were going to the school cafeteria to take their snacks, I was going to the toilet to take a leak. Then, I would go to the library, not to read, but to while away my time until the recess ended – a routine each day of the whole school year. I walked an over-a-kilometer stretch of rugged road to the school daily, while my classmates passed by me in their private cars or public transport. I came up against the humblest moment in one road scene when a packed jeepney stopped along the road and heard this gentle voice of a beautiful girl in our class:

"Ray, ride with us," she said. "I'll pay for your fare."

I got mixed feelings: so humbled, yet so grateful for the kind soul who seemed to empathize with my sorry plight and didn't care what others would think. I could no longer recall what happened next. Perhaps, such an ordeal was so traumatic that even my memory declined to store it.

One rush morning during breakfast, I got noodles, my late sister Nasie, stand-in mother, bought at a street store. Shortly afterward, she ate my leftover and was shocked – the food was spoiled. She later confided she shed a tear and prayed nothing terrible would happen to me in school.

It was our Christmas party. While the whole class was getting our room ready for the night, putting up Christmas tree and decorations, I was in the Principal's office asking for her permission for me to attend the party: I was unable to pay my contribution. Saying it was no big deal, she projected a tender countenance on her face, reflecting how pitiful I was, and seemingly conveying how she wished she could hug me.

Being poor and, by a twist of fate, having gotten into the world of the rich engendered a daily grinding routine for me throughout the year that affected my psyche, including my academic performance: the best I could make in one grading period was Number 11 in the class.

Sensing my traumatic year in UP through my first meal at home – devouring a braised pork belly while watching me tearfully – my mother enrolled me in Notre Dame of Lagao the following school year. During my first and second grading periods, I wore a gold plate on my breast every day for being at the top of the class. On my third grading period exam, the Principal refused me to take it: I was unable to pay my tuition fee. While the exam was going on, my mother was pleading for consideration – it was turned down.

Resigned and crushed, my mother and I went to MSU Prep High and pleaded with the Principal, Mr. Java, to accept me as a transferee and late enrollee. He told my mother that policies were no hindrance but frankly said I could face a big problem: the next grading periodical exam would come in 3 days. Teary-eyed, my mother looked at me; I nodded.

For the next three days, I worked like a horse in preparing for the exam, waking up at dawn, while my mother was holding a lukewarm towel to wipe my face every time I would fall asleep. When the results came out, the whole school was stunned: I topped all the subjects.

Neither am I a genius nor exceptional in achieving such a feat. I felt something inside me had bottled up for more than a year, and in one moment in time, burst and cried out, "Enough!" and powered me to do the tough job.

Not far from being a miracle, such a feat hints at God's presence. At that time, the only fragment of my memory that dealt with divineness was my Theology subject in Notre Dame of Lagao under Marist Bro. Leonard was fond of giving essay writing tests. One essay was entitled "Loving God": I topped it.

I can't help thinking about such tiny fleck of hosanna in my essay catching His eye. No wonder His kindred people are the last, the lost, and the least, that was me then.

"There is a time for everything,

And a time for every happening under heaven ...

A time to weep and a time to laugh ..."

-       Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4

PARALUMAN : THE FIRST TIME I SAW MSU

The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

To the dark and the endless skies, my love.

This song would always take a trip down my memory lane. Strolling on the golf course one Saturday afternoon, we found a cozy spot beside a shrub too small to cast a shade, but large enough to put over some veneer of privacy. Sitting on the grass while holding each other's hands, I looked into her eyes for a moment, and she looked at me, as if asking "What?" – reflecting the kind of look that only lovers could read and fathom by gazing into each other's eyes. Drawing away from the intimacy of the moment, I pointed to her the beautiful scenery before us: the landscape of the fairway rolling on the terrain of the grass gently sloping down the next green with a waving white flag held in place by a stick in the hole.

Further down the hillside, bounded by the road to the city, a paddy field cropped up on an irrigated lowland that stretched out up to the lake shore. A distant view from the golf course, an orchard outlined a figure from a thicket of trees that appeared like a sitting cat, and has drawn out, among students, the name "Sitting Lion."

Then, appeared the spectacle of the famous Lake Lanao. On the west side was a rustic city margin on its shore, on the east side, the long length and vast expanse of the lake cut by objects blocking the view. Adding the finishing touch to the panorama, the backdrop of a mountain range outlined a figure that has carried off the name "Sleeping Lady."

Watching another couple passing by, and a bunch spreading a wide mat beside a patch of sunflowers that seemed to soak up the last rays of sunset, I thought I was reminiscing like a pair of hands of a mother caressing the face of her long-gone son.

Memories pressed between the pages of my mind

Memories sweetened through the ages just like wine

Quiet thoughts come floating down

And settle softly to the ground

Like golden autumn leaves around my feet

I touch them and they burst apart with sweet memories.

"Toto, wake up," Tony whispered, so as not to disturb the sleeping roommates.

"Five minutes," Angel said softly. "Give me five minutes more."

Tony, bass and guitarist, together with Angel, melody, and I, tenor/falsetto, formed our trio to "harana" birthday celebrants and crushes at Princess Lawanen Hall. That morning, we'd do "harana" for a special someone.

"Watch out for broken glasses," I said softly as we walked slowly and quietly just before the crack of dawn.

"Let's surprise them," Tony said.

I remember, when I feel lonely

The way you kissed me in the rain

And Darling I remember

Your golden laughter

Whenever spring breaks through again.

Sprinkled with serendipity, we crooned our opening song, "The Seventh Dawn," just before the burst of sunlight lying in wait behind the horizon, would rupture out of darkness. At the crack of dawn, the mellow blend of our voices evoked romantic emotions, eliciting chills that conjured up images, as time seemed to fly, from a faraway long-ago place.

Other sweet memories I hold dear in MSU, circa 1970: Darangan, Sarimanok, Kambayoka, Kalilintad, Pilandok, library, school bus, Social Hall, Summit Inn, Engineering Building, slide rule, Indarapatra Hall, Posadas Eatery, Ford Village, British professors, Cup & Saucer, Aga Khan Museum, Princess Lawanen Hall, Liberal Arts Building, Ayala Resort Hotel, Miss University, Miss LA and Lakambini; full scholarship allowance, Bread's "If," James Taylor's "You've Got A Friend," Carpenters' "Why Do Birds" (loved than title); Golden Award shirt & Levis jeans, Frank's OP movies & Johnny's SLH stage plays.

Inter-group sports and choral competitions: Integrals, Goodshines, Royal Griffins, Commuters, Falcons, Celtics; Ma'am Lily's Pilipino dramas, Prof Nena's American twang, Prof Pepeng's "Mi Ultimo Adios," Garces' peanuts, "toron," and coke; Pepe, Nonoy, and Tony's Lettermen trio; Ethnorock band and Roy's suave voice, cafeteria's banana Singapore and potato casserole, midnight snack of rice and "pakbet" or pan de coco or "Bapa" stick bread or "sigupan," foggy morning jog ending in Aggie Farm's fresh cow's milk, and what have you.

You look like Paraluman

When we're young...

You taught me...

To really love

Many years passed

We haven't met

I've heard news of...

All my dreams

Suddenly melted

Just in my dream

I could dance with you

The words above were excerpted from the song "The Last El Bimbo" by the Filipino rock band Eraserheads that narrates a first-person perspective of a young boy in love with a beautiful older woman. It encapsulates the MSU story.

The creeping change, not only on the face, but as well as in the character of the school campus could have been blighted by the "war" in 1972 followed by unmentionable incidents subsequently that marred the school's integrity and reputation.

After crying, Maria Elena narrated, "Can't let my siblings out of my sight as we went to Iligan in a convoy." Riding myself in the school bus, I recall I was having a high fever when I was lodged in Rhodora Apartment where Ma'am Loable took care of me.

The first time ever I saw her face, MSU looked like a Paraluman. After the war, her lofty image gradually faded.

This article, I hope, will uplift my fellow MSUans to let those sweet memories live, as the Pinoy song goes, even just in our dreams.

THE SPEAKING THEY HAVE DONE

Inspired by Yoyoy Villame's funny song "Magellan," the title was taken from the line: "They did not understand the speaking they have done." Grammatically correct, but in a manner of talking or writing, it is unnatural and awkward.

Though my English is not as lowly as Yoyoy's funny song, taking a plunge into the writing world of the internet, with writers armed with MAs in English, their native tongue, is no laughing matter. Such writers have core competency of the language. Their subconscious and acquired knowledge and skill have become a "tool room" inside their brains that, by default, help them out in finding the right nuts and bolts they need in their writing jobs at hand.

I needed such core competency. So, one morning, I told my wife that I would go on self-study leave at the basement to read books on writing and write as many articles as I could. The latter were writing "exercises" as suggested in one book to "make writing a habit," like learning to play the piano or guitar a little every day, for it to become a familiar instrument. My finished products I posted in our family chat room for any valuable feedback.

Weighing up my writing, without bias, outside my family, I took a fresh look at the comments in my sister Nasie's eulogy that I wrote. Mimi's best friend Racquel's word "touching" and the "beautifully said" phrase by Marilyn, Inocencia, and Blanche, have enkindled my enthusiasm. I sent Jing my "exercise" article below, "Second Dose," and her likening it to reading a NY Times investigative report was flattering.

After a month in the basement, I called my son Leigh Roy, my one-man technical department, and my daughter Dionne Arae, my one-woman IT department, and told them the one idea whose time had come – my own blog. Knowing beforehand I would focus on the thinking and writing process, both handled all the technicalities needed in putting up my blog.

Today, after writing 7 articles in my ATABAY blog, a sophisticated AI-powered app has assessed my writing and put my blog in the top 20% of all its users worldwide in terms of its mastery criterion. Not bad so far for a Pinoy engineer-writer with only 6 units of Freshman English in his curriculum vitae.

SECOND DOSE

When my wife and I got our second dose of Astra Zeneca vaccine for seniors, it was a hectic day.

Driving our car while looking for a parking space, we were surprised by the long line of people snaking outside Robinson's mall. Puzzled, we asked around what was going on, but got no clear answer. Confused, we looked for one end of the long line, oddly enough, we found instead two ends.

Eventually, we spotted the end of one line for seniors only. Inching at a snail's pace, people entered the mall entrance one at a time. After almost two hours of standing and walking under the heat of the morning sun, we found ourselves inside the air-conditioned shopping mall.

Overstretched for standing so long, we soothed our eyes by looking around the mall's spacious vogue interior and relieved our achy body by breathing the mall's cold tonic freshness. Little did we know, however, the mall's cool ambiance was just a makeshift breathing space for the real ordeal that was still to come.

Inside the mall, a depressing scene unfolded before our eyes. Just as the long line of people had snaked outside the mall for two hours, so too inside, the same long line snaked again. We found ourselves at the food court area while the start of the line was at the cinema lobby -- the far side of the mall.

Making do of you-eat-first-while-I-hold-the-line tack, we lunched out on the line with grilled chicken I bought at the food court. Surprisingly, it tasted good; maybe because of my not having savored it for over a year due to pandemic lockdown. But, finishing off the grilled chicken -- minus its usual soy sauce with cut lemon dip -- due to out-of-place eating position, was a let-down.

After our "fast-break" lunch, one health officer informed our cluster at the end of the line of the cruel reality that we would be "processed," by her estimate, after dark already. She added that another venue -- La Salle Academy -- was opened to ease off Robinson's congestion and assured us of no long line there.

Instantly, we drove to La Salle Academy, and contrary to what the health officer had told us, we found a line of people wormed its way through the school's narrow gate. At Robinson's, though we put up irritably with the seemingly endless wait on the long line, the mall's cool ambiance somehow made up for such hassle. At La Salle, on the other hand, though we took on a relatively shorter line, the humid dusty campus would sap our strength physically, impair our senses mentally, and shorten our temper emotionally.

Against all the odds, we decided in knocking off our day at La Salle.

Twice the line came to a standstill: first, due to the processing mix-up of people; second, the Sinovac vaccines' running out of supply. The latter was a "blessing in disguise" for us AstraZeneca vaccinees because crowds of Sinovac vaccinees were told to just come back when Sinovac vaccines arrive -- cutting down the line shorter.

To cut this line, er, story short, we left La Salle fully vaccinated after dark.

That was over a month ago.

Today, vaccine inequity splits the world into coronavirus vaccine "haves" and "have-nots."

"Vaccine inequity is the world's biggest obstacle to ending this pandemic and recovering from COVID-19.... the challenge of our time. And we are failing." – WHO

Our own experience showed PH as a "have-not." So sad. And our world is failing. So true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED

 

"Dy, I want to be a priest."

Driving home with my son James Ryan from the airport early in the day, the scenery of the tree-lined highway through our car windshield was as pretty as a picture of the rosy future I envisioned for him earlier in our conversation. After I heard the breaking news he had carried, for sure, as excess baggage in his flight, the scenery before me turned into what really it was – a highway made of concrete – hard, cold, and gray.

My wife and I have high expectation of James' future. Though he didn't graduate at the top of his class in the early years of his education, I found a letter, while cleaning our basement, untangled it. Written by their class valedictorian, one phrase fascinated me: "James, if not for the Dota ..." A winner can spot another winner outside the race track.

Right before James started college, I had talked with him man-to-man. I stressed that college would be the "main event" that could make or break his future. I told him my "secret system" in high school: "I studied each subject at day's end as if I'd take an exam tomorrow." To whet his appetite, I called my system approach "shock and awe," smacked of the Iraq war and his Dota's "rampage".

I dropped my "secret system" in college and replaced it with "secret crushes". Though it was not evident if James had drawn on my "secret system" as his driving force in topping his graduating nursing class, besides having a girlfriend, I thought I was able to instill in his mind my high expectation of him. Persuaded by his sister-nurse Jan Kristy, he went ahead to medical school as a full scholar. He graduated with a top-five distinction – a strenuous feat from the strictly-for-brainy-only doorway to the back-breaking climb to the top of the ladder of success in one of the premier schools in the country -- St Luke's Medical Center College of Medicine.

James' feat was not uncommon. There are parents today who can narrate the same or a whole lot better achievement by their own kids. The one thing though that James exhibited so strikingly that I thought he could do anything anywhere, occurred when he told me that he was taking Math 17 -- college algebra and trigonometry – the chopping block at the gateway to the Engineering world. I was glad to hear that, and being an engineer myself, told him in a prideful way, "The subject will show whether you possess an engineer's mind or not." My older brother-engineer Toto initiated me and it was blunt: "x plus x = 2x, x times x = x squared; believe it, accept it, with no question." At the end of the semester, he broke this news, "Dy, I got a flat 1.0 and broke my professor's never-to-give-1.0 code." I was tight-lipped -- shame on my 2.0 grade.

When he broke the priesthood news, he was on his way to the second year of his residency in St. Luke that could pave the way for his bright medical career. Her sister offered her condo at the heart of Makati as his home. His oncology specialization is a boundless and challenging field for his brain to explore

Like a delightful picture of "goodies" being delivered on a silver platter, all of that, James dropped like a hot potato. Varied reactions were much the same: like his Auntie Nasie's "What's going on, James?"; or Auntie Marina's advice for him to be a doctor first for the first few years then be a priest later to let Dad and Mom taste the fruit of their labor; or his peer's tongue-in-cheek proposition, "James, let's swap places." His dilemma was reflected in Robert Frost's first two lines of his classic "The Road Not Taken":

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both"

There were signs though pointing toward one particular road. His nun patient with cancer told him that he could put his special gift into service much better by being a priest.

Searching for a boarding house around the school before his very first day of class was a telling incident. Looking around and asking people for any available living space, one person pointed to him a hole-in-a-high-wall door. James knocked. A man, looking like a missionary, opened the door while checking around, as if making sure James had come alone, and wondering how he had found the place. Once inside, he asked James lots of questions: name, address, parents, purpose, like interrogating a "person of interest" in a crime movie.

James learned later he set foot on a seminary house hosting a prominent Timorese student, hence, the reason for the missionary's demeanor. He also learned that the student had wanted a roommate he preferred – James hit the spot -- as the right person, at the right place, and at the right time.

After James graduated, he dropped by the seminary house to pay for the 5-month balance of his almost "giveaway" lodging charges, and to bid farewell. The missionary handed the money back to James as a gift for his graduation.

Two weeks ago, our family chatted with James through Skype for an hour and a half – a small window the Jesuits had spared for family bonding every two months. He said, if Covid-19 protocols would allow, they would walk some long journey in Luzon on foot, with no provision, and would only depend on alms and begging for their sustenance. As he narrated more details, my family hanged on his every word, while I reached for the Bartlett's "Familiar Quotations" and read for the nth time Robert Frost's classic. The finale, in the context of James' crossroads, is soul-stirring:

"I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference."