His reputation was always ahead of him – a caustic, insulting and inconsiderate instructor who flunked 70-80 percent of the members of his English 4 classes. His tall lean frame gave him that mean and hungry look which further terrorized future students in “Contents and Style.” Naturally he was avoided by second year students who had to take the course during the second semester. When they went to the Gym to communicate with God on Sunday afternoons, they never missed in their petition the immediate recall to the US of Peace Corp volunteer Douglas Griffith. But the Lord was so busy at that time with the deteriorating situation in Vietnam to attend to anxiety of incoming English 4 students. So when I enrolled in the course in my fourth semester stay at MSU Marawi campus, I noticed that 8 out of the 13 members of the class were already fourth year and graduating students.
The senior female members of the class who weaved scary tales about Mr. Griffith called him “the pelican.” They never explained why. Probably, because he was always solitary and walked with his shoulders hunched a little forward, his bespectacled eyes hardly leaving the ground.
During the first meeting of our class all 13 of us occupied the last row of seats in one of those small classrooms in the old Gym in front Raja Indarapatra Dorm. The pelican arrived and was apparently amused by our cowardly position in the room and immediately barked:
“You should not change this sitting arrangement. You should remain in your exact position till the end of the semester.”
He moved with his back to the door and of a sudden kicked it with the force of a provoked horse, shaking precariously the tender walls of the room and sending the chalk powder that accumulated at the bottom of the blackboard in different directions. He thereupon bellowed:
“I would not allow anybody in this class to drop this course!”
We were given a diagnostic writing exercise on the topic “On Education.” I wrote that education does not improve the individual and the character of a nation. For instance, I argued to support my thesis, the most educated people in the world today are the Americans. But look what they are doing in Vietnam…blahblah…”
The result was devastating. My paper was bloody red all over. So many faults found: problem on antecedents, wrong tenses, wrong infinitives, dangling modifiers, so many passive and kilometric sentences, wrong punctuations, unnecessary and inappropriate words, spelling, etc. The sickening point was the remarks:
“You are a damn ass. You have nothing to say. You are simply playing with verbal garbage!”
The papers of my nearest seatmates were graded 3- , 4+ or 5. I could not locate my grade with all the red embellishments on my paper. Then my classmate and roommate, the late Mar Pagang, spotted it. It was the biggest 5 I ever received in my life. The mark actually occupied the entire page – starting with a long line on the top most border of the paper from right to left, moving along the left border down to the middle, crossing the center to the right border, moving along the right border down, and then curbed at the bottom back to the left border. It was amazing how he could shrewdly and artistically humiliate a person.
Doug Griffith exuded with dramatics that impacted on our consciousness. Our topic one foggy, muddy, cold day in November was definition. He began by asking the first student on his left side of the row: What is a chair?
“A chair is something you sit on,” she replied.
Almost automatically Doug dropped and sat on the floor, the bottoms of his white trousers, as well as his delicate hands muddied all over.
“So this is a chair!” He shouted. “Is this a chair?” he asked the girl while he was still sitting on the muddy floor.
“No Sir, that’s a floor.” She answered trembling.
“A minute ago you declared this is a chair. Fickle minded.” He rose and asked the next guy what his definition of a chair is.
“A chair is an object to sit on with four legs,” he replied.
“So this is a chair!" He cried as he climbed and sat on the table. “Is this a chair? He demanded.
“No Sir, that’s a table,” said the guy bewildered.
The next girl on the line defined a chair as an object with four legs with a writing arm. The instructor pulled from a corner a classroom chair with a missing leg and put it in front us. He looked at the class and looked at the chair and then kicked it like a football raging: “So this is not a chair!” The chair bounced on the wall and broke another leg. The girl grew white in fear.
So the questioning continued down the line. There was no satisfactory definition of a chair; the last ones were suffocated with details that begged a distinction between a chair behind a table, a bench and a writing chair. “Now, now, you, “he said addressing to me at the end of the line, “after hearing all their definitions, what is your definition of a chair.”
I didn’t know what to answer. To repeat what they said is catastrophe. After some seconds of hesitation I replied:
“My definition of a chair is a combination of all their definitions.”
The class was silent waiting for an explosion. It never came. The instructor clasped his hand behind him, moved back and forth in front us, and then announced: “Class dismissed.”
Until now I do not really know the value of my answer. It means nothing to me. It fails to define a chair. It appeared that it simply played on internal logic that Doug probably thought difficult to debunk. Anyway, there were many similar thought-provoking and emotionally jarring incidents after that to put across our teacher’s message that we should be sharp, definite and accurate in how we think and how we say it.
There would be plenty of writing exercises at the end of his topical lectures. We were required to maintain a journal, a thick notebook, where we jot down daily a paragraph or two on something - our observations on things around us, our reactions to facts and events, our fears, anxiety, doubts, confusion, love, hatred, impressions, imaginations, dreams, and what have you. He would diligently collect the journals Friday afternoon, read and correct them on weekends and return them to us on Monday morning. He introduced us an impressive thin book of 85 pages, “The Elements of Style” by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White which he encouraged us to own a copy.
“Read this book,” he said. “Master this book. You don’t have to read any other books on writing after this. If you can master this book you can write on anything on any form because the essentials are here.”
Over time my impression on Doug changed. His “terror” stance, his dramatics and antics were after all designed to provoke his students into deep and powerful thinking to liberate them from the prison of shallow action-reaction thoughts and behaviors. I realized that his criticisms of one’s work were well-placed and his suggestions were directed to improve the expression of thoughts.
My change of attitude also changed the quality of my outputs. Soon, some of my papers were read in class. My grade also underwent radical metamorphosis.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Embarrassed
t was one hot Friday afternoon long time ago. I was absorbed checking the essay part of a midterm exam in my political science class at Agusan Colleges. All of a sudden the siren of the sawmill near our house in Golden Ribbon blasted the hour of the day: 5 pm. I was rattled. I remembered that I had a date at 5:30 that afternoon with Ms C. B., a pretty MSUan who was teaching at Agusan National High School. I rushed for a shower, changed my clothes, run to the street and hailed a motor-cab. The cab driver happened to be a boyhood friend and was just too willing to speed his rickety vehicle to the rendezvous place. He did not pick up additional passengers along the way when he knew of my predicament. He also refused payment for the special trip. I was so greatly grateful for the riding privilege.
I was only late for some 10 minutes. It was easy for me to spot my date in the newly opened restaurant in the heart of Butuan City. Ms C. B. was wearing her school uniform and was with an equally beautiful colleague also in uniform. They were all smile when I approached them. Introductions were made and I noticed immediately that Ms C. B. set up the date for me to meet her close friend.
The establishment was famous for its delicious siopao and halo-halo. We decided on that fare with a cola. The social chat that followed covered a lot of grounds – funny and challenging teaching experiences, the lingering talk on Marcos imposing martial law, student activism, the MSU students’ PAL hijack to communist China, the travails of writing, and the philosophical novels of Ayn Rand. My new lady friend impressed me with her grasp of the issues of the day. She talked with conviction but admitted she could not walk her talk because of family pressure. That would mean I could not invite her to political teach-ins and rallies. No deal.
It was almost 7 pm when we decided to call it a day. My new friend excused to go to the CR when I called the waiter for our chit. I reached for my wallet at the back pocket of my pants when the bill was handed to me. I froze with terror. It was not there. I was seized by extreme nausea and I supposed I turned pale as a result. Ms. C.B. was quick to notice it.
“Anything wrong?” She asked with deep concern.
“My wallet is in my other pants,” I said flatly.
She examined the bill and declared she had not enough money for it. But she reached for my right hand, squeezed it and told me not to worry. She walked towards the Cashier and returned in a short while to our table smiling.
“The Cashier is a sister of another close friend,” she explained. I told her I left my purse inside my office table and would pay our bill tomorrow.”
“Do you have fare money?” she inquired.
“Actually, none. I thought earlier that these keys in my pockets were coins.”
She chuckled and inserted something into the pocket of my polo shirt just before her co-teacher had returned to our table.
I was only late for some 10 minutes. It was easy for me to spot my date in the newly opened restaurant in the heart of Butuan City. Ms C. B. was wearing her school uniform and was with an equally beautiful colleague also in uniform. They were all smile when I approached them. Introductions were made and I noticed immediately that Ms C. B. set up the date for me to meet her close friend.
The establishment was famous for its delicious siopao and halo-halo. We decided on that fare with a cola. The social chat that followed covered a lot of grounds – funny and challenging teaching experiences, the lingering talk on Marcos imposing martial law, student activism, the MSU students’ PAL hijack to communist China, the travails of writing, and the philosophical novels of Ayn Rand. My new lady friend impressed me with her grasp of the issues of the day. She talked with conviction but admitted she could not walk her talk because of family pressure. That would mean I could not invite her to political teach-ins and rallies. No deal.
It was almost 7 pm when we decided to call it a day. My new friend excused to go to the CR when I called the waiter for our chit. I reached for my wallet at the back pocket of my pants when the bill was handed to me. I froze with terror. It was not there. I was seized by extreme nausea and I supposed I turned pale as a result. Ms. C.B. was quick to notice it.
“Anything wrong?” She asked with deep concern.
“My wallet is in my other pants,” I said flatly.
She examined the bill and declared she had not enough money for it. But she reached for my right hand, squeezed it and told me not to worry. She walked towards the Cashier and returned in a short while to our table smiling.
“The Cashier is a sister of another close friend,” she explained. I told her I left my purse inside my office table and would pay our bill tomorrow.”
“Do you have fare money?” she inquired.
“Actually, none. I thought earlier that these keys in my pockets were coins.”
She chuckled and inserted something into the pocket of my polo shirt just before her co-teacher had returned to our table.
Seatmate
March 1990. I was the last passenger one day to board the plane bound for Manila and was seated beside a charming young lady at the rearmost seat of the cabin. I immediately fastened my seatbelt as the plane readied for take off. Then I noticed something: my seatmate was agitated and was sweating furiously despite the drop in temperature inside the cabin.
“Is there anything wrong?” I asked her.
“I don’t know how to do it,” she said pointing to her still unfastened seatbelt.
The plane was already taking off. I took and adjusted her seatbelt and locked it. She was totally relieved. She smiled rather sadly and thanked me.
“Is this your first plane ride?” I started a conversation.
“Yes,” she said almost in a whisper.
“Are you scared?”
“Yes…”
“No, you should not. Airplanes are still the safest mass transit vehicles in the whole world,” I assured her. “And in case of an accident,” I tried to make some joke to calm her nerves, “it is so quick and fast that, before we know it, we will already be in heaven.”
“I’m not afraid so much of the plane ride but what I will do when I arrive in Manila,” she explained.
“Why, is this also you first time in Manila? How old are you incidentally?”
Lourie was 15, a third year high school. It would be her first time in Manila, in fact, also her first time to travel away from home. From Manila she would proceed to Olongapo City to the family of her elder sister. Her sister was married to an American sailor, had two kids, and the family was very soon to leave for the U.S. Her sister wanted to leave all their home appliances and furniture to her parents in Bugo, Cagayan de Oro. These would be shipped home in a container van. But there were some small but precious items that she wanted her younger sister to carry personally home to Cagayan de Oro.
“Is there someone to meet you at the airport and send you off to Olongapo?” I inquired.
She opened her purse and showed me a name and a telephone number. It was a name of an owner of an appliance store in Avenida who also owned the movie house (the decrepit wooden movie house near Ororama in Cogon, Cagayan de Oro, demolished some 15 years ago) where his father worked as a movie projector operator. The instruction of his father was to call the number and wait at the airport for somebody to accompany her to the terminal for Olongapo bound buses, also located in Avenida.
“Have you ever met your father’s boss or any member of his family?”
“No.”
I perceived a problem. What if the store was closed and no one would answer the phone? What if everybody was busy and nobody would meet her at the airport?
Once I had gathered my checked-in luggage I towed the girl to a telephone booth. She was, however, hesitant to touch the phone.
“What’s the problem?”
“Actually, Sir, I have not yet used a telephone in my whole life. I don’t know how to do it,” she said obviously embarrassed.
To save time as it was almost 4 o’clock in the afternoon I rang the contact number myself. A guy answered that his father was not around and he could not leave the store because he was alone.
When I told her of the phone conversation she panicked and tears started to roll down her cheeks.
“Calm down,” I told her as I opened my wallet and gave her my business card. “There is only thing you should do: Trust me. We’ll get a taxi and I will accompany you to the bus terminal. But first let’s drop at our MSU office here in Manila where I could leave this box (BOR Naawan agenda matters) and my luggage.”
We could have gone directly to my hotel for the purpose. But the mention of a hotel might intimidate her. She had had enough of uncertainty and fear.
We dropped at the Antonino Building and took the lift to the MSU Liaison Office on the 11th floor. I did not ask her but I supposed that was also her first elevator ride. She was startled and held tightly at my arm when we started to move up. There were some MSU officials in the office and they thought that my young pretty companion was my daughter. The office was about to close. Dr. Manong Sarangani, then the Chancellor of MSU GenSan, volunteered to bring my luggage to our hotel (Jadevine) upon learning of my errand.
The girl and I took another taxi for the Olongapo bound terminal. While inside the taxi she showed me the location sketch of her sister’s apartment in Olongapo City. Accordingly, her sister had been telegrammed a day before of her estimated arrival and would be waiting for her that evening at the Olongapo bus terminal. Notwithstanding the information, I was still worried about her; I gave her my hotel’s phone number for whatever use it may serve her.
Once seated in the Philippine Rabbit bus, she just looked at me and said nothing. Then she gently held my hands and cupped her face with them for some moments. She closed her eyes and sobbed silently as she let go of me.
Early the following morning the elder sister called informing and thanking me for the safe travel of her kid sister.
“Is there anything wrong?” I asked her.
“I don’t know how to do it,” she said pointing to her still unfastened seatbelt.
The plane was already taking off. I took and adjusted her seatbelt and locked it. She was totally relieved. She smiled rather sadly and thanked me.
“Is this your first plane ride?” I started a conversation.
“Yes,” she said almost in a whisper.
“Are you scared?”
“Yes…”
“No, you should not. Airplanes are still the safest mass transit vehicles in the whole world,” I assured her. “And in case of an accident,” I tried to make some joke to calm her nerves, “it is so quick and fast that, before we know it, we will already be in heaven.”
“I’m not afraid so much of the plane ride but what I will do when I arrive in Manila,” she explained.
“Why, is this also you first time in Manila? How old are you incidentally?”
Lourie was 15, a third year high school. It would be her first time in Manila, in fact, also her first time to travel away from home. From Manila she would proceed to Olongapo City to the family of her elder sister. Her sister was married to an American sailor, had two kids, and the family was very soon to leave for the U.S. Her sister wanted to leave all their home appliances and furniture to her parents in Bugo, Cagayan de Oro. These would be shipped home in a container van. But there were some small but precious items that she wanted her younger sister to carry personally home to Cagayan de Oro.
“Is there someone to meet you at the airport and send you off to Olongapo?” I inquired.
She opened her purse and showed me a name and a telephone number. It was a name of an owner of an appliance store in Avenida who also owned the movie house (the decrepit wooden movie house near Ororama in Cogon, Cagayan de Oro, demolished some 15 years ago) where his father worked as a movie projector operator. The instruction of his father was to call the number and wait at the airport for somebody to accompany her to the terminal for Olongapo bound buses, also located in Avenida.
“Have you ever met your father’s boss or any member of his family?”
“No.”
I perceived a problem. What if the store was closed and no one would answer the phone? What if everybody was busy and nobody would meet her at the airport?
Once I had gathered my checked-in luggage I towed the girl to a telephone booth. She was, however, hesitant to touch the phone.
“What’s the problem?”
“Actually, Sir, I have not yet used a telephone in my whole life. I don’t know how to do it,” she said obviously embarrassed.
To save time as it was almost 4 o’clock in the afternoon I rang the contact number myself. A guy answered that his father was not around and he could not leave the store because he was alone.
When I told her of the phone conversation she panicked and tears started to roll down her cheeks.
“Calm down,” I told her as I opened my wallet and gave her my business card. “There is only thing you should do: Trust me. We’ll get a taxi and I will accompany you to the bus terminal. But first let’s drop at our MSU office here in Manila where I could leave this box (BOR Naawan agenda matters) and my luggage.”
We could have gone directly to my hotel for the purpose. But the mention of a hotel might intimidate her. She had had enough of uncertainty and fear.
We dropped at the Antonino Building and took the lift to the MSU Liaison Office on the 11th floor. I did not ask her but I supposed that was also her first elevator ride. She was startled and held tightly at my arm when we started to move up. There were some MSU officials in the office and they thought that my young pretty companion was my daughter. The office was about to close. Dr. Manong Sarangani, then the Chancellor of MSU GenSan, volunteered to bring my luggage to our hotel (Jadevine) upon learning of my errand.
The girl and I took another taxi for the Olongapo bound terminal. While inside the taxi she showed me the location sketch of her sister’s apartment in Olongapo City. Accordingly, her sister had been telegrammed a day before of her estimated arrival and would be waiting for her that evening at the Olongapo bus terminal. Notwithstanding the information, I was still worried about her; I gave her my hotel’s phone number for whatever use it may serve her.
Once seated in the Philippine Rabbit bus, she just looked at me and said nothing. Then she gently held my hands and cupped her face with them for some moments. She closed her eyes and sobbed silently as she let go of me.
Early the following morning the elder sister called informing and thanking me for the safe travel of her kid sister.
The Man from Tugaya
My son failed to put enough pressure on the brake in that crucial moment and our old Isuzu Highlander slammed head-on to the left engine side of a sparkling Isuzu Crosswind that suddenly appeared in that intersection from nowhere. The crashing sound of the impact attracted people in that otherwise traffic-free intersection of
The driver of the Crosswind was quick to alight from his vehicle, halted and ushered his passengers to a passing jeepney. By his attire, my son figured that he had hit a car driven by a Maranao. His heart sunk and his feet turned into jelly. He remained on his seat for some eternity contemplating on his next moves. My wife, obviously shocked, started calling me frantically from her cellular phone.
But I was of no immediate help. I was beyond reach at that moment. I was on my mountain bike descending like a waterfall down a rough, steep and winding road carved from the mountainside of Balingtad, Manticao Misamis Oriental, about 46 km away from Iligan City.
My son finally summoned enough courage from within him and climbed down from his perch. He approached the driver who was inspecting the damage on his car and carefully put his left arm on his shoulders.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I tried but failed to avoid you. I am relieved that no one was hurt.”
“Well, it was an accident. I must admit I was a little fast because I did not want my passengers to be left behind by the Supper Ferry 11 a.m. schedule. Yes, we are fortunate that no one was hurt,” the Crosswind’s driver matter-of-factly replied.
My son, greatly consoled and comforted by the calm and friendly demeanor of the driver, introduced himself to him. The guy told him his name and showed him his driver’s license apparently to validate his information. His name was Sharif A from Tugaya, Lanao del Sur. He owned the Crosswind he was driving.
A radio announcer was on the scene just after impact and tried to manage the growing crowd. Using his two-way radio, he informed the City’s Traffic Management Office of the accident. Meanwhile, he requested unnecessarily the two drivers to remain calm and leave their vehicles on their exact location until the arrival of the traffic officers.
A band of Maranaos arrived and started talking excitedly to Sharif. They told him that my son was definitely at fault. Sharif looked at them and said that it was for the traffic investigation team to decide. They gave him their own estimate of the damage. He told them that the matter was for the insurance company to make. One claimed that the destroyed front light bulb alone would cost P7-10k. Sharif patiently told him that he bought it some two months ago in
Halfway between Balingtad and Manticao proper my cell phone began beeping like mad. Seven text messages from my wife informed me and provided details of the accident. I immediately called her telling her that I was on my way and advising and assuring her to relax because everything would be all right. I also called my eldest son directing him to rush to Iligan to keep her mom and his younger brother company and to inform our insurer of the accident. Meanwhile, my biking companion and I decided to go back to Naawan. We negotiated the route back home at 30-35 km/hour.
In the race to Naawan some butterflies started to flutter in my stomach as the traumatic experience of my younger brother long time ago was refreshed in my mind. The company vehicle he was riding from an inspection tour of a road they were constructing in Tubod, Lanao del Norte, bumped a five year old Maranao girl somewhere in Kauswagan, Lanao del Norte. The girl, unmindful of the onrushing car, crossed the highway and ran after her grandma who was already on the other side of the road. It was too late for the old lady to stop her, and too late for the driver to totally avoid her. My brother picked up the bloody mess of a child and persuaded the grandma to accompany them to the hospital in Iligan. Upon reaching the Sanitarium, my brother directed his driver to surrender the vehicle and himself to the police station.
In the emergency room, the attending physician could not believe the results of the medical examination of the little girl. Despite the impact of the vehicle on her frail body she sustained no fractured bones. Except for the minor but bleeding wound in her forehead and the bruises in her tiny limbs, the child was in exceptionally stable condition. Nonetheless, the she had to be admitted in the hospital for a 24-hour medical observation. The child was about to be ushered to a private room when a throng of relatives arrived angrily demanding for the driver of the ill-fated vehicle. The medical team scampered to safety. Only my brother, the little girl and the grandmother remained in the room. Then a young man pointed to my brother telling the crowd that he was the one who picked the child up and pushed the old lady inside the car. My brother tried to explain but they seemed to hear nothing and started inching towards him. The guard informed of the commotion rushed to the scene and somehow stopped what could have been a tragic event. He was tailed by a tall fellow with a .45 pistol bulging on the left side of his waist.
“Are you the driver?’ the new arrival with the .45 asked with authority.
“No,” my brother replied. I am the passenger – the project engineer. The driver already surrendered to the City Police Station,” he explained.
“He should have surrendered to the PNP in Kauswagan where the accident happened,” the guy blurted out and demanded for my brother’s ID.
“My driver was entertaining that but I ordered him to rush here so that the child can get immediate medical attention. The life of the child was our primary concern,” he answered while handing to him his ID.
The tall guy examined my brother’s ID, looked quizzically at him, narrowed his forehead and asked: “Are you in anyway related to Willie A of MSU Naawan?”
“He is my elder brother.”
“O my God!”
He put his arm around the shoulders of my brother and immediately addressed the crowd, telling everyone that everything is Ok and to leave the stranger (my brother) alone because “I know his brother.”
I was waiting for the bus ride to Iligan after a quick change of clothing when by good fortune an unfamiliar car stopped where I was standing. The new car was owned by a son of a family friend. Thus I was in Iligan in just about an hour upon learning of the incident.
From a distance I saw my two sons talking to the insurance man and to another man whom I presumed to be the driver-owner of the Isuzu Crosswind. I approached them and introduced myself to the owner of the Crosswind.
The man was cool and composed. He showed me his driver’s license, his OR and the certificate of registration of his vehicle even without my asking.
“We are a little unfortunate today Sharif,” I declared.
“Perhaps, but only a little as you said Mr. Willie,” he replied. “To be honest, I actually consider myself fortunate because if it was I who hit your car I really don’t know where to get the money for the repair of the two vehicles. My car is not covered by a comprehensive insurance.
Only two months ago I also figured in an accident with this car while driving in
“Sharif, I am really fascinated by the way you take and handle things like this,” I told him. “You seem undisturbed by the incident. You appear to me incapable of anger. You are really different.”
“Mr. Willie,” he explained. “Nobody wants an accident. Not you and me. But you cannot avoid an accident. If it is bound to happen it will happen. Consider this: I was from Tugaya and your son was from Naawan. We did not know each other and never had an agreement to come to Iligan and arrived here today almost at the same time. There are many routes to the pier and there are other routes to the bank he was going. He chose his own route and I chose mine and we met in that intersection in a way that no one of us desired.”
“But by experience many people get mad in situation like this,” I said.
“One must be mad for the right reason and at the right time,” he mused. “To get mad you must have someone to blame and direct your ire to. But who is to blame for an incident that no one intended to do or even wished to do? Accidents might be divine jokes. This one was neither funny nor so cruel in anyway. Whatever, this is one of the things we have to accept in life.”
He gently tapped my shoulder and whispered a request: “Please put some pressure on the insurance and the repair shop to hasten the restoration of my car. This is my livelihood. I ferry passengers in groups (pakyaw) from Marawi to any parts of
I promised. The shop released his car to his satisfaction three weeks after the incident and two days before the New Year. Mine languished in the shop for another two weeks.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Textmate: Just for Once
1:37 a.m. The beeping of my cellular phone jolted me from my slumber. In this unholy hour this might be a very important message, ran my thought. But the number was not in my phone directory. Who could this be? I opened the message:
“I’m tired of you. You can go and rut in hell!”
“Why are you sending me to hell? I don’t even know you?” I sent a message back irritated.
“Who are you?”
“Is that all you would say after interrupting my sleep?” I switched my phone off and went back to sleep. I had still 2 hours to capture energy for my system before the 4 a.m. trip to Dinas, Zamboanga del Sur.
Along the way to Pagadian City the same number sent an apologetic note:
“Sorry Sir/Ma’am for my offensive behavior early this morning. The message was not intended for you but for my boyfriend. We quarreled after the office party.”
“No problem. But definitely I’m not a ma’am and please do not sir me.” I replied.
That’s how my one year textmate relationship with Elen started. She was 27 years old, single, and an executive secretary of a firm that installed telephone lines throughout northern Mindanao. Her boyfriend was one of the communication engineers of the company. I was then 54 years old, married, with six grown up kids. When she asked me what I was doing in Dinas, a peace-challenged community in Zamboanga peninsula, I told her I ran errands for my organization going to this and that place convincing people to protect and manage their coastal resources and environment.
Elen was thoughtful and sweet. Every time I entered a critical community where cell phones became useless and only one’s faith in God mattered, she would chase me with “Take care, ingat and God bless” before the signals disappeared. I regaled her with jokes and advised her how to handle her boyfriend every time they quarreled.
One day, I received a voice call from an unknown number.
“May I talk to Mr. William Adan?”
“Yes, speaking. Dr. William Adan, speaking. Anything I can do for you?” I replied.
The phone went dead. Then my phone rang again and Elen’s number surfaced; and she came ranting in Tagalog:
“Walang hiya ka. Niloko mo ako nang husto. Utosan daw, errand lang daw siya, extension worker, yon pala ay doctor. Siguro nakita mo na ako sa isang hospital dito sa Cagayan de Oro. Baka kapitbahay pa nga kita at matagal mo na akong minamanmanan at pinagtawanan…Bakit mo ito ginawa sa akin? Paniwalang paniwala pa naman ako sa inyo…”And her voice quavered probably in an attempt to suppress emotion.
That was the first time I heard of Elen’s voice. Despite her anger she came sweet and fragile. I was amused by her behavior.
“No, Elen, I told you the truth. I do extension works. Doctors run errands, too. And not all of them are working in hospitals. I told you once that I work in a university, remember? We have never met and I have not seen you yet. And you are not a laughing matter to me. I value your friendship. I have not taken advantage of you, have I? ” I explained consoling her.
There was a long silence. She sobered and then asked:
“Are you really married with six children and as old as my father?”
“Yes, I’m married. Yes, I have six kids. And perhaps I am old as your father.”
“If so, why have you kept me as a textmate? It’s difficult to imagine my father having a lady half his age as a textmate.”
“I’m not your father. And you started all this, remember?”
I thought the confrontation would end our friendship. On the contrary, our friendship blossomed. She did not only send text messages but began to call me now and then to update me of the happenings of their office and to inquire on my activities in the field. I learned that her firm had to close shop by middle of January 2004 as its work contract in Mindanao had been accomplished. Then one day a week before Christmas she called:
“I broke with my boyfriend and this is final and irrevocable. He is always jealous of me and accused me things I never did. I am always unfortunate in my relationships. I also broke with my previous boyfriends because of their consuming jealousy.”
“May be you flirted with the boys around you.”
“No. Boys moved around me but I never played flirt.”
“May be you are very beautiful and your former boyfriend was hopelessly insecure, and was always scared that someone would steal you from him.”
“Well, you really have to see me for that. My friends say that heads turn when I pass by. But you have to validate that yourself. Why don’t you see me? I have waited but you never asked for it. Now, I am requesting that we meet. Please.”
“But I am married and old.”
“What the heck! You don’t sound one and I don’t give a damn.”
“Now I’m afraid because you don’t give a damn.”
“Ah, that. Don’t worry I’m not going to seduce and rape you. And don’t overestimate your power over me, old man!” And she burst in chuckles.
“Bitaw, please just for one time. I’m leaving Cagayan de Oro very soon. I can’t leave this place without seeing you. I will explain when we meet. Consider it your Christmas gift to me, please?”
So we agreed to meet at 3 pm, three days before Christmas 2003 at Chowking, Gaisano Mall, Cagayan de Oro. She would be escorted by a female officemate and I would be accompanied by my wife and my 21 year old daughter who would be then shopping for Christmas. She would wear a light pink blouse and black jeans. I would wear a red t-shirt and maong pants.
My daughter Augie and I were already in a choice corner of Chowking 20 minutes before 3 pm. My wife continued her shopping and begged for a call once Elen is already around. At 5 before 3 pm, I knew it was Elen who crossed the threshold of Chowking: The guard’s mouth went agape, the utility boy stopped mopping the floor, the ice-cream man stopped scoping ice-cream, the ladies in the counter stopped receiving orders, and the customers near the door all turned their heads to her in an instance. She was about 5’6” tall , with almond eyes, fair complexion and a flawless skin. Her blouse and her jeans hugged her magnificent body that mesmerized everyone.
She looked around. About 10 men were wearing red t-shirts in the room. Finally she approached us, her eyes twinkling in anticipation:
“Dr. Adan, I suppose?” She ventured.
I stood and nodded breathing hard in excitement. She bent and offered her cheek for a buss. I wasted no time in imprinting a kiss on both sides. She smiled and then gave me a quick tight hug, saying in a whisper “there, there at last.”
“You are indeed beautiful. I can kiss you forever!” I exclaimed.
“Hey, your daughter is listening. I suppose you are Augie?” She addressed my girl.
“Yes. Papa is right. You are truly marvelous.” Augie commented.
My wife arrived and pleasantries were exchanged as we ate our snacks. Elen was bubbly and related easily to everyone as if we had known each other for a long time. She told us how her father, a Maguindanao Muslim, and her mother, a Christian Ilonga, fashioned her life. She was already betrothed to someone in an early age, but her father was willing to cancel the betrothal if she could bring home a respectable man worthy and deserving of becoming a member of the family. She studied in Manila under the supervision of a maternal aunt and was given 5 years after graduation to bring the right man to Cotabato. Five years would end on April 2004.
Augie and her mother left us later to finish their shopping. The officemate also joined the shopping crowd. Once we were alone she became forlorn.
“Willie, help me, “she trembled. “ I do not want to disappoint my father; he is very kind to me. But I do not want to marry a man I do not love.” She was silent for a while playing with her fingers. “Willie,” she whispered, “I’m still a virgin. I want to give myself only to the man I really love.”
Grief swamped over me hearing her confession. I scanned the recesses of my thought for wisdom and told her:
“You go home to Cotabato. Your father appears to me a sensible person. Ask for extension. Ask for more time to find your man.”
Her face lightened but she continued to play with her delicate and slender fingers. Then she startled me:
“Do you think I can find a man like you?”
“Like me?” I almost shouted. “Why do want an ugly dwarf who is as old as Methuselah? Come to your senses Elen. I want you to marry – if you are fascinated with older men, at least the like of Richard Gere. You should not lose your sense of balance.” I said this with Jelo and Richard Gere in my mind doing tango criminal in “Shall we Dance?” All of a sudden Richard Gere dissolved and became me dancing with Elen.
She smiled and her eyes twinkled again amused probably by what I said.
“I’m not physical. I like people who are intelligent, sincere, honest and understanding. I like you.” She mused.
“You don’t know me Elen. I’m not as good as you think I am. I can be stupid and mean. If you were my girlfriend and if you would become my wife, I would chain you to my side all the time. I think God made a mistake by making you so beautiful.”
She giggled. “What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“I imagined the reverse of what you said: you following me in chain while I do my shopping here in Gaisano!” And she chuckled again. “But you don’t really mean what you said. Anyway, I won’t mind being chained through life to the man I love.” And she was sad again
“I want to cry.”
“I want to drink beer.”
“For once, I wish we were alone in a place where I can cry over my misfortunes with you by my side, even if you were drinking your beer. But that is impossible. It’s time to say goodbye.”
She stood, gently pulled me towards her, kissed the top of my head, and disappeared from my life.
“I’m tired of you. You can go and rut in hell!”
“Why are you sending me to hell? I don’t even know you?” I sent a message back irritated.
“Who are you?”
“Is that all you would say after interrupting my sleep?” I switched my phone off and went back to sleep. I had still 2 hours to capture energy for my system before the 4 a.m. trip to Dinas, Zamboanga del Sur.
Along the way to Pagadian City the same number sent an apologetic note:
“Sorry Sir/Ma’am for my offensive behavior early this morning. The message was not intended for you but for my boyfriend. We quarreled after the office party.”
“No problem. But definitely I’m not a ma’am and please do not sir me.” I replied.
That’s how my one year textmate relationship with Elen started. She was 27 years old, single, and an executive secretary of a firm that installed telephone lines throughout northern Mindanao. Her boyfriend was one of the communication engineers of the company. I was then 54 years old, married, with six grown up kids. When she asked me what I was doing in Dinas, a peace-challenged community in Zamboanga peninsula, I told her I ran errands for my organization going to this and that place convincing people to protect and manage their coastal resources and environment.
Elen was thoughtful and sweet. Every time I entered a critical community where cell phones became useless and only one’s faith in God mattered, she would chase me with “Take care, ingat and God bless” before the signals disappeared. I regaled her with jokes and advised her how to handle her boyfriend every time they quarreled.
One day, I received a voice call from an unknown number.
“May I talk to Mr. William Adan?”
“Yes, speaking. Dr. William Adan, speaking. Anything I can do for you?” I replied.
The phone went dead. Then my phone rang again and Elen’s number surfaced; and she came ranting in Tagalog:
“Walang hiya ka. Niloko mo ako nang husto. Utosan daw, errand lang daw siya, extension worker, yon pala ay doctor. Siguro nakita mo na ako sa isang hospital dito sa Cagayan de Oro. Baka kapitbahay pa nga kita at matagal mo na akong minamanmanan at pinagtawanan…Bakit mo ito ginawa sa akin? Paniwalang paniwala pa naman ako sa inyo…”And her voice quavered probably in an attempt to suppress emotion.
That was the first time I heard of Elen’s voice. Despite her anger she came sweet and fragile. I was amused by her behavior.
“No, Elen, I told you the truth. I do extension works. Doctors run errands, too. And not all of them are working in hospitals. I told you once that I work in a university, remember? We have never met and I have not seen you yet. And you are not a laughing matter to me. I value your friendship. I have not taken advantage of you, have I? ” I explained consoling her.
There was a long silence. She sobered and then asked:
“Are you really married with six children and as old as my father?”
“Yes, I’m married. Yes, I have six kids. And perhaps I am old as your father.”
“If so, why have you kept me as a textmate? It’s difficult to imagine my father having a lady half his age as a textmate.”
“I’m not your father. And you started all this, remember?”
I thought the confrontation would end our friendship. On the contrary, our friendship blossomed. She did not only send text messages but began to call me now and then to update me of the happenings of their office and to inquire on my activities in the field. I learned that her firm had to close shop by middle of January 2004 as its work contract in Mindanao had been accomplished. Then one day a week before Christmas she called:
“I broke with my boyfriend and this is final and irrevocable. He is always jealous of me and accused me things I never did. I am always unfortunate in my relationships. I also broke with my previous boyfriends because of their consuming jealousy.”
“May be you flirted with the boys around you.”
“No. Boys moved around me but I never played flirt.”
“May be you are very beautiful and your former boyfriend was hopelessly insecure, and was always scared that someone would steal you from him.”
“Well, you really have to see me for that. My friends say that heads turn when I pass by. But you have to validate that yourself. Why don’t you see me? I have waited but you never asked for it. Now, I am requesting that we meet. Please.”
“But I am married and old.”
“What the heck! You don’t sound one and I don’t give a damn.”
“Now I’m afraid because you don’t give a damn.”
“Ah, that. Don’t worry I’m not going to seduce and rape you. And don’t overestimate your power over me, old man!” And she burst in chuckles.
“Bitaw, please just for one time. I’m leaving Cagayan de Oro very soon. I can’t leave this place without seeing you. I will explain when we meet. Consider it your Christmas gift to me, please?”
So we agreed to meet at 3 pm, three days before Christmas 2003 at Chowking, Gaisano Mall, Cagayan de Oro. She would be escorted by a female officemate and I would be accompanied by my wife and my 21 year old daughter who would be then shopping for Christmas. She would wear a light pink blouse and black jeans. I would wear a red t-shirt and maong pants.
My daughter Augie and I were already in a choice corner of Chowking 20 minutes before 3 pm. My wife continued her shopping and begged for a call once Elen is already around. At 5 before 3 pm, I knew it was Elen who crossed the threshold of Chowking: The guard’s mouth went agape, the utility boy stopped mopping the floor, the ice-cream man stopped scoping ice-cream, the ladies in the counter stopped receiving orders, and the customers near the door all turned their heads to her in an instance. She was about 5’6” tall , with almond eyes, fair complexion and a flawless skin. Her blouse and her jeans hugged her magnificent body that mesmerized everyone.
She looked around. About 10 men were wearing red t-shirts in the room. Finally she approached us, her eyes twinkling in anticipation:
“Dr. Adan, I suppose?” She ventured.
I stood and nodded breathing hard in excitement. She bent and offered her cheek for a buss. I wasted no time in imprinting a kiss on both sides. She smiled and then gave me a quick tight hug, saying in a whisper “there, there at last.”
“You are indeed beautiful. I can kiss you forever!” I exclaimed.
“Hey, your daughter is listening. I suppose you are Augie?” She addressed my girl.
“Yes. Papa is right. You are truly marvelous.” Augie commented.
My wife arrived and pleasantries were exchanged as we ate our snacks. Elen was bubbly and related easily to everyone as if we had known each other for a long time. She told us how her father, a Maguindanao Muslim, and her mother, a Christian Ilonga, fashioned her life. She was already betrothed to someone in an early age, but her father was willing to cancel the betrothal if she could bring home a respectable man worthy and deserving of becoming a member of the family. She studied in Manila under the supervision of a maternal aunt and was given 5 years after graduation to bring the right man to Cotabato. Five years would end on April 2004.
Augie and her mother left us later to finish their shopping. The officemate also joined the shopping crowd. Once we were alone she became forlorn.
“Willie, help me, “she trembled. “ I do not want to disappoint my father; he is very kind to me. But I do not want to marry a man I do not love.” She was silent for a while playing with her fingers. “Willie,” she whispered, “I’m still a virgin. I want to give myself only to the man I really love.”
Grief swamped over me hearing her confession. I scanned the recesses of my thought for wisdom and told her:
“You go home to Cotabato. Your father appears to me a sensible person. Ask for extension. Ask for more time to find your man.”
Her face lightened but she continued to play with her delicate and slender fingers. Then she startled me:
“Do you think I can find a man like you?”
“Like me?” I almost shouted. “Why do want an ugly dwarf who is as old as Methuselah? Come to your senses Elen. I want you to marry – if you are fascinated with older men, at least the like of Richard Gere. You should not lose your sense of balance.” I said this with Jelo and Richard Gere in my mind doing tango criminal in “Shall we Dance?” All of a sudden Richard Gere dissolved and became me dancing with Elen.
She smiled and her eyes twinkled again amused probably by what I said.
“I’m not physical. I like people who are intelligent, sincere, honest and understanding. I like you.” She mused.
“You don’t know me Elen. I’m not as good as you think I am. I can be stupid and mean. If you were my girlfriend and if you would become my wife, I would chain you to my side all the time. I think God made a mistake by making you so beautiful.”
She giggled. “What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“I imagined the reverse of what you said: you following me in chain while I do my shopping here in Gaisano!” And she chuckled again. “But you don’t really mean what you said. Anyway, I won’t mind being chained through life to the man I love.” And she was sad again
“I want to cry.”
“I want to drink beer.”
“For once, I wish we were alone in a place where I can cry over my misfortunes with you by my side, even if you were drinking your beer. But that is impossible. It’s time to say goodbye.”
She stood, gently pulled me towards her, kissed the top of my head, and disappeared from my life.
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