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In times like this

Hospitals feel familiar to me these days. 

            My father’s going in and out of emergency wards with heartbreaking regularity.  The other day, doctors told us he has to be confined to the ICU this time.

            Most times, we go to the FEU Hospital in Fairview.  It’s the nearest facility with all the needed equipment.  The staff looks competent and is generally courteous.  Necessarily, in a system like ours, they’re expensive.

           We chose to bring our father to the Veterans Memorial Medical Center this time.  He’s been confined there several times in the past.  It’s cheaper for us because my sister is a nurse there and we could get discounts.

            The problem is that we have to buy all the medicines from outside.  Even if patients are able to pay for them, the hospital is so undersupplied they don’t have enough for all their patients.

            VMMC is 50 years old this year.  And it looks it.  The structure feels so old—from its broken and rusted windows to its heavy sinks to its extra thick concrete walls.  The gurneys patrolling its halls creak like haunted houses.  Its beds are older than I. Its offices still have typewriters.  Most of its doctors and nurses are old (the young ones leave for abroad after a while). Most of its patients are really old.  And dying.

            In my father’s first night at the ICU, an old man was wheeled in.  The doctors tried to revive him several times but he eventually bought it.  My sister asked Papa to go to sleep and not mind the drama a few feet from his bed.

            After the first night, we decided that we really need a private room for our father.  He can not be surrounded by too much death.  He might get ideas and give up fighting.  We don’t want that.

            Thankfully, a room became available in the ICU wing.  It’s small. It has not been coated with new paint for at least five years already.  But it’s got its pluses.

            Room G112 faces out.  It’s big window allows for views of greens and trees.  It even overlooks Erap’s VMMC quarters. 

            The huge open spaces outside the hospital building are what make VMMC unique among Philippine hospitals.  It is a complex surrounded by an 18-hole golf course—a must for all Department of National Defense properties.  It’s got old trees all around.  Street noise is hundreds of meters away.         

            When I hate the hospital’s familiar feel, I walk outside.  I sit on benches under the trees, light a cigarette and take deep breaths.  I close my eyes and savor the quiet.

            In times like this, silence is kind and solitude is bliss.

Bukaneg, the actor

The closest I’ve been to acting greatness was when I escorted The Superstar Nora Aunor from her parked car to the rally stage on Mendiola Bridge when the country was busy ousting Erap. I was her ‘hawi” boy for a few minutes. Several weeks later, I got invited to a birthday party in her big digs at Balete Drive (reportedly a gift from Erap himself).
       The most intimate I’ve been to acting greatness was when I “bought” National Artist for Literature and Stage Rolando Tinio’s car. Yes, Batik, which I have been driving for nearly six years already.
        When I was in grade school, I was forced to participate in school plays. My most memorable role was of “Mr. Earth” in a United Nation’s Day play. I had to wear a chicken wire/poster paper globe around my head for the role. Boy! I never looked so good in my young life. I remember the audience’s guffaws when I have to shove the mike into the hole that served as my mouth because I can’t be heard even if I was already shouting my earth-size head off. (It was the first and only time I gave anything a blowjob.) My giggle-inducing performance that time notwithstanding, I denied the rumors then that I have become swell-headed.
        No more acting offers came my way after that earth-shaking performance. I waited for years for big-budgeted movies and endorsements to come, but no such thing happened.
        This last quarter though, I was again thrust into “showbusiness.” Heh!
        A group of progressive artists wanted to produce an anti charter change music video. They needed someone to play a cop. Two roving pairs of producers’ eyes landed on my beer gut and they started laughing. Thinking that their malicious laughter could not be good, I said no at first. But I allowed myself to be convinced after just a few minutes. Stupid!
        The video is making the rounds now. For the record, di ho ako yun. But somehow I can’t but blush (if this is at all possible) when people start laughing at my face.
        Apparently, I learned no lesson. I allowed myself to be forced to do it again. This time, LIVE!
         So, for a week, I drove Director Boni Ilagan crazy trying to mold me into a passable stand up comic (at least).  But I forgot the lines (the one I wrote myself) so many times during rehearsals I really feared going blank come show time. In a supreme effort at politeness, he heaped praises on my stage partner but just kept silent regarding my case during company calls. But I sure got him.  Silence means a lot, I know.
        October 10.  5 p.m.  Show time. What d’ya know? Up there on the stage, with thousands in the audience, my lapel mike refused to work! We acted and delivered two jokes and the audience did not have a clue at all about I was saying and doing on stage. The stage managers had fits by the wings just as the strikers rushed a wireless microphone to me. I don’t know how much it affected our skit, but I knew almost nobody was laughing. (Okey, a few did but I suspect they were laughing at the fool before them and not because of my so-called thespian skills.)
          Thankfully, my agony ended soon enough. I beat a hasty retreat backstage and tried to enjoy the rest of the show in the shadows.
        So, there I was, bowing with the rest of the cast during our curtain call, realizing fully that my acting career was efficiently shot down even before it was launched.
        Just as well. All I want is to win a National Book Award anyway.
        Now, if only I could write.
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Skit Script
7^th Bayan Muna Political Party Anniversary Celebrations
10 October 2006, 5-7 pm, Bahay ng Alumni

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene	Fudge	Me
VO:   “Paano nga ba nag-umpisa ang Bayan Muna? Ating panoorin ang isang pagtatangkang ipaliwanag ang umpisa ng   paglalakbay tungo sa bagong pulitika, ang pulitika ng pagbabago.”	Journalist: “Narito tayo Ngayon at kinakapanayam natin   si Mr. Tibak Makabayan, official historian ng Partido Bayan Muna.” “Magandang   hapon po.” “Bakit   po ninyo itinayo ang Partido Bayan Muna?” “Aaahhh…”	BM   Historian: “Magandang hapon naman.” “Kasi,   hija, hindi pa siya nakatayo noon. Kaya namin itinayo.”
	Liza   Masa: “Grabe dyan sa Batasan! Wala   bang ibang Party List na maayos-ayos man lang magsalita para sa Bayan? Puro sablay ang analysis!” “Alam   ko na! Magtayo kaya tayo ng sarili nating Party List?” “Inggit   ako, eh!”	Satur   Ocampo: “Oo nga. Ano kaya ang pwede nating gawin?” “Ano?!   Natatandaan mo pa noong huling sumali ang mga progresibo sa kampanyang   electoral? Dinaya! Bakit naman tayo   muling magtatayo ng partidong pang-elektoral?”
	Journalist:   “Paano niyo ho naman naisip ang pangalang ‘Bayan Muna’?”	BM   Historian: “Ganito yun, hija…”
	Liza   Masa: “Tama! Yun ang gagawin natin!   Magtayo tayo ng bagong Party List!” “Hindi,   Ka Satur! Mag-isip tayo ng magandang pangalan?” “’Wag   na yun. Iba naman.” “Ay!   ABB?!” “Ay!   CPP?! (mag-iisip) “Aakbayan?”	Satur   Ocampo: “Ang pangalan ng partido ay ‘Bagong Party List’?” “E,   ano? ‘Partido ng Bayan’ uli?” “Ah!   ‘Ang Bayan, Bow’!” “E   di, ‘Ang Bayan’!” “Alam   ko na!  Para una sa listahan ng Comelec, kailangan dalawang letra "A" ang umpisa." “Baho!   Hmmp!”
	Journalist:   “Alam ho ninyo, marami ang nagagandahan sa logo ng Bayan Muna.” “Paano   ho ba ninyo napinalisa ang disenyo niyan?”	BM   Historian: “A, e, salamat. Salamat naman hija at nagustuhan nila.”
	Liza   Masa: “Ayan! Nag-imprenta na ang Gabriela ng libo-libong posters para sa   eleksiyon!” “E   kesa naman sa disenyo ng Kadamay. Nasa   kanan! Parang lumulubog na araw.” “Eto   naman ang hindi ko maipaliwanag. Bakit   ang poster na galing sa YS, black & white?”	Satur   Ocampo: “Bakit naman nasa itaas ng araw? Mukhang tanghaling tapat?” “E,   taga Navotas daw ang gumawa e. Na-inspire sa Manila Bay sunset!" “Walang   pera, nagtitipid sa colored na tinta.”
	Journalist:   “Aahh. Kaya pala inilagay niyo sa kaliwa at baba ang araw. Para magmukha siyang sumisikat!"	BM   Historian: “Tama ka, hija. Bukod pa sa   kaliwete talaga ang nag-design niyan.”
	Journalist:   “May mga nabago ho ba naman sa inyo simula noong muli kayong sumali sa   eleksiyon?”	BM   Historian: “E, hehehehe…”
	Stylist:   “Ka Bel, dahil magiging congressman kayo, hindi na pwede ang mga dati niyong   wardrobe!” “At   saka dapat, tanggalin niyo na ang inyong sumbrero.” "At   saka dapat kayong naka-barong at naka-balat na sapatos. Dapat magpapa-facial din kayo…”	Crispin   Beltran: “E, di na bale. Okey na ako   sa t-shirt ng KMU. Presko at   kumportable.” “Parang   di ako kung walang takip sa ulo e.” “Nalintikan   na. Ano ba itong napasok ko?”
	Journalist:   “Kumusta naman ang muli niyong pagsabak sa eleksiyon. Hindi ba kayo nanibago matapos ang mahabang   panahon?”	BM   Historian: “Hindi naman. Sanay kasi kaming magprograma e.”
(VO)   “Este, Ka Bel, Ka Lisa, nangangampanya ho tayo, hindi ito rali sa embassy.”	Liza   Masa: “Wakasan ang pagsasamantala sa kababaihan!” “Pyudalismo,   ibagsak!”	Crispin   Beltran: “Itaas ang sahod ng manggagawa! Siyento bente-singko, across the   board, nationwide! Imperyalismo, ibagsak!” “Burukrata   kapitalismo, ibagsak!”
	Journalist:   pinagsisisihan ho ba ninyo ang inyong pagsali sa electoral politics?”	BM   Historian: “A, hindi naman, hija. Sa   pamamagitan ng Bayan Muna, may karagdagang serbisyo at boses kaming   idinadagdag sa paglaya ng sambayanan.”
(VO)   “Para sa politika ng pagbabago, Bayan Muna ang iboto!” “Bayan   Muna. Our name. Our commitment!” “Bayan   Muna! Ang Party List ninyo!”	Liza   Masa: Kakaway-kaway sa audience parang sa campaign sortie	Satur   Ocampo: (Same)
(VO)   BM Jingle: “Salubungin ang BUNGANG   ARAW!.....”	Exit; kakamot-kamot	(Same)

 

Tales of my city

I live in an area that is no stranger to crime.  My car and my father’s bus have been burglarized in the past, our stereos taken.  Things have been taken from my parents’ house as well—from jewelry to cellphones, even television remote commanders and my niece’s piggy bank.

            Some thieves do it to buy food once their stolen items are fenced.  Some do it to finance their illegal drug addiction. I blame poverty the most.

            In civilized countries, we seek the police to help solve crimes and help prevent them from happening.  The Philippines having illusions of civility sometimes rely on the Philippine National Police.  They are, after all, our “servants and protectors” as their cruisers loudly proclaim with chipping paint.

            I was given a demonstration of how valuable the police are to us these past few days.  Three teenage kids held up our neighborhood internet shop the other day and carted away the grand sum of a thousand pesos and a cellphone belonging to a high school student playing nooky and online games instead of attending class.  It happened at about three o’clock in the afternoon.

            The police were summoned and immediately knew which house to encircle.  Apparently, they had their eyes on a group of kids who already had police records.  Sure enough, the suspects were there and were collared.

            A kid protested his arrest too much and was pistol whipped on his young forehead.  His injury generously spurted warm blood all over his shirt.  All three were tied up like pigs about to be led to the slaughterhouse.  The officers used ropes and not handcuffs 

No Miranda Rights were read either.  Instead, the police shouted to the gathered people watching the reality TV action that our community should be grateful.  The notorious hold-uppers have been caught. 

To call backup, the police had to ask which houses had telephone lines so they could call their precinct.  No radios, no 911s, no cellphones for these officers.  My mom offered ours.

And so the suspects were hauled to jail.  I later learned from neighbors that the youthful gang’s reported leader was an abandoned kid who lived with friends, one of whom was our neighbor. 

What I heard is that the shop owner did not press charges.  So the suspects were released at about ten o’clock that evening.

Morning came and I was glued on the early morning news program on television.  While sipping my non-Nestle’ coffee, a vaguely familiar face flashed onscreen followed by the newsreader’s announcement that the kid on the photo was shot dead by motorcycle riding men wearing ski masks last night.  He was on his way home from the precinct, having been released not more than 30 minutes earlier.

The police have a term for it.  They call it “byahe”—suspected criminals given vigilante justice by the officers themselves.  Perhaps they thought that the kid is already incorrigible and it is to society’s benefit that they are erased from the face of this earth.

Tonight, our community is holding a wake for a 17-year old kid who was never given a chance at life.

A good day

It had been a good day. 

       Today, I succeeded in canning a previous broadcast.  I met the broadcaster on whose radio program our production would be aired soon.  My two audio information plugs were recorded and sent out.  By any measure it had been a productive day.

        Late this afternoon, I chatted with a former CEGP colleague.  She now works for a progressive research institution.  I learned from her that the person I wish the worst series of rotten luck (okey, the second person after the cheat, thief and killer at the palace) is in dire need of money again and asking for loans from her.  It felt nice knowing he’s having trouble keeping his sorry ass afloat and finance his alcohol and drug problems. 

        Another friend asked for my piece of advice.  It felt nice to be of good to somebody.

       My wife is off somewhere, waiting to try out her brand new snorkeling gear.  I miss her but she needs her regular dose of seawater.  She’s part mermaid, you know.

       Tonight, I bought a Morgan Freeman collection issue DVD.  Saw two movies in a 9-in-1 CD—“Chain Reaction” with Keanu Reeves and “An Unfinished Life” with Jennifer Lopez.

       While glued on my old Sony, I munched on Boy Bawang while chugging two bottles of strong beer (named after an animal that wears shoes).

       It had been a good day.  And it is a good night.

       I am grateful for small blessings.

On death and courage

My father broke my heart today. He told me to ask our district’s congressman to help in flying him home when he dies. I was speechless for a moment.
       With a brave face, I replied we will fly him home—with or without the politico's help.  My dad never asked for favors from politicians when he was in government. Why would we when he leaves us?
       My father and I gave each other a smile after the short exchange. We both knew we felt no joy in that.
       Since my father's first stroke several years ago, I kept thinking I should prepare myself for his death. Several more strokes and near deaths later, I am no more prepared.
       Will I ever be?
       I do not know why Papa sometimes refuse medication. We have to force him even. He no longer desires to see people he always wanted to see. He no longer likes to visit places he was always eager to go to. He spends his days sleeping.
       He's so thin.  His speech is garbled and weak. He moves painfully. He has very little patience with us. But it’s okey. We understand.
       I love my father so much. I am deeply sorry for not being obedient enough to achieve the things he dreamt and worked so hard for me. But I have always tried to make him be proud of me.
       I wish I could be by his side always these days. But I have errands to make and promises to keep. I struggle to say how much I love him and how grateful we are for our father. I hope I’m not mistaken in assuming he knows.
       His had been a hard life. he struggled and conquered all that life has given him. No one can say that he did not succeed though. He won many friends and earned very few enemies, if any.
       My father's parents and four of his dear siblings have gone and left us. He's seen so many passages in his family. Perhaps Papa feels it’s his time very soon.
       In his last days, my father is as brave as ever. It is us, his loved ones and who love him dearly, who are afraid.
       When death comes for my father, I wish we will be brave enough for him.