Eight Paragraphs (December 11,2007)

Eight Paragraphs
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

She was scribbling down her fifth paragraph, yet I was trembling with my first, and we were asked to make eight. She had a bucketful of self confidence, yet I had a teaspoonful of bitter self blame, and we were just given an hour to finish. She clipped her pen close and was the first to pass, yet I rubbed off the ink markings on my palm and was the last to submit, and we were both writing for the same issue. Human Struggle Against Poverty, that was the topic and we were to ferment a feature article out of it. Ink refused to flow smoothly as it touches the stubborn newsprint paper while my ideas ended up in disarray. The eight paragraphs were no less than mere empty words forcibly patched up to meet the austere guidelines.

That tension filled hour denied me to explore more, to see more than just slum areas or murky rainwater dripping from ceilings. I was too visual, that what I see is what I also write. The survivor’s story of an unfortunate fate skipped past my thoughts, and was blinded by obvious scenarios seen by almost any bystander. As I tapped every letter on the keyboard, I realized that my dilemma on such a petty feature article was comparable to the everyday struggle of the deprived against poverty.

To be poor is not a destiny, rather it is a choice. Proofs are the stories of wealthy upper class men who once laundered with rags and ended up bubbling with riches. It was my choice to be unaware of time, it was my choice of being foolish enough to construct paragraph number one for almost half an hour, and it even was my choice to join the competition. I can blame no one but myself. Time element was no factor; every contestant has the same hour glass to beat. Psychological influences were no reason; every contestant has the same anxiety to relieve. So does the poor who can blame no one but themselves. Heredity was no factor; every person has the same volume of opportunities to conquer. Political anomalies were no reason; every person is under the same governance, may it be fair or rotten.

As I handed in my feature article, I dropped my head down hopelessly aware that I had no chance of laying my hands on the shiny trophy. Even before the critics judged my work, I gave in to pessimism; I gave up looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The fear and uncertainty is always there, it only takes confidence to precede over them and soon feel the sweet pleasure of gut-feel, of hope. So do poverty, it is always there, unless economics would cease to exist. The poor continues to be poor because, after they realize they have dripping ceilings, their hopes seem to leak as well. Even before they try going to school and finish a course, they concluded they are illiterate. Even before they tasted the grapes they already proclaimed them to be sour.

I enrolled in Sociology 101 last semester, and though I may not be very well versed in demographics, I can vie to this simple theory on poverty drowned individuals. They clamor much on their situation yet, not a single twist of ankle did they spare to change their fate. Just like what I did, I clashed with my mind as the inevitable situation called the writer’s block visited me on the hour of my competition. I clamored, I panicked, I reacted but did not resort to any alternatives, did not even try to heave a deep breath and clear my mind. Silly me.

Poverty is an enemy, it is not a reason that one can use so as to be spared from the responsibilities of life. People use poverty to rationalize their condition, to euphemize their instability, to hide their wrong choices. I used the cousin of poverty, tension, to somehow wipe off the waste of ink I etched on that sheet of paper. I used tension to elevate my self esteem; I used tension as the reason why I lost in the competition.

I may have not written eight paragraphs as of now, but every word counts, as the key board seems to be more giving. She eminently shows off her shiny trophy to her friends, I apparently smile accepting the fate that I myself chose. She sleeps tonight with sweet dreams of triumph, I sleep tonight with a feature—err column article done, a cozy pillow to hug, and a belief that, between two of us, I was the survivor.

Be a survivor.
Stop Poverty.

Super-Cheaters: The Injustice League (December 4,2007)

Super-Cheaters: The Injustice League
By Maria Reylan M. Garcia

“By the end of this exam, three of you shall have a grade of zero”. The college instructor adjusted his glasses and moved past the aisles of the classroom, his watchful eyes caught hold of juvenile heinous crimes ripening within the four walls. I felt a sudden flow of rushing current within my veins. I know I was not guilty; it’s against my principle to cheat, to take advantage of people in my own accord. But as my penmanship couldn’t get any worse than of a five year old, a scream of injustice within me would just like to approach those three nincompoops and do the honors to place a big 0 on their test papers. Pathetic, they would sink that low just to ensure their fate in a fifty item examination? This is where it all starts. Believe me, the next thing that will possibly happen, are those same three people who’ll be denying their tax duties, laying extra unmerited charges on their services, or selling some scam of gadgets unregistered in the Bureau of Customs. This is where it all starts, earlier perhaps. Just like how he took his best friend’s pokemon cards without permission.

I would often lose interest and due respect to persons who cheat their way out of messy situations. How unfair it is, that you stayed up late memorizing all the dates and hard to pronounce surnames of significant people ending up with an insensitive fool copying off you. How unfair it is, that you wasted a cup of coffee just to extend the night ending up with a tactless freak extending his neck just to get a glimpse of your 1.0-worthy answers. How unfair it is, that you got 1.0 in the exams but with due course of sagging eye bags ending up with an inconsiderate dupe getting 1.0 as well but with a tightly detoxified face. These people have some nerves of pure steel, willing to literally do everything for the sake of achieving what they desire. In fact besides having a nervous system made up of metals, they have some unique qualities or what I call super-cheating powers. An X-ray vision that could see past any blockages you’ll be defending your exam paper with. An elastic neck that could tantamount the stretching capabilities of a flamingo, ostrich, giraffe and lastikman joined together, that could extend to a maximum length just to nose around your answers. A supersonic hearing that could detect some few minute hushes of information within a thirty kilometer radius. See how extraordinary these people are, they deserve a round of applause and a bucket of rotten tomatoes.

Cheating is a form of dishonesty, which in any angle is against the moral principles of any society there is. Soon I’ll be a full-fledged nurse, and in my hands depend the different fragile fates from a pediatric (child-care) to a geriatric (elderly-care) setting. I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes; I couldn’t even dare to cheat, because I’m dealing with lives. One wrong diagnosis, one error in assessment, one misled injection of a syringe would mean also one thing, loss. I value my life more than anything I own, I guess the other billions of people, the other billions of my would-be patients think the same way. It would be unfair if I cheated with their lives.

Take a look around you, cheating is everywhere. From a simple 5th grade girl changing her answers during the checking of their test papers to a statesman pocketing the funds for a road construction in a remote barrio, these are acts of dishonesty, they are cheaters. There are times when I’m already in panic, sweating hard like a pig in his pen, facing a difficult question in an exam and would be tempted to take a few degrees to the left and peep in my seatmate’s answers. But you know what? I couldn’t bear to do so; I wouldn’t risk a point, a single point in an exam in exchange for my principles. Yes, I may get a low score. Yes, someone might end up being higher than mine. Still, I have more examinations to which I can uplift myself without the cost of others, without the cost of dishonesty.

Now before you would dig your hands inside your mom’s purse for some extra allowance without telling her, remember what you’re doing is maybe the same act you’re persecuting and telling off alleged politicians gobbling up the nation’s funds.

Soon, in around six semester’s time, I’ll be a registered nurse working in a local hospital here or attending to Bill Gates as his personal nurse. But one thing remains true and always true, I’ll be able to reach it without cheating my way out.

I smiled at my score after receiving my test paper.

I got 46/50, second highest.

Still happy.

It’s better than getting zero, right?

The Witch called Snow White (November 27,2007)

The Witch Called Snow White
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

And they lived happily ever after, this phrase sounds awfully and redundantly familiar. The moment you hear this cluster of words, figures of princes riding handsome stallions and princesses singing in the enchanted forest with her animal friends, comes to life just as flicking as a wave of a magic wand. After readers put down the magical tales that left them spellbound, their dreams that night would be of pumpkin carriages traveling towards a promising kingdom’s silhouette in the nearing horizon. Less did most of us fairytale aficionados know that there were some supporting roles left in the gloominess of the backstage. As Snow White became a cadaver no more, no news was heard of her stepmother after she fell from the vulture trodden cliff. As Cinderella lost her obsession with glass slippers, the other three party crashers never made headlines after their huge feet can’t fit in a size four. Yes, I’m referring to these villains, to these antagonists, to these characters that made all the princesses look good in the pages of our bedtime stories. True, that we never get to here their side of the story. True, that we never get to hear why they envy red rosy cheeks and hairs black as ebony. True, that we became villains to them.

The explosion at the House of Representatives was not at any extent near to the sugary sweet land of fairy tales. This is real life, most people say. But I see the same villain in the witch who tempted for a poisoned apple as that in the insolent fool who planted the bomb and caused some regretted casualties. Whoever spearheaded this grave of a prank is certainly worth a basket of poisoned apples stuck in the linings of his esophagus. I am in deep sorrow and sympathized the afflicted of the rampant fire show display of violence, and at all angles believe that what was done marquees the word terrorism. Yet as I remembered my younger self scanning the pages of my now dust covered fairy tale classics, I could help but gobble some fist of air and think, should everything be blamed on them? We never heard their side of the story in the first place, although it was law violating but the distribution of the blame seems slightly unfair and one sided.

I rally in the silence of my heart together with the families of those who tasted the venom of terrorism and political revolts. They should be convicted accordingly with due legitimate processes and justice served right. But throughout the course, I hope we can find it in our hearts to take a time out of our quest for justice and not forget to give the same human justice this astray ones deserve. They might carry the greater ton of weight, but let us not get to engrossed in pointing with our fingers, because we are unaware that on our backpacks are the less seen ounces of weight that contributed to an loathsome event. We just heard our stories, let us not get too excited and rush up justice, for the word itself entails balance coming from both sides, fairness to both sides.


Sometimes we are unaware that we’re the ones making our enemies. The government might be unaware that they could be the very factory of these rejected deviants in our society. Could the government may have once forgotten their needs, abused their authority over them, gave them less benefits and incentives; all of these may have triggered the once subtle tigers within this ruthless violent groups. Snow White was portrayed to be all gentle and sublime because it was her story. Her stepmother was rubbished with awful characteristics, not knowing what may have been the very roots of her envy with Snow White. Could Snow White may have selfishly devoured the time of her late father leaving none to the queen, bullied her stepmother as she was still in the defense of his loving father; both of these may have triggered the queen to drink some potion struck by lightning and detoxified herself into an old hag. We spectators may appear innocent, the government may appear victimized but all the televisions, emails, text messages and print media contain our stories. How about those stories left unprinted in the hearts of the leftists, those stories that because we never listened to was storytelled to us in a bloody and violent manner. Mother Goose would certainly get Goosebumps when she finds out.

Sometimes we have to pull the entire rope outside the box to entirely know its length than just to simply imply. We have to look at the other side of the street. Really, we have to avoid being so one sided. I know someone who was accused of verbal harassment and having an unhealthy growth of envy over a competitor. He was under surveillance and was threatened to accept right there and then all the allegations, not even hearing out what he has to say, not even hearing out why he let the competitor taste some spicy and fierce words. It was because that someone was quite unlucky, everyone was looking on the other side of the box and failed to see his own side that he’s left with a bitter fate.

I hope time will come when we get to settle things. This had been a cliché, I know. But I still hold on to this unsure but relevant hope of collaborative efforts for simple national prosperity. I hope we’ll not only depend on our stories. If we do, we might find our books thrown outside the window the very next day.

There will always be hundreds and thousands of ugly witches and vile stepsisters who’ll let you eat up some rotten apples, gate crash your party and not to mention rip off your vintage dress. Yet, remember it is only in your story where they appear as villains.

In their fairytales you could be the reason why their lives turned astray.

You could be their villain.

Francis and Ester (November 20,2007)

Francis and Ester
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

Francis was his name, and Ester was hers. They roamed the streets of the cemetery stopping at every grave where living relatives dwell. They handed out pieces of paper holding some words that brought a leap of horror. They muttered phrases of fear that aroused the goose bumps to every inch of the skin. Francis and Ester reminded the still breathing and alive that sooner and later they will be the ones to be visited in the cemetery. Although, Francis and Ester appear to be angels of death, they weren’t. Francis and Ester are just among the many, that flooded the cemeteries last All Souls Day, they were estate agents. Those pieces of paper they gave out weren’t promissory notes of one’s life expectancy, they were just simple brochures of the lots they sell and printed along are their contact numbers. Those phrases of fear weren’t revelations of the end; they were negotiating words gearing towards the selling out of their products.

Beside from the truth that we are all going to die, Francis and Ester were reminders that a lot has changed since the previous commemorations of All Souls Day. In the colonial times, the friars or the Spanish priests were the only ones who sold lots in the cemetery. There were still no sign of existence of any ancestral lineage that Francis and Ester might be having. The flower shops and boutiques weren’t flourishing as they do now. People settled for freshly picked flowers along the sides of the kalesa ridden streets. The day for the dead was even strictly observed as a commemoration rather than what we all see now as a celebration. There were no food stalls, concessionaire stands that made the memorial parks a carnival ground. There were no magic shows nor fireworks display during the day for the dead, those days were usually quiet and solemn. But, I believe the respect and worth of such day wasn’t subtracted even a single soul up to this day. The dead were still special from the time of Padre Damaso to the time of Francis and Ester. Though the tribute seem at different ends of the rope, the very thought of remembering the dead still remains as rock hard as the gravestones.

Each family had their own ways of paying tribute to their dead. Some thought they might as well have a family reunion along the way, and a food festival while they’re at it. Tons of plastic wares filled with Pinoy food favorites made the cemeteries similar to a food convention. Some planted their own tents and brought some folding beds, sleeping bags and native mats to transform the cemetery into a camping site. Some let free their little kids running through the large field of the memorial park, with some trinkets of light they wave along side, morphing the place alike to an amusement center. It was a feat for the eyes; it wasn’t a day for the dead after all. Everybody felt the day was a gathering of both our kind and those in the fourth dimension, our departed loved ones. There was a variation of party ideas for every visiting relative, each had their own gig, and each had their own way of letting their dead feel unforgotten. But, there will always be a time when every one kneels down in front of the gravestones and hush a simple prayer; this is in itself the very meaning of the day.

This is life. We were born, we live, and then we die. There will be only just one part of our existence where we get to change what was used to be, where we get to feel the pain necessary to feel the joy, where we get to realize the importance of life earlier than when it is gone. That part, is neither when we were born nor when we die, but when we are living. I am afraid of death, a lot of us are, even how much our faith would promise us a life after our own here on earth, and we still tremble to the very experience of dying. That is why everybody exercises, why everybody takes in medicine, why everybody does everything to slow the gaining of profit for Francis and Ester.

A lot has change in the world since the Adam ate that stupid apple, and it will continue to long after we die. We have to savor the moments; to live like no one has lived before. Because we will never know, the next year, the next All Souls Day, we will be the ones visited.

Continue to live.
Because soon we will be making use of the lots we bought from Francis and Ester.

PGMA: The Second Saint of the Philippines (November 13,2007)

PGMA: The Second Saint of the Philippines
by Maria Reylan M. Garcia

Define forgiveness.

The Holy Bible tells of the Parable of the Prodigal Son. A wealthy man had two sons. The younger son asked for his share of inheritance, left the house and spent this irresponsibly on gambling and women. When he had nothing left, he was left feeding on the pigs' food. He realized his mistake, thus went back to his father and was ready to be treated as one of the slaves. When he was reunited with his father he asked for forgiveness. The father prepared a feast for him and welcome him.

The parable had long been associated with the unconditional love of a father to his son, but within the harmony of words blooms a recipe for the most desired dish of our souls --- forgiveness. There are actually four ingredients presented in the story towards brewing the scrumptious fullness of absolution. First, the acceptance of one's shortcomings. Second, the willingness to change. For without the desire to start anew, how can one begin his race to forgiveness. Third, the apology. This marks the promise of cleaning all the dirt done. Fourth, the pardon. This is the part when someone tells you, "It is okay. Let those just be bygones. "
Now, could you grant a person forgiveness even if he did not apologize, or accepted his fault to the very lest? Definitely not. The whole process follows a consecutive chain, where the links have to be detached one by one in consecutive order until a person can ultimately be free. President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo skipped the process and treated former President Joseph Estrada's case like nothing happened. How martyr-like of President Arroyo to forgive without being asked to. If you ask me, our President has some plans for her early canonization as the second saint of the Philippines . For the past six years and six months, never did Mr. Estrada mutter a phrase of being sorry for his accused crimes. If I'm not mistaken, he even said in his speech right after he was freed from Tanay, Rizal that he never fooled the Filipino people in the infamous crime of plunder. The Philippines has to fill in the blanks why President Arroyo pardoned him.

I had always admired President Arroyo, she had been strong amid the controversies rocking her administration. Her economic plans are flourishing to new heights, thus our country is peeping out of the shadows. But what she did, I'm afraid was certainly reckless and too shallow of reasons. President Arroyo believes that giving pardon to Mr. Estrada would do him well as he is already in his late 70's and that he has to be with his ailing mother. I would applaud your display of genuine concern to a senior citizen and a fearing son, President Arroyo. Let's say the other eighty million Filipinos committed the same crime the former president was convicted of, and they are in their late 70's and they also have dying mothers, would you also give them pardon?

To forgive is but a noble act, but knowing when to forgive is even nobler. The six years and six months of plain torture of brainstorming amongst the prosecutors, attorneys and lawmakers involved in Estrada's case were nothing after the President's several minutes of speech. Imagine how mathematically impossible six years and six months is to some 10 minutes of speech? I'm sorry President Arroyo, but what were you thinking?

Though it is not in my position to judge, as I may have no legal grounds to do so, but I'm talking about morality here. When I go to confession I have to do a lot of apologies to the priest, accept all my sins and pray the act of contrition before I am forgiven. Why is it you, Mrs. President became more forgiving than the priest now?
I guess my theory is right; our president is planning to be the second saint of the Philippines .
I hope she succeeds.
(For comments and reactions please send an email to reylangarcia@yahoo.com an SMS to 09186363090. Visit my blog at http://www.theyoungvoice.blogspot.com)

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-Reylan

One Discriminating Message Received (October 30,2007)

One discriminating message received
by: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

"I love it when people judge me negatively, especially the part where they find out they were wrong." This is a simple text message I happen to store in my inbox, because I believe this is one of the few of the millions of SMS sent by Filipinos each day which is not a waste of their peso.
A lot of people are guilty of making hasty conclusions resulting to false accusations. A lot are also guilty of prejudice.

Racial discrimination has long been a sensitive topic addressed by many international peace organizations that dreamt of eradicating cultural ethnocentrism, or the tendency of comparing and criticizing a different race from one's own.

Filipino doctors, nurses, engineers, teachers and even domestic helpers have planted roots of exemplary service to the international community. From the intense academic preparation for a degree of one's choice, to the laborious sifting of board passers in licensure exams, certainly what we import to other countries are among the best the Philippines has. Yet, I grieve on how the world pays back our hospitality, of how the world steps on our fingers after shining their shoes, of how they could discriminate us for being a Third World country.

Imagine, preparing such an appetizing banquet for a visitor, you polish your house with dozens of floor wax, took out all the best kitchen wares and utensils for the visitor to use, cooked all the delicious specialties you could think of. Then, your visitor pear-shapes the fiesta with a simple, "Your party stinks."

I had my share of discrimination. A while back when I was frail and weak, a group of people I called friends misjudged me and kept on pushing me down, poisoning me to the foul pit of depression, drowning me to an ocean of helplessness.

The bad part is, I'm no loser. I get high grades and graduate as top of the class. I share my notes with them; even homework. I had no regrets helping them and being a sincere friend. But what do I get? Sheer backbiting and getting a chance to play the game of one versus one hundred. I was the one, and the one hundred was after me. It came to a point when I gave up and accepted their accusations. But my will to conquer my fear is there. I have become stronger and realized that they were against me because they were jealous of me.
True, one has the urge to discriminate because he doesn't want the other one to get past him, to be better than he is. It's like running in a marathon; because he can't catch up with you he'll just do all the means to slow you down.

Actually, we Filipinos have much more than those discriminating fools have. Let me cite some examples. We speak their language while they can't speak ours. We hire our own nurses and doctors and amazingly they hire our own as well. We have values. So what if they have snowmen? We have thousands of islands and they only have one or a few.
I would be a hypocrite if I deny that I took up Nursing so I could go out of the country and give more financial support to my family.

But I will never forget my roots and the soil that nourished me. I'll defend my birthplace. I am and will always be proud of being a Filipino. Just as proud as I am of myself now, amid the continuing discrimination of other peers, the backbiting and issues they build against me.
That message I received is undoubtedly true in any way. You'll feel more delighted when people get the impression that you are dumb and idiotic but end up finding out you're the brains of your class. Rather than people already know you're smart, there's no thrill in its discovery.

The next time someone will look down on you, insult you, discriminate you or call you a loser, just smile and realize that someone is just jealous of you.
Those people pull us down because they can't push themselves up.

One discriminating message received.
Erase message?
Okay.

(For comments and reactions please send an email to reylangarcia@yahoo.com or an SMS to 09186363090. View http://www.theyoungvoice.blogspot.com)

Hickory Dickory Dock (October 23,2007)

Hickory, Dickory Dock
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

Hickory Dickory Dock, The mouse ran up the clock. The clock strike one. The mouse ran down, Hickory Dickory Dock. Yes, I can still memorize this nursery rhyme along with several others my preschool teacher taught me. By the way, I’m in First Year College now. As fascinating as to how a college student enjoys singing Hickory Dickory Dock rather than blogging on Friendster or enjoying a fun filled night out with friends, this humble writer is experiencing one of those syndromes psychologists connote as the second childhood. Nevertheless, I have come across a conclusion that will boost up Mother Goose’s market for nursery rhymes. The mouse, in my own opinion, is the epitome of punctuality and has seemed to be born under the ancestry of Father Time himself. When the clock struck one, the mouse immediately went down. Whatever may be his reason of descending, the very essence is that the mouse did something. The mouse did not waste time.

Time is Gold. This phrase appears to be one of the most abused quotes known to man. If given much analysis, time is actually worth more than gold, even more than diamonds or any other wealth the material world can offer. Such illustrates how exceedingly important every second ticks, every minute tocks, how a fraction of a time could change millions of lives. Science had unraveled a lot of mysteries and had theoretically explained almost all brain constricting possibilities. Yet, never did Science acquire total control and absolute knowledge on the paradox of time. I guess time machines remains to be gadgets only available at dream world.

It irritates the bone marrow out of my skeletal system when I come across transacting business with a late comer, a time constraint player, a disorganized nincompoop. To schedule an appointment, includes a chained and tailing side kick called commitment. When Joe wants to date with Anna and sets up their romantic dinner from 7:00 pm to 9:00 pm, this only shows that Joe is free within the two hours and busy before and after those times. If Joe arrives at 7:01 it gives Anna all the grounds and reasons to walk out on him, and if they end at 9:01 it also gives Anna all the grounds and reasons to go home ahead. I may not have experience some diplomatic luncheon meetings, presidential conferences but I am quite aware that this simple logic of time management is something every one should be well aware of.

A lot will be spoiled. A lot will be affected. A lot will change. With a simple negligence of time, a struggling patient may lose his life, an apprentice may lose his dream job, a student may fall behind his classmates, a father might get furious with his daughter. It is not just the one you’ll meet whom you’ve disappointed, along are the people behind her, who depends on her, who waits for her, you have disappointed them all. The land of the rising sun, Japan, I admire their strict compliance for time, how every second for them means thousand of yens. No doubt their country is reaching the height of economic prosperity and human resource development. Their discipline is quite extraordinary. I may have not visited Japan, but I have come across reading books on their lifestyle. Their bullet train, which is the fastest there is, leaves at exactly 7:32 when it is scheduled to leave at 7:32, no a quarter of a second less or an eighth of a second more. Because of their disciplined way of following schedules things follow quite smoothly. Everybody is right on time for work, which creates a domino effect of workers and laborers getting a head start on the day finishing the prospected number of documents to file, dresses to sew or microchips to seal. Students arrive on school on time, giving them a good disposition on their pop quiz, resulting to a perfect 30/30 making the road to a better educational attainment clearer each day. Marketable goods turns up at selling stalls early and on time, making business and trade flowing with intense lubrication creating more profit and a seemingly healthy supply and demand relationship.

But, how about Filipino Time? Who created it in the first place, isn’t it us Filipinos? We are all quite aware how impractical and a major headache this malpractice can get, but we still rely on it as a sort of alibi and false rationalization for our shortcomings. I’ve got one word, Pathetic. Sorry I’m late, I got stuck on traffic. Sorry I’m late I’ve got tons of paper works left in the office. You’re stuck on traffic? Get an early head start in order to avoid traffic, it’s not my fault theirs heavy congestion in our streets. You’ve got office work to do? Finish them all up before your scheduled appointment, that’s why it’s called a schedule to accommodate things not to let me wait.

The mouse did it’s best to go down at exactly one o’clock. Given that the mouse is an irrational being, aren’t we ashamed of our rational selves?

Don’t make excuses.
Be on Time.

That is why they invented watches.

Of Jumbo Sized Crayons and Pancit Canton (October 16,2007)

Of Jumbo Sized Crayons and Pancit Canton
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia


I smiled at the simple photograph laid between the pages of my Chemistry book. An exam is scheduled for the next day, but I did not pay too much attention to how chemical reactions were formed or how to calculate the moles of a substance. My thoughts were rushing along the river of cheer; a charming discovery was made just that morning. That simple photograph was taken some ten years ago, I was innocently projecting in a white puffed blouse and blue over alls depicting the school uniform of my kindergarten.

What's more than the pose that could make or break my well-treasured reputation, is but the charming little girl peeking from behind. Her face seems so familiar that intrigue hovered above my thoughts, I deem to use all the benefits a perfect 20-20 vision offers. Then, I realized that, the same little girl in the picture was in fact my classmate and seatmate during English class in college. Christin Hope and I had been classmates before, that it why I felt a sudden rush and a tingling vibe when I first met her in college. How surprising it is that time has aged the long lost childhood memories we once had. Both of us couldn’t even remember much, but fate had drawn us closer, weaving the loom of a deeper friendship.

But, lesser did I know that it wasn’t only the two of us who shared some childish giggles and precious playtimes. BSN Section B is not only a multitude of strangers coming from all routes of life, neither it is only a room filled with unconnected chains. Rather it was a link of unripe friendships that long ago time didn’t permit to grow fonder. Kathryn and Janus shared their first singing of ABC’s together. Rose Anne and Marinel grew in doing some finger paintings together. It had seemed to be a reunion of childhood friends that were playing some several years of hide and seek together. For at long last, it was in college that their game ended. They found each other once more.

I couldn’t help but widen the already stretched grin on my face, when I came to ponder on certain sweet dumplings. We once got to know each other in ways of games and playtime, yet, now we get to know each other once again in ways of buko juice and pancit canton. The course of interactions may be different but the same thought and objective of seeking a friend and a confidant is something common to both our playful kindergarten selves and our confused college beings. We once shared a jumbo sized crayon in ways of drawing our very first stars, yet now, we share key answers in ways of cramming in assignments and beating project deadlines. The journey of symbiosis may be growing mature but the same desire to help and to be helped reigned in both of our four year old selves and the selves twelve years after.

All of us might be in college, all of us might be plainly regarded as mature and adult-like, and all of us might be considered as nowhere near childish anymore. But, people should take a closer look. We all still play chase and hide and seek, when no college instructor is watching. We all still clamor and runt like babies, when we were to study a dozen chapters for the finals. We still tease jokes and put out tongues at each other, when a conversation is starting to get impenetrable. We still remain friends after how many years of not seeing each other, and we don’t need any reason why we shouldn’t. Such is because; we were once friends and will always be.

I was zapped back to reality, my smile is still engraved on my face, my focus gently fading away from the picture me and Hope had. I had to review my notes for tomorrow’s exam. Honestly, I am not certain if I’ll get a decent grade in the test, but one thing remains clear, I’ll still have those friends I had long ago for tomorrow, all together in taking the exam.

We may have missed to see each other for a long while. But, now that destiny had done its part of bringing us together, we’ll hold each other’s hands tight and never letting go.

Diary of an Unfortunate Fetus (October 9,2007)

Diary of an Unfortunate Fetus
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

I happen to come across reading a diary of a fetus, yes you are not hallucinating, a diary of a fetus. Although this isn’t exactly written by the fetus, otherwise that miniscule creature would be even more popular than Albert Einstein; the diary is a manifestation of how a baby would have wrote it if he only could. That was a diary of an aborted fetus. That helpless little creature was a victim of this loathsome act, an innocent victim of a merciless murder. The first few entries to his diary was touching and uplifting. I couldn’t forget how the baby described how his first gentle touch would feel like, he’s dreaming to feel his mother’s warm caress. He even saw himself gradually forming to an actual human being, abounding in dreams and visions the sweet experience called life has to offer. But his tiny and fragile dreams were shattered with an irresponsible decision made by the people he wishes to have called his family.

Abortion is simply killing a weak and feeble creature; this act uses the helplessness of a little child to cover up for a frivolity committed. In my own opinion, it is worse than murder. What has the child got to do with a grave mistake? The irresponsible would-be parent, in my own perception, is the one who even owes much to the baby. The child supposedly would have grown with an immoral history of deception, being born illegitimate and unwanted, and to not let him grow by ending his very existence will smash the brittle integrity he never even knew.

“I could just imagine myself inside a warm womb, the resounding unfamiliar sounds echoes in my delicate ears, if I could just only come out and hear more closely. I could just imagine myself seeing nothing but a dim chamber, if I could just only come out and see what’s outside. I could just imagine the silent woman bearing me, I think she is my mother, if I could only come out and meet her.” This I presume will be the words that juvenile infant will be muttering if given the chance to do so. You may think that I went berserk, but I can hear the painful yet tender, the unaided yet frail cries.

We come across discussing this topic in our Sociology Class. I remember my professor asking us, knowing that we’ll be future nurses soon, who will eventually follow the bandwagon occurrence of going abroad, and the country to which we’re employed permits abortion, will our conscience not bother us if we were to assist the abortion process? I was raised in a morally oriented family and brought up in a Catholic school, I may be biased but it is against my principle to kill, especially someone who’s defenseless. Why would you work in that country in the first place if your conscience couldn’t take the gravity of such crime? My professor added, what if they’d offer you multiple times more your average salary just to assist in such process? I still remained and will forever be glued on to my stand. I’d rather be contented to a mediocre’s salary than risk my moral principle and integrity. I am not a murderer.

Our country is primarily a Christian dominated one; a lot of doctrines taught by this religion negates and refuses to accept the legitimate reason for abortion. Even our Muslim countrymen strongly believe in the same course of stand. But we can’t deny there are still some others whose conscience doesn’t bug them at all, they’d rather seek for prestige and honor than preserve their morale and integrity. I don’t deem to campaign for a lot of causes, but somehow I pity the little voices I continue to hear crying in extreme longing for a life they deserve to have.

This is but a little reminder, if a friend of yours would be left with no recourse but to abort her “burden” remember the moment you don’t stop her, you just denied your moral responsibility and let alone an innocent creature die in his would-be mother’s hands.

Young unmarried pregnant women would usually say, “I have to abort this child or else my future is ruined” or “I don’t want this child, I never wished to have one, so I have to abort it”. Well, pardon me, you don’t have enough grounds to do so, your own rationale doesn’t give you the power to control the life of others including the one you’re carrying.

I dream to be a nurse. Not only a mere nurse who’ll accept any function a health institution will bombard me, but a nurse with principles and moral values.

In the right time, I wanted to have a family, some kids that will call me Nanay. I will save them from a fate those unfortunate young angels had, I will not abort them. I wanted my future children to feel my warming touch, to see my joyful eyes, to hear my caring voice, to live as I had.

Let’s not waste the future of a little one, in his tiny hands the succeeding generations shall rise and will go on.

Let that baby finish his diary.
He has a lot to say.

Stop Abortion.

Hear Ye! Hear Me! (October 2,2007)

Hear YE! Hear ME!
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

The process of audition, of hearing is one amazing perceptual process. Just think of how two unusually shaped cartilages called the auricles can collect a mixture of pitches, frequencies and timbres of sounds all at the same time. How a 3 centimeter long canal can encompass the importance to that of Panama’s. How a simple drum shaped membrane can lead a whole band of bodily processes. The three miniscule bones called the ossicles, the incus, malleus, and stapes who ironically amplify twenty times of the sound. The nail shaped coiled tube named cochlea that secretes fluid not for defense mechanism but to continue the process of hearing. To sum things up, the auditory nerve sends the information to the command center, the brain, for the sound to be interpreted. All of these parts seem so simple and not so salable if placed on the stock market, who would bet on ear parts anyway? But each of them, along with their specific roles, integrates to a simple mission, for us to hear.

Call me berserk, I happen to see a connection between the hearing process and nation building. Hats off to the ear, how a simple organ sticking out on the sides of our face can regularly, minute by minute, second by second, finish up the process without any malfunctions, except perhaps on bad earwax days.

The auricle is the most exterior part of the ear, the one most exposed, most seen and most abused with dangling pieces of jewelry. But in what extreme deformity may the auricle unfortunately have been developed into, it still remains faithful to its mission and that is to be aware of the sounds around it and gather them to begin the audition process. Everyday people, average Joes, you and I, we should be working like the auricle. Nation building won’t start even a single step without us not knowing what to begin with, not knowing where we should start. We tend to ignore and forcibly deafen ourselves to escape from responsibility, what we don’t know is that the worst thing a person may do to his fellow men is not to do anything. The same goes with the auricle, the worst it can do the ear is not to collect the sounds, paralyzing the whole process.

Lets do some conversion, having a 3 centimeter long canal would mean around a third of my forefinger in length. Deceiving as it may appear, people may think it has no use but a simple channel or passageway, a simple inch-long tube where cotton buds would usually mop its floors. The canal makes cerumen, or what we fondly call as ear wax. Cleaning the earwax may be a healthy habit, but too much clean should ease up the entrance of dirt inside our inner ear that may cause the contamination of our eardrum. It’s the wax that glues up all the dirt, saving the eardrum from the terrible fate. Society should be too down with all the dirt, with all the downfalls and disintegration. These negative phenomenon are the reasons keeping us glued intact to our hopes and dreams as a nation. We have to clean our gutters and trash away our rubbish, but we have to understand we can’t sweep them all away because they have a purpose.

Imagine a marching band without some drum accompaniments. A total wipe-off would it be. Imagine an ear without its drum. A total wipe-off would a person be. The primary function of the eardrum is to vibrate and shift the impulse from the outer ear to the inner parts. Since I was young, my teachers used to tell me that the nation is building the youth up to be responsible citizens. I seek to know what a responsible citizen is. Let’s follow the eardrum that vibrates to the other parts what it hears. Let us remind each other our duties and obligations, even just simple ones we tend to deny and fail to perform. Vibrate to the person in front of you in a cashier at a grocery store to claim his receipt before leaving. Vibrate to your father driving that a yellow light means to slow down, not speed up. Vibrate to your neighbor to treat their house helper well and give due wage for her services. Be a drum, let others hear what they ought to hear, you ought to.

Our body is composed of 206 bones and the tiniest three of which can be found none other than our ear. The incus or the anvil, the malleus or the hammer, the stapes or the stirrup, they volume up and intensify the sound vibrating from the eardrum. Though how little they may appear, as they click on each other, they maximize the quality of the latest love song we’re drooling for. Let us be heard even though how tiny our voices are. Vote during elections, write an article about corruption, report a petty crime; some tiny things we thought that wouldn’t make a difference. The other 203 bones may make our whole body move, but all 203 of them can’t let you enjoy an RNB tune with much gusto as that of the little three. We have to let the higher authority hear our voices, they need to hear, and our voices should be also their own RNBs in the first place.

Cochlea comes from the Greek word of the same name meaning, snail, it shape would tell you why. This patriotic snail secretes fluid, called endolymph for the hearing process to reach its goal. The fluid that supposedly would bring our nation to the top are simple our potentials, we simply need to extract them out for the benefit of ourselves and everyone in domino effect. Cultivate that endolymph young ones, my friends. Study well and earn a degree in college. Work hard not just for the amateurs, not just for mediocrity, go for the best. Make the best endolymph you can to hear better, to make our nation better in the hopeful future.

The auditory nerve, without which the brain may cease to receive the sounds and we may grow old not recognizing the tune of twinkle, twinkle little star. The mediator is the role of this useful nerve, just like our government. Our system of government is called a Representative Democracy, meaning we elect officials to represent us, the people, in the decisions concerning the whole nation. They indeed are the bridges that connect our selves to our possible future. The auditory nerve when damaged will be useless, thus the magnanimous work of every part of the ear will be useless, the hearing process will not be complete. The same through with the government, even how much the people would strive for a better nation, if she is the one with the malfunction, then surely we’ll reach age ninety-nine not knowing who had a little lamb as fleece as white as snow.

The ear and our nation seem to be connected by my bizarre logic. But they are not that different after all.

So What? (Spetember 18,2007)

So What?
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

I stared at the mirror. I pity its unfortunate fate of coming across reflecting an image that only a mother could love. I was pulled into a vacuum of blank thoughts, that when reality zapped me back, I was thankful enough that the mirror hadn’t broken into pieces. I guess I don’t need seven years of bad luck, I already have a full lifetime of it to enjoy. A habit, or seems to be just part of my unique personality to always go against the wave. But after every bold venture, here we are, still stuck with barrels of despair and depression both getting worse with age. While each of my completely normal and non-deviant peer group are getting their hair ironed or curled, here I am again still stuck with a hairstyle only the 1950’s could appreciate. While each of those cool crowd are gathering every night in their super cool clubs partying and getting in touch with their social life, here I am, it’s just me and my computer. Sometimes, I’d like to just crack open my nutshell. I know that I want to and could be what I desire to become, but something is holding me back.

Consider me guilty as accused, I envy those pretty girls, whom every head turns back, whom every eye would take a second look. I always would wonder why they could fashion themselves with attitude and grandeur. Those teen fashion magazines would carelessly tell a desperate dork like me, how easy it is to slip on a doll shoes with style, or how simple it is to ramp around with an above the knee bohemian skirt. But, no, it isn’t that simple. I’d rather take on deriving thousands of theoretical formulas for the almost impossible chemical reactions. The sine and tangent function of a geometric circle can’t help in my completely wandering questions.

Although at times, some people may accuse me of being such a party popper and would sometimes say I’m a thumb close to being a certified nerd, those parties I popped were the same things I would want to have experienced. Then, came those moments of, why is it she has everything while I’m a loser. She’s pretty, rich, sociable, girlfriend material and smart while I’m just a simple amateur scribbler. Regarding that the stage of self belittlement has crossed the street enters the state of self-righteousness bobbing up and down of my rationality. Because I feel so small, I wouldn’t want people to keep me smaller so I’ll find all means to deflate those big people to my size, blowing off the helium out of them. I start to find the negatives in people I feel jealous of, with the hope of pushing myself up to regaining self-worth.

Funny, how I unconsciously would avoid but end up in the same porridge, smelling foul, looking rotten, tasting sour and being crap. I was too far sighted that I missed those things right in front of me. Those things that were popping and yelping for my attention but I refuse to recognize, all because my attention was on mimicking and dreaming of the unknown. That is man’s primary sickness, a fatal disease, which I would name as ignorance. A love desperado would explain the scenario quite remarkably. He goes finding for the perfect her, but the perfect her refuses him and even kicks him off. And, there exists this simple her who loves the desperado as he is as she listens to his every heartache with the perfect her. He ends up shouting to the world how messed up his life is and that nothing came upon his miserable life. The story ends with the simple her telling him, “what about me?”

Yes, what about me? All of the things I left astray and insignificant were silently screaming their lungs out for me to at least consider their purpose. What about me? The people who love me without me loving them back shouts out the very same line. The struggling loser in me who I considered to be just a writer cries out the very same whim. The little things that were stomped by those blinding big ones screech out the very same break. I reached for the stars that I didn’t get to see how beautiful the black sky was. Not knowing that, it was the black sky that made the twinkling stars shine to their brightest.

They may wear the coolest clothes, have all the “it”, walk all the model like walks, all the cutest guys chasing after them, a hair fresh from a salon, a skin fresh from spa, a lunch worth thousands of pesos, for all I care, so what? They don’t have what I have. What I have and what I am is better, now that I know better. I guess they’ll never get to hear corny praises from friends who say how suited a 200-peso worth of blouse is on me. I guess they’ll never get to feel the vibrating echoes of laughter inside the comfort room as I jokingly do a monologue of how a tractor could comb my hair flat. I guess they’ll never get to enjoy a budgeted value meal lunch with my family after a Sunday’s mass. I guess they’ll never get to experience these simple things. For those, I pity them and gone thankful for what I have and had all along.

I looked at my reflection at the mirror; I still wish to be like those pretty girls. But, at the same time I refuse to deny my self and what I have. Insecurity, the condition common to most teenagers the cooler crowd calls as losers. But I presume, this insecurity won’t come out if the so called loser won’t consider himself as one. Take note that even if the audience would applaud for a celebrity, the celebrity is just one puny little figure, and the audience is a bombardment of silhouettes. She’s just one and we’re a hundred. Decipher the austere logic. I can write articles that those several pretty girls would pay millions for. I have a decent set of scores that several cooler dudes would go nuts for.

It’s not just me. It’s not just my own drama. They might be staring at an invisible mirror, having their own insecurities and what ifs. But, the key is to be happy with yourself, and see those things that you already have and treasure them as if it would be stolen away from you for tomorrow.

A thousand-peso hotel lunch?
So what?
I’ve feasted on a 30 pesos lunch and I’m still full.

Deviants (September 25,2007)

Deviants
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

The wind rushed with an unusual chilly breeze. The horizon was fogged up in a gloomy mist. The golden ball of sunshine failed to appear from the heavens. Passing, along an open corridor, figments and silhouettes silently came barking at me. I raised my flashlight towards the mysterious creatures and was then, left gulp smacked of what I saw. To every shadow I point my flashlight was the same face, the same aura, the same figure that surrounded me with freezing stares. I turned to my left and saw my reflection at a broken mirror, I tightened my grip with the flashlight as I saw my face, and yes, the whole of me was just like them.

Considering I was made to be a scriptwriter of the latest horror flick that’ll creep out the theatres soon, I absolutely think I’m doing such a marvelous job. Then again, this was just one of my spooky nightmares that left me waking up around two in the morning, catching my breath and reprimanding myself that it will be the last time I watch a movie under the scary genre. Since then, I have always wondered, of how will things go if everyone is exactly alike. All people will have the same name; all people will have the same face, and all having the same fate. Two words. Totally Creepy.

Deviances, these make our world different and less common. Some claim that deviants or norm breakers are just some useless pieces of broken fragments abounding in number today. All of us seem to have our own definition of deviance, what may be inappropriate for you, is totally tolerable for me. But there are some people thought to be deviants in any other circumstances. Those girls who shamelessly stand along the sidewalks at night, waiting for luxurious cars to pick them up for a one night stand. Those guys who tactlessly isolate themselves in one room, inhaling the smoke of pleasure, sniffing the aroma of heaven hoping to for at least one night, forget their problems of that day. Those people who breaks not only the norms but the law itself, seems to be more different than anyone else. If they were to be in my dream, surely, they’ll be the faces I’m sure to recognize.

As a project in my Society and Culture class, we were to conduct a case study about these deviants, the prostitutes and the drug addicts. My group decided to tackle the drug addicts, and thus coming to the point in which we actually made an open interview with two of them. Mr. Shades 1 and 2, as we jokingly called them (and no, they don’t have sore eyes), shared the reasons and regrets that befuddled them before, during and after their taboo habit. More than enough, that is their reason of being addicted to drugs. More than enough love from parents, more than enough allowance, more than enough freedom, these all led them to defy from the normality of society. Influences of peer pressure and media tend to add up to their urges of trying the demonic bounties of prohibited drugs. Shades 1 was sixteen when he first tried, Shades two was fifteen, both young and astray. They lacked confidence so they depended on the mischievous power of these drugs to straighten their back and rise their chin up as they walk along the streets and mingle with people. People seem to worship them as they could endure around three long nights without sleeping or finishing a case of beer without dizzying up themselves.

Yet, the after effects were much more extreme, painfully extreme, both physically and psychologically. There were times when they felt they were being chased by someone that they actually were the ones who can see, and so everybody sees them running around foolishly for no particular reason. So noble were the factors to their withdrawals, so chaste were their confessions and reconciliations, still the world won’t see them to be in any extent, normal. No one can blame neither the society nor Mr. Shades 1 and 2. Society has it own rules and mores to be followed in order to be accepted within it. These two has their own reasons why they committed such. But, what made me scratch my head is but a simple question. How come society won’t consider the existence of these deviants?

As I understand, deviances are also the disparities and contrasts that were just stretch to some grave extent. All of us have our own differences and little deviances, without which we’ll all be stuck inside my dream of twins and triplets. They have their function in society, to the most obvious sense, if these deviants shall be exterminated from the world, what will become of the social workers and the policemen? Their worth will not be put into effect if they have no one to catch, put in jail, rehabilitate or simply use their handcuffs for. And, I guess the marijuana industry shall skyrocket towards the black hole of bankruptcy. As we continue to deny them and send them to the realm of normlessness, we just help in perpetuating the cycle of violence. To be against and knowing of the disadvantages of deviance is a noble man’s. But to revive the broken ones and rejuvenate their dignity is the work of a humane man.

We have our own deviances, each and every one of us. For someone to deny the fact and claim he is so normal, then I’m sorry, you are not human. I actually don’t dream of the utopia, or what sociologists call the perfect society. I don’t want the world to be too perfect, where everything is clean, organized and with the rules. I don’t want my dream to be real, it is first and foremost a nightmare. The society we have today is far from good, but to my analysis is quite balanced and surviving.

No, I’m not saying we shall all be drug addicts and prostitutes. My point all boils down to one thought I don’t want every one to be just like everyone. Because each of us think we’re in our own respect right and correct, we tend to influence others to be our literal clones and double gangers. Differences actually unite and create social solidarity. Because we all have differences, that makes us all common, that in its nature where society evolves.

I blinked again, hoping that what I saw in the reflection will remain to be a hallucination. When I opened my eyes, I just smiled to what I had beholden upon. The gush of wind was warmer as the sun shone brightly through the open corridor. Among the sea of people, each of whom is unique, were two men walking simply. They seem so familiar, except their eyes which I only saw just now.

My Soggy Flat Black Doll Shoes (September 11,2007)

My Soggy Flat Black Doll Shoes
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

Tell me. What would seem to be worse than wading through several foot-deep puddles of rainwater under a merciless southwestern wind which appears to be propelling your umbrella as a combat helicopter? I’m not done yet; try imagining yourself in your school uniform soaking wet, your 800 paged Chemistry book all damp and dripping, and to top it all off, your feet are shivering inside those flat black doll shoes. Now, you would ask, why on a shoemaker’s name am I wearing my flats instead of a prescribed one and a half inched heeled shoe? Call me the clumsiest sixteen years old in the universe, but I lost my school shoes a day before this menacing series of unfortunate events occurred. The details to this trauma, I would dare not speak of.

It was unfair of me to blame the foul weather to be the cause of my soggy situation. The primary reason why my puny little feet were submerged under puddles of rainwater was because of pure negligence and degrading it is to say, my own pure stupidity. I took the risk of suffering from leptospirosis and dashed my way towards my next class. Good, that the professor was quite late, thus I savored every minute of drying myself up. Thank goodness, my flat shoes, though drenched, are still decent enough to use for the rest of the day.

The recent visits of typhoon Egay and his ancestors did more than giving me a totally unnecessary splashing shower. Yes, I may have been soaking wet, but during that very same day were thousands of families ready to shift places with me if they could. Seeing that, they lost their homes which are now but tiny figures plunged into the depths of flooding waters. My damp and dripping 800 paged Chemistry book had more luck than some washed out textbooks from schools that were forced to cancel classes. Clearly, those drenched flat shoes are not soggy enough.

For decades, environmentalists, those concerned others, constantly reminds us of our contribution towards the gradual unfriendliness of nature. Global warming, climate change, extinction, tsunamis, these are but common terms that we fear of experiencing in reality. Funny, how these were once used to be jargons and gobbledygook of environmentalists we even once coined as weirdos. None in the mortal power of man can ultimately restore the nature we knew back when we were still not morons. I guess man can’t exert much but to keep such consequence from worsening and no, having an extra one and a half inched heeled shoe inside your schoolbag won’t help.

Knock on the doors of my infantile thoughts; I admit, I can’t answer in a scientifically accepted way. But perhaps, I could point out some obvious must-dos that we can all do to somehow take part in keeping nature from turning against us completely. We wouldn’t want her angry, now do we?

We can’t blame God or the land bridge theory of strategically placing the Philippines between large bodies of water susceptible to super typhoons, or along the ring of fire prone to life-threatening earthquakes and tsunamis, all of which shouts out nowhere near sunny days. The downpour of rain we can’t control, but the aftermath of such which is commonly known as flood, I obviously think we could. Huge leaps such as building dams, dykes, constructing flood control structures and so on are out of a Juan de la Cruz’s hands. It’s for us to pay responsibly our taxes and the government to do their part. What Juan can do is to teach his children how to reduce, reuse and recycle. What Juan can do is to show his children that throwing litter alongside streets is never a practice of a true citizen. What Juan can do is to be an everyday metro aid, proud to be and believe he is ought to be. Now, before you decide to throw your candy wrapper out of your gorgeous CRV automobile, think twice. Your CRV isn’t gorgeous enough after the flooded roads of your country will gobble up your mega powered tires.

Condemn me; I am guilty of denying my responsibility of saving up energy. Well, it may be supported with the fact that Physics clearly stated that energy can neither be created no destroyed. Eventually, I found out that it isn’t with the existence of energy the world is panicking on; it is with its distribution. Once again, Juan de la Cruz can’t easily build nuclear plants or innovate several hydroelectric generators to power up his community. I repeat it’s for us to pay responsibly our taxes and the government to do their part. What Juan can do may just start from using less electricity on daytime; spending on outdoor activities with his children rather than spending time facing his plasma screen television. What Juan can do may just simply be to walk towards a near grocery mart, instead of driving his classy CRV, thus wasting rare fuel in return. What Juan can do is to be an everyday thrift, because he needs to be and he knows has to be. The next time you’d decide to leave on your unused new LCD powered light source, think twice. Your LCD light bulb isn’t powerful enough to brighten up the city after it has died off unto the engulfing darkness.

Since I was in kindergarten, these two were always uttered by my teachers: don’t litter and conserve energy. I didn’t expect that these and among several others would be the simple keys of saving our world, would be the simple keys for our survival. Please take sometime to consider and practice these two simple ways. Think about it, according to my classmate Jason, bottled waters are but a common commodity today, don’t you think there will come a time that bottled oxygen will be sold in groceries? I hope not. I’m afraid it would.

Juan, please help me.
I don’t want my one and a half inched heeled shoes to be soggy too.
I’m counting on you.

(For comments and reactions please send an email to reylangarcia@yahoo.com, an SMS to 09186363090 or visit http://theyoungvoice.blogspot.com ).

Getting the Elephant inside the Refrigerator (September 4,2007)

Getting the Elephant inside the Refrigerator
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

I can’t seem to get this joke out of my mind. How do you place an elephant inside a refrigerator? Unorthodox as this mind buggler may be, the wise story teller answers this with three simple ways. First, you open the refrigerator, second, you let the elephant in, and third, you close the refrigerator. Pure genius, if you ask me. No doctorate degree holder can scientifically explain the madness held within this laugh-out-loud anecdote. Besides, the principles of physics may be totally against the brilliant story teller. I contradict not because I find it impossible to squeeze in an elephant inside a refrigerator, I contradict because there are other ways to place this large of a mammal inside the chilly compartment. How do these steps sound? First, you chop the elephant into several slices. Second, open the refrigerator. Third, place the head on the freezer, the trunk in the vegetable bin and the rest of his body along the egg racks. Then, close the refrigerator. Yes, there are thousands of ways, including drilling a whole on your fridge, just make sure you have a one year warranty for that matter.

Mathematics is not really my strongest point, or my second strongest point, or my third, you get the idea. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from those horrifying numbers that is there is no single solution to any mathematical equation. There are zillions of figures we barely even know that exist, and thus are capable of being used to derive a certain answer. That may be the reason why, solutions in problem solving are given points, other than the answer itself. This only shows that what man thinks is right, is not at all absolute. What man thinks is definite is not at all universal. What man thinks is real is not at all genuine. Most applicably, when we are dealing with a person’s opinion.

Every man was given a gift of will and rationality. Which means, he has his own purpose, his own reason, his own belief and perspective; these things no one can ever persecute. I even think that these may be the only things that can’t be bought or bribed away from a person. That is why, my body thermometer would reach its optimum boiling point, when I come across meeting someone who does not consider other else’s opinion, who thinks rather that his opinion should be considered by others. If facts and certain truths have all the alternatives, what makes opinion or perspective so taboo to these? I may restrain myself if I would found out that the world would turn against someone who answered I’m 65 years old if he was asked “What is your name”. But for some question that entails one’s view and his reason why he picked it and in the end was K.Oed by a self proclaimed connoisseur wanna be; I’m sorry but he’s getting his butt kicked by a concerned 16-year old.

There is a massive flood. A flood of know-it-alls brought about by a typhoon of self centered thorns. That is why our country couldn’t get any ounce of mobility because everyone thinks he is always right and should be followed by the rest. It’s not a bad habit to speak your mind out and influence others to your cause, I am currently doing one. But within the process, take time to shut up and listen to other else’s voices. You might not know, their ideas are better or to the least can complement your own perception. Besides, tell me, when in the history of beauty pageants has a contestant mocked by judges after answering the Question and Answer portion? Never. Why? It’s because it was an opinion.

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I am not saying that the truth shall be nullified or the falsity should be treated legitimate just to simply let everyone be happy with themselves.
It is a matter of finding the reason behind the mistake or the flaw within the driven-out plan. I’ll put it this way, is it acceptable for A to call B an idiot if he answered NO and supported magnificently his stand. The question goes this way : Can such blah-blah be applied in your everyday life? If YES, why? If NO, why? A believes the blah-blah is applicable to his life, so when B said NO, A proclaims that B is wrong, not even laying his eardrums to listen for B’s Oscar-worthy supporting statement. Acceptable? I don’t think so.

Thomas Edison found millions of ways how not to invent a light bulb. There are thousands of ways how to kill a cat. There are hundreds of ways how to put into writing my thoughts. A person who considers himself and his opinion to be absolute is nothing more but a chatterbox and a motor mouth of ideas. But a person who considers himself and his opinion just one of the several is simply a man of principles.

There are around eight billion people in the world. Therefore, there are around eight billion ideas on how to place the elephant inside the refrigerator. Not just the story teller’s ways. Within those eight billion, are but some tiny commonalities, are but some minute coincidences. This is where fact, reality and truth become alive. Opinions vary from one person to the other, in order to keep this difference constructive, respect and openness are needed.

If ever you might be disagreeing with my thoughts. Go ahead, you are free. I won’t accuse you, I respect your opinion.

But in any case you would say that my opinion is wrong.
That’s a different story.
I’ll place you inside the refrigerator if you don’t mind.


(For comments and reactions please send an email to reylangarcia@yahoo.com, an SMS to 09186363090, or visit http://theyoungvoice.blogspot.com )

That Something (August 21,2007)

NOTE: Some of the paragraphs were not published on the August 21,2007 issue.

That Something
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

My eyes widened as my left foot led my right one of the yellow tracks of the escalator. It was such a sight to see, more rigidly interesting than a championship match in one of those NBA games my father use to go nuts for. The shopping haven of SM City hadn’t been so jam-packed of people since a novelty icon or some matinee idol paid a visit. But that day was an exemption, and thus my premonition blurted out to be quite reliable. When I say jam-packed I mean it to the highest extent, in grammar we use to call it as the superlative degree. Swarms of college freshmen, including myself, flooded most of the upper floor corridors, all for the very same reason. Nope, we’re not there to sit on Santa Claus’s lap and tell him what we want for Christmas (it’s not even December, yet). It’s a all for one and hardly one for all scenario, packs of my kind were there because of a simple reason, that is, to watch a movie. The flick entitled “Paraiso” (starred by Maricel Soriano, Cesar Montano, Michael V.) was shockingly a required activity for most of the universities here in Iloilo City. Now before anyone gets the wrong idea of me making a movie review, I’m not. I already did that for my Filipino project, and trust me it was quite more taxing than doing hundreds of essays in one seating.

What I had experienced that day was not a matter of popcorn buckets or the piles of tissues soaking with tears. Throughout the endless wait of lining up, the wide vicinity of the cinema’s corridors was but a convention or to the least extent a gathering of colors and variations. Every kind of teenage personality you would ever possibly imagine was but a part of this orchestra of differences. Those descriptions I read on psychology magazines about the different types of teenagers were popping out of those glossy pages and existing in the real world. There were the fashionitas, those dudes and dudettes who seem to be always blooming and getting everything within the “it” of the cool category. There were the laid-backers, with their composed and frail looks, endlessly unaware of the past nor tomorrow; all that matters to them is enjoying the present. There were the brianiacs, who still in spite of the sea of crowd continues to glue the eyes over their textbooks or mutter about equations of their last chemistry exams. Then, there were my kind, those who feel so naked within a multitude, who looks down on the flooring almost always, seeming to be counting all the tile blocks the whole shopping mall has. It’s nobly funny to think how a simple charity-oriented movie brought together such a variety of people.

The heavens had answered our prayers; the chariot of luck brought me and my classmate, Marinel inside the cinema house, fortunate among the many, who still waited in line outside to be accommodated. Agreeing to sit near the path to the restrooms, you know the reasons: the cold aura, the possible funny jerks, a filled bottle of water in my hand, and not to mention, my body not able to perspire so well. The entire place was bombarded with a rock concert of different voices, all telling distinct stories. My boyfriend cheated on me. I got a perfect 1.0 in our Algebra midterms. I got sour cream popcorn instead of barbeque. Those kinds of stories. For that moment, it became some sort of a nuisance. I pampered myself by enjoying the nerve wrecking and spine tingling game of Snakes on Marinel’s phone while the films still weren’t rolling. Sadly I never got a score higher than ten. It was harsh, The Snake game.


But you know something made me grinned that day, right there, on that very cinema. Although all of us must be some pack of jelly beans of different colors packed in one box, something in such box made us so yummy to taste. As the movie progressed, I couldn’t’ help but noticed at every particular scene in which everyone would react. I sensed that when everybody laughed, I couldn’t seem to tell which laugh came from which voice. When everybody awes I couldn’t anymore distinguish as to which tone came from which person. Alas, the variety of individualities came to a blend during a common sight, a common emotion, a common experience. I looked back towards the entire crowd, as the dim atmosphere of the cinema seem to blind my some call it perfect 20-20 vision, I realized something striking. Those fashionistas I saw earlier, those laidbackers, those braniacs and of course my kind, were all but the same silhouettes sitting in unison, seeming to be of one particular type.

It is a heartwarming experience, to see how a world of differences come to a point of commonality. Right there and then, I knew that men aren’t indeed that unalike. They may vary in the hipping of clothes; some might be more expensive or branded than others or even carry their attires like supermodels, but still every one of them still worn something. They may vary in their perceptions in life, some always blame the past for their fate, others may be afraid of the future, but still every one of them still perceived something. They may vary in the grades or degrees they acquire, some might be top of their class, others might be just passing, but still every one of them still acquired something. This something brings people together, that abstract thought of us being connected in a bond of our being human sets different pitches or timbres to a monotonous but melodic harmony.

That little experience I had told me a simple conclusion. In order to achieve the particular goal of man for unity and equality, he has to concretize and develop that something. He already has it, all it needs is some magic and fairy dust. So the next time I would feel I seem to be totally off or aloof from others, I would then be urge to think otherwise. The next time I would feel insecure of someone being on top of the pyramid than me, I would then be lured to think the opposite. All because of that something that connects us all. Connecting the cool from the uncool, the braniacs from the average, the laidbackers from the worry-freaks, the “me” to them.

What’s that something? I would like to find out.

(Many thanks to AJ, and other readers who sent in their comments, these are highly appreciated.)

(For comments and reactions please send an email to reylangarcia@yahoo.com or an SMS to 09186363090)

Perfectly Perfect (August 7,2007)

Perfectly Perfect
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

What is it with the word, perfect? At one glance it may seem to be just one of the cluster of words in the dictionary, or an insignificant blabber coming from any man’s conversation, or even some involuntary expression common to schoolgirls. But to most people, being perfect is easier said than done. It may actually appear to be undoable, or to the very least impossible. Perfection has been part of any to-do list of man, though it may not be explicitly stated, but within the network of consciousness, comes his desire to be the best of the best. As I understand, we can do nothing about it, as it is part of our nature, it is but part of our being human. Permit me to say, that it is then rational for someone to grope and even whim to become, to the very least, the best of his league. Yet, the horrible truth of perfection or being perfect kills millions of my brains cells whenever I think about it. Deeming to comprehend the abstract reality of perfection would seem to make a Human Anatomy midterm exam a piece of cake, better yet some packet of peanuts.

I admit, I am confused. Confuse of how people would define something without flaw, something for them to be excellent and somewhere near divine. Take the sensitive route of physical appearance for example. Spin the globe to the western side of it and everything rotates around the obsession of Caucasians to acquire the goddess-like tanned beauty. If only the Orientals understood the tantrums of the other race, then they would spot how the whiter skinned would see their bleaching mania to be a waste of time. The connotation of perfection in terms of physique and beauty is relatively subjective and depends on the beholder. Most of the people already understood that, but still there they are; sun baiting to get the freshest bronze look or saving up money to get the blanched skin of their dreams. I am extremely puzzled, not of perfection as being subjective, but on the thought that people understood its opinionated view, but still deem for that unwritten throne of being best.

Knowing how vast and widespread the epidemic of this obsession may be, I happen to be a lowly victim of its tantalizing venom. I have just been once again told off by my extremely galaxy-wide patient parents. Our midterms exams are due to be taken this week, and I was readily frustrated unto mastering every bit of information my textbooks binds within its pages. Who wouldn’t want to get a high score? Why would one settle for a passing remark when a top score can just be few hours of studying away? Yes, I too was deeming for perfection. I thought that if I get such a high grade then I would be happy. Then again, I failed to recognize that even if I got a perfect score, I still haven’t reached the state of perfection. A few minutes, that is how long happiness would last after seeing a high grade in an exam. After that, what next, as for me it would be an eternity of regret that I could have been sleeping soundly in wee hours of the night, or enjoying munching on the infamous junk food while watching my favorite soap opera. The state of perfection won’t be either of the two, either of the high grades or a paradise of vacation. According to my juvenile mind, it would seem to be simply the state of contentment.

Contentment, is one of the values or should I say goals that man often refuses or simply finds it hard to obtain. Without contentment you’ll fell everything is imperfect. This is where I got my logic. If the Caucasians would be contented and satisfied of their color and same as with the Orientals to keep their tropical complexion, then each of them would more or less gradually climb to the stairs of perfection. It isn’t how the world views it; depending on another’s perception would allow you to commit a regretful decision. Being perfect is in its course, and as people say, subjective. Now if we would all depend on what others say is perfect then we would never find an end to our obsession. I say, redefine the meaning of perfection according to oneself, in order to attain the sense of contentment and eventually happiness.

I wanted a high grade, but I also wanted to take a break and relax. The solution here, according to simple logic is actually elementary. If you wanted a perfect grade, you have to sacrifice the pleasure of enjoying. The same goes to, if you wanted to have a prefect recess, you have to give up staying up studying in wee hours of the night. That state, perfection, is achieved when you were able to decide which of which do you really want. It’s being contented of either of the two, or for a bargainer’s benefit equally shared among the two. Choose: you had a boring weekend but ended up with a perfect grade, or you had perfectly fun weekend but ended up with a low grade, or you had somewhat a fine weekend and ended up a somewhat okay grade. I may not arbitrarily judge that any of this is the best decision; it just depends on the satisfaction of the doer. If he feels it’s okay to fail but had enjoyed, then no one could sentence him to death if he blurted out he reached the state of perfection.

Perfection is about contentment and redefining it for one’s sake. I happen to landed upon the same hat. If I would sacrifice studying a subject just to use the time on writing this article, or don’t submit any article for the week and let myself be indulge in studying. I chose the bargainer’s benefit; I hasten up my studying and limited my time writing. Though I didn’t do both overtly well, I am contented of what I did. Thus whatever outcome would befall my world next week, I’d still say I’ve done a good decision and will reach the state of perfection, somehow.

Perfection covers three choices: this one, that one or the bargainer’s benefit. Choose one, and then be happy and contented about it. Sooner or later, you’ll feel perfectly perfect.

(Many thanks for the readers who commented on my previous write-up, Dare to be like Cinderella)

(For comments and reactions please send an email to reylangarcia@yahoo.com or an SMS to 09186363090)

Dare to be like Cinderella (July 31,2007)

Dare to be like Cinderella
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

It was twelve o’clock in the morning. But, I couldn’t care less. There I was squeezing in every bit of information that I can inside my little noodle mind. Yes, I was studying. Our midterm examinations are but weeks away, I couldn’t bear to cram, not in this state. My eyes wanted to shut the lids and knock me off to dream world, but my will power to stay awake keeps on saying a few minutes more. These were the moments when fragments of illusions would come popping right in front of me. The soft, cold and comfy bed was welcoming my aching back to lie down and feel the cottony heaven, but still I have to defy. The gentle breeze of the midnight wind lulls my ear to a deceiving surrender, but I have to resist. I have to oppose the temptations of leaving my work, so as to finish and let everything fall rightly into place.

This is my daily routine, I hardly get some decent hours of sleep. Some said its torture. I said its hard work and determination. Now, I say its pressure and cowardice. This habit was not a liftoff to my burden; it actually hands in more load and weight. Evidently, I was pushing myself too hard. I could never imagine how I dared to be inclined in such practice that even my parents were not in favor of. At first it was a mere self-gratification, but somehow the extremities led to plain old self selfishness. Even the computer itself has its own limits and needs to shut down and regenerate, how much more a simple first year college student like me. I was caught up in my whims of idealism and perfection that I failed to remember my own and genuine needs.

Spending so much time in one thing, pouring out every glimpse of energy into it is a mere act of foolishness. Dedication is a noble act, but reckless obsession is nowhere near noble. Good for the computer, although it may tend to overheat and eventually shut down, it will remain to be just that. Apply the same course of situation with a human being and you’ll find nothing but the word frustration. I push myself towards the peak of my limit, but then the results of my several nights of staying up late and neglecting to have leisure and fun all arrived to a point of failure. Yes, it would take a courageous person to get over that frustration and start anew, but it would take a more courageous person to stop dealing with fear and pressure to prevent frustration.

It is fear and cowardice that fuels one to place so much pressure on his self. Better yet, on my part, it was insecurity. I am not sure of what I am capable of that I exhaust everything that I can and drain out every bit of power that I had stored. Adrenaline would rush through you and pops out an immense joy if what you goaled is what you acquired. But, the very thought of failing or underperforming would let one crumble to the brittleness of disappointment. It is okay to reach for the brightest star and grab hold of it, but it would be better if you took some time to look at the dimmer stars you passed by and dared to smile. Why? It’s because if in any case you’ll not reach that brightest star you won’t be all that gloomy, because along the way you saw dimmer stars that when their lights are added up will equal to the intensity of the brightest one.

Being pressured and too much focused only means that you fear of taking risks. The flavor and spices of life are made sweeter with every palpitating beat of your heart, with every deep breath you take in, with every doubt of certainty. That even though you just did what you can and what seemed the best, the result was satisfying. Rather than implying and tiring out all that you have and forcing out the better of your best, the result was just good, it was at any side regretful. It’s highly industrious of students in particular to study a few chapters ahead of their current lesson, making him more advance than his classmates, making him more secured of getting a higher grade. But then what? Just like me who spends most of the time reading in advance my lessons while my classmates laugh their hearts out on shared jokes and chit chats. It’s like I have conquered the mountain and climbed to the peak, but I never recalled nor noticed every steep that I have trodden; thus, making the success rewarding but never satisfying.

There I realized there was a major difference between study well and study hard. With studying hard, it gives more pressure and anxiety. The range and scope of study is just the same, but the desire and desperation seems to be at different ends. What my sometimes disfigured mind is telling that each of us got to take breaks and got to end things the way it is in order to experience more of life. Don’t you think if Cinderella had really forced herself to stay with the prince would have still made her the princess? She decided to end it there and go home. Thus, she found more adventures and more magic had she beheld with the fitting of the glass slipper.

The British proverb, All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, would explain in context what I deem to comprehend. My friends, there is nothing wrong to be focus, in fact it is noteworthy to be so. But the excessive inclination to it would lead us to living a patterned and routine driven life, making us deprived of the wonders of confusion, puzzlement and doubts. It’s nice to be not so all knowing and imperfect once in a while. Take time outs. Smell the roses. Have fun.

With my midterms fast approaching, I might be staying up late once more. But it won’t be as late as before. I’ll take some time to sip a warm cup of chocolate drink, or take a peep unto what my brother was giggling about, then doing my parents a favor to stop torturing myself and sleeping early. I may not be able to perfect the tests, but I was able to do some things, simple things they are, rather than sitting up like a desperate old maid locked up in the prison cell of serious studying.

Cinderella went back at 12 o’clock, stopped dancing with her prince and lost her glass slipper. Perfectionists claimed she should have stayed. But would it made her story a fairytale that it already is? Recess and Breaks, Weekends and Holidays were made for some reasons, let’s not waste their worth.

Dare to be like Cinderella.
Stop. Chill. Smile.

(Many thanks to Ms.Marlyn Salvilla, Mr.Murphy Pe, 09107887780, 09282928803 for their comments)
(For comments and reactions please send an email to reylangarcia@yahoo.com or an SMS to 09186363090)

Getting 1.0 in Daughter-ship 101 (July 24,2007)

Getting 1.0 in Daughter-ship 101
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

There I was staring blankly unto a piece of one half crosswise pad paper. My eyes were glued down within its ruled blue lines. Once every second, I would snatch a glimpse of the circled score on its upper right, 39/40. It was all a careless mistake, I was thinking of writing the word “true” but ended up writing otherwise, “false”. Clerical errors were not exactly the main cause for my lapses of consciousness. Mind you, I am contented of what I have. Those several nights of staying up until one in the morning just to crank up my trusty old noodle really paid off. Still, as I went over my answers, I couldn’t help but experiencing the state of feeling two emotions at once. Half of my self was floating in cloud nine but the other half was locked up in the dungeon of dismay. The other half doesn’t contain the aura of regret; I just remembered something more important than getting a high grade. Yes, my friends, there really is something more important than 1.0’s.

These past few days I showed my university how good of a student I can be. But there is one course subject I have constantly failed to pass, and that is, Daughter-ship 101”. Being caught up with all my academic whims unto reaching some 1.25’s and 1.0’s, I forgot to focus and study on a more important lesson. My mother wakes up everyday 5:00 in the morning, and does her usual motherly chores; waking up me and my brother, preparing chocolate drinks to warm up our tummies, setting our uniforms in place, and fixing my hopeless hair. Then, at night she would stay up late with me, as I burn candles to finish my schoolwork. She keeps me company, telling me to take breaks once in a while and offering a nice warm cup of milk to soothe my occasional mental blocks. My father, well, he has a different routine. You’ll hear his snore symphony every God-knows-what-hour of dawn, just because he stayed up late the night before, tiring his brains out in front of the computer, finding ways to market his business. His profits are neither for personal nor on his own accord, but mostly to ours, his family.

This routine of selfless concern from my parents are but priceless and beyond repayment. Now, what was I thinking that a mere scrap of one half cross wise pad paper or some possible 1.0’s could make their day? Actually, these definitely would. Yet, these won’t complete the entire package, these are not enough. I see myself as crap as I thought about how reckless and insensitive I had become.

As my mother would stay up late and keep me company, I answer this act with nothing but pure rubbish. I want to slap myself for my mother. There she was waiting and watching me study, hoping that I’ll finish early and talk to her about all sorts of stuff. Stuffs about what I ate at school during lunch time, about how wide is the circumference of my mouth as I yawned in one of my boring classes, about how many cute guys I spotted within the university. Stuffs like that. Stuffs we used to talked about. Stuffs that I ignored because I was preoccupied with purely academics. I did well and almost perfected my test, but I left my mother heavy hearted during her sleep that night.

It was a Thursday, and fortunately we have no classes on Friday. I happily sat in front of the television goggling my eyes unto the telenovelas as like I haven’t viewed them since summer vacation. Now this is where I turned selfishly naïve. My father peeped through the window and hollered my name, asking if where the cd for a certain software might be. I looked at him grumpily as I childishly thought of how I was distracted with my viewing pleasure. My night ended with some hours of litany and sermon from my raging but still composed father. I’ve learned my lesson. Thursdays aren’t my lucky days. Kidding, Lesson learned: The world doesn’t revolve around me. I have to be extra sensitive.

I cut deeply their hearts. I left scars within them. No 1.0’s or 39/40 grades could mend and stitch back those rips together. That night, I’ll never forget what my father told me, “A person even with all the achievements in life but none of character, I see him as pure poop.” Before I slept that night I looked up at my medals swinging back and forth from the rustling of the evening breeze. I told myself, what really was my purpose of getting high grades and those plates of steel a.k.a medals; wasn’t it for my parents in the first place? I wasn’t living a purpose driven life. I continue on reaching for the stars but my space ship was out of control. Being young and immature is never a reason to know right from wrong. A child’s duty is not mainly to study and get high grades, this is just secondary, what comes first, is loving the reason for existence, and that is his parents.

And there were stubborn mornings. After my mother had woken up early and wash the daylights out of her just to help me prepare, I would simply and insensitively grant her back my rotten tomato complaints. She blow dries my hair and I blow dry out her concern; foolish me. She combs me hair to perfection (only she can do that) and I comb her day with frowns and discontentment. Some parents put pressure to their children of attaining high grades in school; mine are kilometers more considerate. They don’t expect me to achieve, they just want to see me try studying properly and get passing grades. How ironical it is that I would put pressure to myself on my own. Unaware as I am, I want them to feel proud of me, and perhaps and maybe those high grades could tap and mend the broken gaps I committed to them. But this is where I went 5.0 wrong. Dropped Out Wrong.

My friends, I’m not proclaiming that you’ll neglect your studies. I myself will still stay up late at night and burn my candles until it flames no more. But, beside from getting all the recognitions in the world, your family especially your parents have more value than all of these put together. Teachers and friends may give us 1.0’s and praises, but it’s only our parents who can reward us with love among any other. Even if the world may spin back at us and leave us to nowhere, our nanay, mama, mom and tatay, papa, dad will always look for us and push the earth back to spin on its axis. The world today is filled with users and advantage seekers, but never shall our parents be one of these people. They work, toil and even scold us not for their own benefits, but for our own. Why would you waste liters of saliva and crawl to the pressures of work for just nothing, our parents do all sorts of stupidity just for us.

I may be too young to comprehend these all. Forgive me for my lack of judgment and irrelevance of thoughts. Sooner in the future when I’ll be a parent, I’ll understand. Somewhere in the near beyond I might be in the place of my parents and go back to what I have written, that being a parent entails due sacrifices. Thus it is enough and rewarding to the extent, for a child to repay his mom and dad not just with stars on his report card nor 1.0’s on his transcripts but a sincere hug and warm thank yous to everyday acts of love.

The next time I’ll get a high grade on my upcoming midterms (hopefully), I’ll go home with my exam papers together with a smile stamped on my face and a sworn promise to be a better daughter. Hoping that one day, I too might get 1.0’s not just with my course subjects, but on Daughter-ship 101.

Nanay… Tatay… I’m sorry.

(Many thanks to 09184081998, 09177170874 and Dr. Paul Francia for expressing their comments for my previous write up “More than Harry’s Magic”.)

(For comments and reactions please send an email to reylangarcia@yahoo.com or send an SMS to 09186363090).