A ‘Secret’ Serendipity

"Never underestimate the power of a dismissed dream.
I think there must be a place inside of us where dreams go and wait their turn." - Sue Monk Kidd

The wind walloped hard against the shutters, leaving sloughed leaves strewn pell-mell across the pavement. Drops of rain fell as would an uninvited guest, chattering slightly, and then making its presence known with the rising crescendo; the brim overflowed and the crevasses cracked, enveloping the streets in a deluge. The chill in the air brought about a simultaneous wave of fear and nostalgia. It was in this harshest of weathers that I have rediscovered a familiar haunt -- in the company of a beloved book.

If we were to backtrack to the formative childhood years, three novels stood out among my pantheon of the greats: The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, which opened my eyes to modern literature that was ingenious in both content and foul language usage; and Silas Marner by George Eliot, who behind that mannish name lay the psyche of Mary Ann Evans, drawing upon the reader a sentimental landscape, the romanticism of the old English countryside melting the cold heart of a weary old man, and of my soul.

And then what I would consider my favorite novel of all time, until further notice: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. This was what inspired me to view humanity like the esteemed patriarch Atticus, to be dependable like Jem, to be spontaneous like Dill. To understand the complexities of people like Boo Radley. To step inside Calpurnia's and Tom Robinson's feet standing firmly on the ground and being hopeful in the face of injustice, and bristle at why there still are inscrutable Ewells. The Pulitzer-prize winning book heartened me to find my own voice like the heroine Scout Finch. That perchance, my observations would find their place and be able to move somebody -- to aspire to be an agent of change, in the process of expressing and knowing myself. This led me to write nonfiction narratives: starting with the anecdote about a terror teacher, and the journals I had chronicling with much panache my life in higher elementary, to the brief phase of laboring on make-believe newspapers on early Sunday mornings, airing nonsensical opinions and slyly suggesting what the weekend warriors' agenda should be. The more materials I read, the more I wanted to write. This was interrelated to the fascination over vocabulary, spelling and grammar -- therefore, Webster is my eternally steadfast companion. Advancing to high school further amplified it, through the countless theme writings in English that I blissfully engaged in, and staffing in the school paper validated my resolve.

I prided myself in being able to articulate in words what my introvert self was shy to say. In them I felt I grew. But in the midst of college ruckus, newfangled technology and plain laziness, I fell into a rut. I lapsed in that habit of patient comprehension -- it was as if short attention span has ailed me to the point of reducing my daily fill into a short paragraph -- the McTwitterization of it all. I would churn out an essay every now and then, but the sense of accomplishment it once held was not there. The chain of intertwining events both in word and world have left me desolate and dispassionate.

In between one afternoon lull and a haphazard preparation for my next class, I happened to amble around the library, perusing the fiction catalog. One book garnered enough interest that I picked it up and borrowed it immediately -- The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. It was quite short and seemed to be a light read. I turned to the first page and never wanted to let go.

The Secret Life of Bees is a beautiful, touching and inspiring story set in South Carolina, circa 1964 about a young teenaged white girl whose whole existence revolved around a single event when she was 4 -- that she might have accidentally killed her own mother. Lily Owens, our protagonist, is a bright, sensitive but lonely kid, rendered miserable by the only relative she has, her father T. Ray, who maltreats her at home and employs her thanklessly at their peach orchard business. Otherwise he is a very reserved individual, refusing to talk anything about Lily's mother, their past, or whatever events and ambitions Lily have, even birthdays and gifts. Lily finds a confidante, sister and second mom in Rosaleen, her black househelp and nanny. One of the few things Lily possessed that belonged to her mother was a small, wooden carving pasted with a picture of the Black Madonna, "Tiburon, S.C." written on the back. This keepsake has always aroused curiosity in the young girl, who wanted to know everything about her mother, find out the truth, and fill the gaps and voids in her life. In a fortunate sequence of events, Lily and Rosaleen manage to escape the sleepy town of Sylvan, out from the clutches of T. Ray, the police, and the racist hooligans who threatened Rosaleen's life on the verge of the Civil Rights Act. Where else will they go except to that myth of a place called Tiburon, where they came to settle at the Carribean Pink-tinted house of the Boatwrights, three black sisters involved in the beekeeping profession, with the label of their honey products striking oddly similar to the picture Lily has -- although of course, she fashions out a tale of being lost and penniless just to be able to stay longer and investigate the missing link. August, the eldest Boatwright and the master beekeeper, openly welcomes the two runaways; May, the girlish culinary enthusiast smiles obligingly but retreats to her complicated world; and June the funereal cellist eyes them with a mix of doubt and disdain. Lily's wit and warmth endears her slowly but surely to her new surroundings, to the family, and to the other characters -- the devout group Daughters of Mary, and Zach Taylor, her first sweetheart.

In this home Lily finds the love she craved and needed, and discovers that the truth is found here, more than what she had bargained for -- undergoing a phase of guilt, anger, shame and acceptance. She also learns about the intricacies of beekeeping which is very fundamental to the novel, its lessons applying to both procuring honey and procuring the most out of life. Kidd lusciously starts every chapter with an excerpt about the Queen Bee and her subjects' natures. And consider "The Bee Yard Etiquette" August deduces, saying "The world was really one big bee yard, and the same rules worked fine in both places":

Don't be afraid, as no life-loving bee wants to sting you. Still, don't be an idiot; wear long sleeves and long pants.

Don't swat. Don't even think about swatting.

If you feel angry, whistle. Anger agitates, while whistling melts a bee's temper.

Act like you know what you're doing, even if you don't.

Send the bees love. Every little thing wants to be loved.

Eventually there will be a comparison between The Secret Life of Bees and To Kill a Mockingbird: Both in the style of Bildungsroman (a coming-of-age tale), both about smart young girls, both set in a time where judgment of character was still based on the color of the skin. I guess stories like these work for me, instilling a sense of idealism and principle -- the admirable humanness of its heroes, the lushness of the prose, and the life lessons. Beyond political correctness and imperfections, they are remarkable in their respective ways and I appreciate them both.

I marvel at how Sue Monk Kidd conveys to Lily the most beautiful lines. Come to think of it, the audacious lady nurtures to be a writer. Some quotable quotes:

"I realized it for the first time in my life: there is nothing but mystery in the world, how it hides behind the fabric of our poor, browbeat days, shining brightly, and we don't even know it."

"People, in general, would rather die than forgive. It's that hard. If God said in plain language, "I'm giving you a choice, forgive or die," a lot of people would go ahead and order their coffin."

"Drifting off to sleep, I thought about her. How nobody is perfect. How you just have to close your eyes and breathe out and let the puzzle of the human heart be what it is."

Kidd writes with a quaint elegance and an immense affection to her characters -- she even humanizes the despicable T. Ray. She can manage to make even the most resolute of non-believers surrender to the power of the divine feminine, the Universal Mother who is at the core of the story. Finishing the novel, I felt as if I have joined Lily in the catharsis, knowing that I can surmount through my shortcomings and better myself, following "the only purpose grand enough for a human life. Not just to love -- but to persist in love."

I wish I could tap into my conscious dreamscapes and conjure something as compelling and heartwarming as that of Lily and the bees. God knows when, but I wake up to wonder every day.

Stoking a sweet reminiscence: My favorite children's book

To me, children's books were the Disney classics I loved to pore over repeatedly when I was a kid. I was fortunate in my childhood to have reached that era when most cartoons in celluloid were still lovingly drawn by hand, frame by frame. Apart from the animations, they were always captured in those little hardcover storybooks published by Ladybird. My dad would collect these, starting from "The Sorcerer's Apprentice". I looked forward to receiving a new book, in every trip we made to the bookstore. It didn't take long to compel us into reserving a permanent shelf space in our small library. Part of the beauty of my fortysomething children's books collection was that they were wonderfully illustrated, the text large enough and easy to understand, and were told just like what you saw in the moving pictures, only it gave you a more lasting impression. My appreciation for Disney was cemented through reading these. The last Disney movie that we had an complementing storybook of was "Hercules". I don't think Ladybird makes these illustrated hardcovers anymore, as much as Disney animations have relinquished over to computer-generated graphics.

And if I were asked to name my favorite "real" children's book, I'd gladly refer to the same collection. For a while Ladybird produced titles from their Ladybird Children's Classics series, well-loved enduring stories articulated and drawn vividly for a child's comprehension. Included were Dicken's "Oliver Twist" and "Tale of Two Cities", and Alcott's "Little Women". I've always liked "A Little Princess" and "The Secret Garden", which were stories fitting for little girls. But from recollections, the one book that fondly kindled my young affections the most was Johanna Spyri's "Heidi", retold by Alison Ainsworth, and illustrated by Pat Tourret. It is a famous product of Swiss literature, yet remains to be one of the most heartfelt, encompassing stories I have ever read.

Whose heart wouldn't melt for a young orphan girl who brought happiness to everyone she meets? Heidi's bright innocence radiates from every page. Dotted with tender sketches of unforgettable characters; speckled with imaginative sceneries of the Swiss countryside and a German interlude. And while the book charms you, it leaves many enduring lessons and traits as well. "Heidi" exemplifies humility, kindness, honesty, perseverance, and the most personal of all -- unbridled optimism. It is one characteristic I am slowly running on empty of as I grow older and more stubborn. But when I am reminded of the little orphan girl from Alm Mountain, a smile instantly plays on my lips and my petty troubles, for a while, fade into the "flames of rose-coloured snowfields".

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Note: This essay was originally a reaction piece on Nicholas D. Kristof's article "The Best Kids' Books Ever".

Jackson's finest hour

This is a rejoinder to Pam Pastor's piece "I am no Michael Jackson fan" (INQUIRER, 07/04/09). I wasn't a huge fan of Jackson either, despite being reared in the MTV age when his videos reigned supreme. I simply found his music amiable, creatively good for a chorus and a dance to a beat or two. I cannot recall the number of times I've heard "You Are Not Alone" or "Rock With You" or "Black or White" during my childhood. "We Are The World" was something we'd sing as a class during a United Nations-themed school program, "Beat It" was the perennial ditty the teachers would shimmy to on Teacher's Day. The video for "Thriller" until now can still make the hairs at the back of my neck stand. Such was the scope of his influence on me, heightened much more when my neighbor and friend Mona Rae proclaimed herself The Ultimate MJ Fan on my slumbook, signed along the time he arrived here for the smash 1997 HIStory concert. It sadly was one of his final glimpses of the zenith before his persona imploded, spiralling him down to a dark abyss he never was able to recover from.

I heard the news at the moment I woke up on Friday morning. There were no tears, just shock. How someone who still held so much promise could fade away in the starkest of circumstances. Jackson's demise alludes of the myth of an unfinished life, joining the ranks of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Princess Diana and Heath Ledger. I held some resentment to the media circuses who made his life tabloid fodder and the butt of jokes. I even felt angry at him for giving in -- but then, we will never know what went on his mind that compelled him to become a man truly larger than life.

Just as his death sparked controversy, Michael Jackson's music phenomenally resurrected. We now hear it everywhere. The songs I once was inundated to and took for granted took on a new life. I listened to them and found them to be perfect -- the masterpieces of a prodigy. He encapsulated the essence of what he wanted to say in several choice words, punctuated by apt melodies. "Earth Song" was written long before all the buzz about climate change. My mother, who was indifferent upon his death, went teary-eyed when she heard "Heal the World". The poignancy of "Childhood" struck a deep chord, helping me understand what he really felt. And I cried.

From the many memories we have of Jackson, I choose to remember him most as an extraordinary songwriter. I'm glad that his words, along with his music, serve as a catalyst to inspire billions.

Note: This essay was published in the Letters to the Editor section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer dated July 11, 2009 (page A12).

Quarantined

"100 years ago they said if a black man can become the President of the USA, pigs would fly!

On the 100th day of Obama's presidency, guess what? Swine flew!"

Or so the text went, sent to me two months ago by my lovely friend Des. I still find it both crude and amusing. With all the somber crises President Barack has been facing, I wish they'd cut him some slack. We'll just have to be lenient when he lights up a smoke every once in a while, even if that means breaking personal campaign promises. Other the other hand I commend him for exercising his trademark composure in the whole Iran election debacle, unlike some warmongering counterparts of his (I'm looking at you, Cheney) who seemingly can't wait to hustle the hell out of a country who's beginning to unburden herself of religious-totalitarian shackles. Iraq was, and is a mistake. Somehow America has to stop acting like The World's Super Police and start watching their own backyard -- North Korea's boiling up a nuke storm lately, and Kim's rearing his ugly oversized shades to them.

So much for CNN Breaking News. After enlisting myself for round-the-clock updates for a couple of days, I finally decided to "de-follow" it on Twitter. Imagine a slew of bad news greeting me one after the other at the home page, having only a smattering of a dozen friends' "tweets". I signed up at the micro-blogging site two years ago when it was still relatively under-hyped, my trail ran cold because of glorious inactivity, and now I return finding every celebrity in the world broadcasting their every mundane, nose-scratching activity... "For my midnight snack, I ate a taco. It was so delicious that I burped. OMG!!!" Self-promotion has reached the pinnacle of its narcissistic height.

I reach for the remote and switch to the evening news for the meat of the matter. It's strange that just when the A(H1N1) pandemic was beginning to smoothen its kinks after the initial outbreak two months ago, our country caught the wave of late reaction. Either that or the first world countries are doing "damage control" à la the SARS episode in China and Hong Kong, and we're not doing bad after all. But even so, how come it took a full six weeks to have the first reported case, given our congested airports are packed everyday with people from literally all walks of life? And after that were we deluged with nearly a hundred swine flu cases per day -- even in far-flung provinces where nobody traveled! Are the thermoscans really working? Is this another case of "mall security laxness", where the guard languidly inspects or even ignores your belongings -- or in this situation, arriving passengers? Could our pigs have cooked up a mysterious malady of their own? They say the whole thing originated from exported Asian hogs. Or is this the administration pumping up juice on a slow news day, diverting the attention from Ate Glo's Amazingly Extravagant Travels?

Increasing from 5 cases, to 50 and then to 100+ is seemingly unbelievable in the span of a week. Are we just mistaking flu for swine flu? Could we be playing a game of "The first one who sneezes, you're it!" Dengue is worse than A(H1N1); we should be worrying more about pesky mosquitoes than buying face masks by the barrel, which only a provide a false sense of security and are more prone to contamination. Unless the virus mutates and develops into more dangerous strains, there is no need to ring the panic bell. (Whenever I hear words like "virus" and "mutate" and "strain" in the same sentence, I cannot help but envision scenarios of horror flicks, where zombies replicate because of a certain something in the air.)

I fear we have been compounded in alarmist territory. Health advisories and the accompanying media attention should be constructively tempered because generally, we only have mild cases that are easily cured in a day. There is a right to information, but there is also a right to sanity. I understand this is not a matter to be taken lightly, but we don't need a blow-by-blow account of the people infected, prompting schools and universities to cancel classes for prolonged periods due to only one or two cases. Standard commencements of the schoolyear opened later than expected, only to be suspended again. There's even an ongoing threat of storms looming ahead, to add to the frothy mix. I reckon the kids are having a field day. I'm secretly enjoying a post-summer vacation too. But in the long run, school suspensions are not going to work. It causes a "ripple effect". The morale dips, the tuitions under-spent, the allowance war chests withheld, the mind slacks, the parents groan, the kids enjoy, the teachers get bored, the school gets hopefully cleaned up for a day and then what? Simply every minute of what was supposed to be hours of substantial education were relegated to an unnecessary back burner. Extending the school year would lead to everybody whining in varying degrees. Man takes time to get accustomed to drastic changes, though we have no other worthy option. It would be a tad ridiculous to hold final exams on Halloween, wouldn't it?

Confronting A(H1N1) is not a daunting task. If you've traveled, sweat out the jet lag. If you're outdoors, bring your favorite hand sanitizer and a pack of tissues; it's time to show a little poise, hygiene and environmental awareness especially if you're a public transport veteran. If you're in suspicion of being infected, there's nothing like a good rest, awesome prescription meds, gallons of water and hot chicken soup to wash the bug away. If symptoms persist, consult your doctor. If you're one of the thousands of students collaterally sidetracked by the flu scare, start planning on how you can recoup lost opportunities of learning. Review your past lessons, take advanced readings. Discover a new hobby, or recapture an old pastime. Do something pleasurable and productive besides Facebook. (You can always write an essay!) After all this is done and gotten over with, you still have a future to worry about. On the verge of getting a job, you can't reason out to the HR officer "There was a swine flu outbreak in 2009 and so I forgot how to study." Or live.

We now return to regular programming. Funny how a self-imposed week-long quarantine does to you.

The Great Filipino Dream

Much has been said about Barack Obama's historic triumph as the first elected African-American president of the United States. The reaction was ecstatic, at best optimistic. It was not as if his win was the answer to the world's problems; it was because his election inspired it.

George W. Bush’s administration ramble on about “terrorists” and “oppressive regimes”, but it is the ordinary American who is the real oppressed -- having had to succumb to eight years of government ineptitude and mockery of accountability, which led nowhere save for two wars, a financial recession, and a bruised Uncle Sam disdained by the world, among others.

What we all witnessed on November 4 speaks for itself -- its citizens have broken through that enormous wall of national cynicism, and set aside whatever partisanship and prejudice they had to finally shatter that discriminating political glass ceiling and voted for a relatively young black man to the highest office in the land. Mr. Obama has the intelligence, capability, charisma, aptitude, and most of all, a vision -- he gave hope even to the most impassive. These, along with his remarkable campaign leadership, helped overcome a perceived lack of experience and paved the way for a revitalization of America's ideals. We'll just have to wait and see whether he can deliver. Taking office at a time of crisis doesn’t guarantee greatness, but it can be an occasion for it.

There is so much inspiration the Philippines can draw from the election that was. For all the arguments about whether our country should be run as a democracy or not, let's set them aside and start taking a realistic look at our national conscience.

Philippine elections have always been a fodder for controversy. Whenever there is one taking place, we always view it with suspicion and apprehension --who can blame us anyway? Every national election I have known since Marcos has a noteworthy taint about it. Lying, cheating, stealing, and killing seem to be part and parcel of the Philippine landscape. “Onli in da Pilipins”, shall we say -- and here we are, purporting to be the only Catholic country in Asia. The media get a field day, election after election, on reports of vote-buying and fraud, political opponents getting ambushed and innocent teachers discarded as collateral damage in the name of victory. The most glaring drawback is that we never seem to move past our ancient manual polling system, one shortcoming that only devious elements are more than willing to continue. The oft-repeated alibi is that revamping the system only curtails huge expenses, and that we do not have the power to efficiently implement it.

For one thing, where else do they get the funding if not for the sweat and blood of the taxpayers? We would much rather see the fruit of our labors generate long-term democratic productivity, than waste it on eternal delays of manual counting that is too prone to manipulation. India, with its billion-plus population, has managed to even outdo its Western counterparts with an inexpensive and effective automation system. If they can do it, why can’t we? Technological advances such as these may not be as fool-proof, but it is definitely a more stringent step towards cleaner elections.

Gone are the days when campaigns were all about specific ideas, plans, and actions on how to work best for the welfare of the people. That candidates should stand for the common man, and that a public servant is a public trust. Missing are the likes of Recto, Diokno, Tañada and Aquino who engaged in highly cerebral discussions that gave insight to their identity, potential and competency to lead.

These days, candidates gravitate toward “showbiztocracy” and rely on celebrity endorsements, catchphrases and scintillating slogans to wow the crowd. And whenever they do get to the point of presenting their policies, they simply churn out platitudes and empty pledges. They grandstand on issues, whatever that’s buzz worthy and soundbite-friendly. They are supposed to be intellectuals – we’ve had enough of political animals, why join the circus? Remember that Joseph Estrada got elected president with no debates and a vague platform, and well, look at where his “mass appeal” led us. The quality of most of our politicians nowadays has but decomposed to a confederacy of dunces. Where else do we see do-nothing scions, moneyed crossovers, showbiz personalities and the ever-present trapos congregate, in full attendance especially at the annual photo-op worthy State of the Nation Address (also known as the Banana Republic Fashion Show)?

We are in such a short supply of committed men and women who can represent our rights and give us our due. One attribute is that the genuine leaders often shy away from the political arena because they are afraid to be consumed by the rotten, sycophantic culture that goes with it. Corruption has been a most incurable disease, something condoned to be as normal as bowel movement that nothing ever gets done in eradicating it. We may have our share of brilliant scholars, NGO workers, humanitarians and philanthropists, but no political leader in recent memory has ever truly done us proud. All we have known about our present Arroyo administration – a questionable succession, naked corruption, a never-ending impasse in Mindanao as a vapid excuse for a bloated fiscal budget, the 500-peso poverty-inducing subsidies, blatant disregard of the Constitution, journalists and human rights activists getting killed, murderers roaming free, the willful expulsion of our nation’s brain and brawn as a short-term solution to a languishing economy. Like the US’ Bush, her rule exemplifies a mockery of accountability unparalleled; we might as well be under a tyrant. Maybe she does have a few accomplishments, but the ones that easily come to mind are the legacies she has been creating indirectly for herself through her father’s name (we’ve got a P200 bill, an airport, a highway, a road – and God forbid, a university cannot be far behind…); that we foot the bill for an unprecedented number of overseas “official” trips ever for a president; and on a romantic note, that all three of her children got married under her term.

To prevent further catastrophe and the blame game, overhauling the political system starts from us. We have to stop distancing from our own reality and not do anything – it is one hell of a reality, but we can turn it around if we want to.

We need to be a responsible, informed electorate. Let’s break free from our apathy and develop the courage to stand up for what is good. We should demand action from our leaders and call on them to attend to the people’s needs. Stop rewarding ineptitude and consenting to deceit, and participate in a democracy that should be honest, free and progressive. The scourges and sins of our country will lessen if we do not tolerate and practice them.

Candidates who are running for public office should do away with diversionary tactics like mudslinging and produce a sensible campaign that invokes a dialogue of programs and solutions. The fact that we have a shameless number of political parties with no clear distinction among them only begets divisiveness, thus we call for unification and a revamping of principles. We need leaders who are decent, wise and mature, that when the results have been tallied there will be no room for sourgraping and acrimony, and just accept the outcome with grace. Meanwhile the winners upon election should make good on their promises, ground themselves in humility with the position they have entrusted, keep an open line to both approval and dissent, and work to their best to be able to inspire others to do the same.

The youth is a critical element in this need for renewed nation-building. We are many, but where are we? We ought to be conscious citizens at this stage because we are the ones who will inherit the woes that have befallen our country. Get out of the rut, the Starbucks habit, the gadget addiction, the dream of earning for dollars and luxury --and start working on the Great Filipino Dream. There are still many young adults not registered to vote, and this is one sector that is sadly underutilized. In the United States, young adults comprised nearly 18% of the electorate and their record turnout was pivotal in determining a hugely successful election. They were active in the campaigns, volunteered in rallies, and urged everyone to get out and vote. They knew their rights and used them to their advantage.

The Filipino youth is no different. The morals and the idealism instilled in us should not waver as we age, but instead remain embedded as a lifelong passion for knowledge and truth. We should bear in heart and mind what history taught us: from the battle cry of freedom in 1898 to the rallying call for a peaceful revolution in 1986, the youth was a force to be reckoned with… and so must it be now.

There is no perfect nation. We are not a perfect people. But if we work together, we can change our country and direct it to lasting progress. I believe in it. Do you?