Raiders of the Lost Christmas 12/16/08

Raiders of the Lost Christmas

by: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

It's already midway of the Yuletide season, but it seems this year, I don't feel anything special. Christmas has always been my most favorite time of the year, setting aside the already awaited gifts and extra allowances. It's those few weeks when you get to sing high pitched carols and not appear deranged. It's those several days when you get to please your craving tummy with all the delights that placed Santa to his Ho-ho-ho shape. It's the month of when you'll smile at every kid who competes as to who will make the longest Christmas wish list to North Pole and in the end found out Santa was just dad in his red pajamas and ruffled cotton mustache. The nights are getting longer, the breeze is getting colder and the colorful lights are getting brighter, but my Christmas hasn't fully sunk in. Am I beginning to lose my Christmas spirit?

A few years back, at this time, I would have been attending a family reunion exchanging gifts with my cousins, and beating the daylights out of a 24-hour karaoke marathon. I almost forgot the feeling of Christmas shopping when everything was bargain and as if I would get everybody a piece of everything. But now, these days when no one can escape the planet-wide economic crisis, I would rather spend my savings on required textbooks and next semester's tuition than spend them on even the cheapest the store has. I would rather spend my Christmas vacation reviewing for January's midterms than playing back was has been. It is the circumstances that kept on pushing me off Santa's lap. The more I become serious in order to survive this jungle called life, the more I become resistant to the simplest things that could have brought me the greatest of joys.

But then, I thought about an OFW mother who wouldn't get the chance to hug tightly and smother in kisses her five year old son this Christmas, but still found means to call and let the little guy know his toy truck will be on its way soon and his mommy loves him so much. I thought about a family of five this Christmas Eve who will make use what poverty will leave them, some cups of rice, salted egg and their most treasured pancit but still feel as if they will have the grandest noche buena. I thought about an old man celebrating the season sleeping on the cold sidewalks with gurgling stomach coughing and sniffing on weak lungs but still opted to dream of the fairytale Christmas he and his past wife had shared. These people should have more right to loose the spirit of Christmas than I do. So foolish of me, to presume that Christmas is becoming less special. I never thought that I could be so materialistic. It has been said countless of times that the true essence of Christmas comes not from pricy wrappers, elegant ribbons and annoying musical Christmas cards. The true essence of Christmas is giving and receiving. I have learned this ever since my very first Christmas. But, actually I just realized it isn't really giving and receiving. It's finding the love behind every gift you give and receive. As cheesy as it may sounds, love really does define Christmas.

Let us not maul over a not so grand noche Buena with a smaller sized sweetened ham than last year. Let us be thankful that we still get to eat with the same people who also joined us in eating the bigger sweetened ham last Christmas. Let us not fret about not having the Hongkong trip for this Christmas. Let us be thankful of the opportunity to explore the yet unchartered local sceneries of simbang gabi and indulge in the sweet melodies of daigon. Let us not frown over the thought that Christmas this year isn't like Christmas last year. It is we who are unlike ourselves of last year. We had become busier, we had become more preoccupied, and we had misplaced the love of Christmas. Busy as we are, we ought to hold on tight to that Christmas spirit that once gave us that happiness of watching out for Santa's reindeers in the sky. We might have forgotten to dust off our Christmas decors from our cabinets because of the never ending itineraries, but we should never loose grip to that warmth that kept us abounding in hope and optimism.

Christmas is not just a season independent and distinct to the other times of the year.

It is the culmination of what has been in the past eleven months. If we had been busy, now is the time to lay low and enjoy the few days' vacation with the Christmas bonus at hand and a family to share it with.

Am I really beginning to loose my Christmas Spirit?

Nah, it never really left me. I just forgot what it felt like.

Spread Love this Christmas.

Keep the spirit alive.

Many thanks to Dr. Garin-Vargas for the comment on my article "I don't want to die like Pepe"

Brilliant and logical thinking!! LIVE AND LEAD !!--we need more individuals with rational
concept like you. I am so proud of you.

When Grandpa stopped smoking 12/9/08

When Grandpa stopped smoking
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

The rice stalks dressed themselves with dewdrops glittering with every striking ray of the mighty sun. I marched down the narrow muddy path which didn't give much justice to my newly polished black shoes. All sorts of cattle scattered across the vast farmland taking advantage of a cool and damp ground brought about by last evening's rain. I continued trekking the unfamiliar place and subdued my unfortunate shoes to the sticky and thick whim of brown mud. I was clad up in my community nursing uniform and on my way to the family assigned to my
care.

Finally reaching the doorstep, I knocked on the door of a family of seven who were more than eager to welcome me into their home. For the first few visits, I have observed and learned from their life style hoping to collate the needed information for the requirements I am to pass days after. But, it wasn't long when those visits bounded themselves by concern and empathy, that I wanted to learn more about them not just to satisfy the requirements but to find ways to actually
help them.

During those visits, I was supposed to perform one nursing technique in front of my clinical instructor. Anxiety gulped me whole shaking the even the most timid nerves. I was to perform urinalysis using
acetic acid to determine if one family member, the grandfather, had risk for hypertension as he already had experienced the condition in his middle-age years. I was indeed happy after achieving a concrete result and didn't mess up the technique. Grandpa had a slight risk for the possible recurrence of hypertension. With these findings, I opted to impart some health teachings to eliminate the factors that contribute to such risk. He smokes a pack of cigarettes every day. He
drinks whisky after a tiring day from grazing his cattle and tending his field. One of his family blurted out that it's been more than 40 years since he had first smoked and this vice lingered on his daily
routine even if how abounding the reminders are to quit smoking.

Grandpa wasn't my only patient, the entire family was. Their lives are
intertwined in a web of connection, each triumph will lead to the
success of another and each failure will push the dominoes to the
downfall of another. The family was living in a semi-permanent house,
with no flooring and inadequate furniture. Their animal pens were in
proximal distance to their home, thus it wasn't surprising that the
chickens would walk in and out of the house so ordinarily and the
pig's powerful aroma diffuses to almost anywhere. Their water pump is
not yet tested whether it is safe to drink or it houses some bacteria.
These and many more are the problems I have observed with the family,
and although this may be a typical rural poverty-stricken family
lifestyle, soon as the risk factors accumulate it may endanger their
health.

The family to whom I was assigned is just one of the millions of
families with the same or even worse conditions. I wonder why our
country couldn't see the simplest needs of society and just blabber
about theoretical problems. I wonder why our government officials
would provide more fund to military force or foreign relations than to
the people's health. In other countries, medical and nursing services
are within their reach even to the most rural communities, but here in
our country the least fortunate would just be happy enough to be
visited once a year by a student nurse. I wonder why everyone deems
more for a change in the political system, for charter change, while
the rest of the people need most the drastic actions to their problems
and not comprehensive paper works and countless court sessions and
hearings. I wonder why our law makers would pass countless bills and
laws but in the end the country still suffers from economic
insufficiency, from political chaos, and from unsafe drinking water.

During the last day of my visit, the family told me Grandpa was on the
field harvesting rice with the hope of buying a Jollibee meal for it
was his granddaughter's birthday. I let out a smile. They further
added since the day I visited and imparted my health teachings and
told him to drink moderately and stop smoking, Grandpa followed. It's
been a week since he stopped completely from smoking and promise to
only drink on special occasions. His daughter approached me, held my
hand and thanked me for my six days of visit. My smile widened. The
family also promised to get their water supply check and clean up
their surroundings regularly.

A student nurse struggling to get her nursing technique done had made
even a small change in a family's life. A student nurse with muddy
black shoes convinced a Grandpa to stop smoking and improve his health
status.

What more can several others do?

I don't want to die like Pepe 12/2/08

I don't want to die like Pepe

by: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

It appears that Filipinos are indeed Rizalians. Jose Rizal Protacio Mercado Y Alonso Realonda was immortalized in a number of shrines and monuments in his honor, as if in almost every Town Park or municipal plaza, the image of the renowned polyglot and revolutionary novelist stands tall in reverence and honor. His novels, Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo has long been integrated in the curriculum of secondary education, much more is his more detailed biography in the tertiary level. Rizal might probably be the most quoted and featured Filipino, ranging from a student council candidate's grand rally speech to a political analyst's comprehensive strategies intended for the much awaited national progress.

Pepe, as he was fondly called, made a great deal of change to the Filipinos of his time. He was the spark that lit the flaming fire of more than three centuries of abuse and discrimination. His major patriotic contribution of dying for his beliefs and principles had set the innate flame of the Filipino revolutionists; through his quill and ink we attained a freer Philippines. He died for our country. A lot had set him as an example of a hero, of a true nationalistic Filipino.

These days, our country is again oppressed and under a heinous regime, the regime of poverty, economic instability, political turmoil and immorality. The opposition claims the administration is pushing for charter change, with the evident consecutive triumphs in both the upper and lower legislative houses. The administration struggles to maintain its integrity amidst all scandals of fertilizer funds and misleading prayers, seeking for retribution to collate once again the public trust. I am not sure what would Pepe do if he was still with us. But a number of Filipinos sought for inspiration in the charming hero's impulses and conviction.

Rizal might have been the role model of the thousands of rallying idealists marching along wide avenues with their striking cries written in large placards. But they end up going home drenched or spend the rest of the weekend behind bars after a friction with the authorities. Rizal might have been the paradigm of change advocates who stirred up heated fights and promulgated their fervor in mass media. But they were found ambushed, paralyzed or simply six feet below the ground. These people, they were like Rizal in their own rights. They deemed for change and they're willing to sacrifice almost everything to regain what little Pepe once dreamed of.

I admire those people, so selfless and brave. But, I don't want to follow their example. I don't want to die for the Philippines. I don't want to be this century's Rizal. I don't want to because I love my country, and wasting all my time being idealistic and rooting for drastic change will cancel out everything I've been preparing for. I am a sophomore nursing student, and if I die or end up living in cognito with death threats, I'll be denying the Philippines a great deal of service through either my actual practice of nursing the sick Filipinos or through the flooding remittances. Getting injured, threatened or ridiculed for the country's sake, in my opinion will be only left in the most tangible of things, because after you have died or lost your right leg, it won't be a sure win that everything will be better. But serving your worth as to your profession or aptitude will start in itself a revolution of change, tiny droplets converging into a tsunami of nationalism.

You know you are doctor then, treat the sick. Thus, you saved several others from the enemies called diseases and illnesses. You know you are a construction worker then, construct the best structures. Thus, you secured safety to several others who will occupy the building. You know you are student, study well and graduate. Thus, you opened opportunities for yourself and someday bring to reality the dream of a boy called Pepe. You know you are unemployed or underemployed then, get up from your lazy seat and find the right job. Thus, you redeemed yourself and your family from the grips of poverty. You know you are a government official, stay honest. Thus, you eradicate corruption in your own self and feed your families with hard earn necessities. In today's time, we do not need to suffer to gain drastic change; we do not need to die for our country to be free. We just need to live and give worth to our own capacities and use these as our weapons to combat the real enemies of our country.

I admire Rizal for his remarkable contributions.

But I don't want to die for my country like he did.

After all, he said I was one of the hopes of our fatherland.

I'll do him proud.

Childish and Immature 11/25/08

Childish and Immature

By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

A preschool teacher sat at the middle of a circle formed by cross-sitting five-year olds. Her friendly smile kept her pupils' attention; those cute and goggling eyes wrapped her with untainted enthusiasm. "Who among you here, hugs and kisses their parents and says I love you to them all the time?" In almost an instant, several hands covered in paints of blue, red and yellow as remnants of their Art class were thrust high into the air bearing much pride and confidence. The teacher's smile widened, she knew it was going to be a long afternoon; each pupil has his story to tell. A college professor stood at the middle of the rostrum, her lessons were reflected on the projector screen and her class was doing all they could to scribble some notes and keep themselves awake for the next five hours. Her austere expression morphed into a kinder one when she said, "Who among you here still hugs, kisses and says I love you to your parents all the time?" What came next was a moment of transition, and slowly a few hands were almost visible. The professor grinned; she seemed expectant of the outcomes. Her topic concerned about familial relationships and she knew it was going to be a long afternoon.

Kissing, Hugging and Saying I love you to parents may gather some varying responses, each with their own reason. Some would believe these to be childish and immature, that once your voice deepens of puberty or you start to worry about pimples and zits, you already are banned from giving your old dad even just a sweet peck on the cheek. Some rather, including myself, prefer to keep these habits and look at them as the primary means of showing affection, love and respect to the folks that brought us to life. I, personally, am not sure of the history how kissing, hugging and saying I love you to your parents became childish and immature in anyway. But, others do believe that it prohibits a person's independence from his parents slowing them down on finally living on their own.

A friend justified his side, contesting that some parents won't let their children kiss, hug or say I love you, and that is why these children would grow to be quite cold and inexpressive. He further stated that, to some parents when a child would be affectionate, tendency is there would either be a 3-day sale in one department store with her coveted shoes on the rack or a new arrival of imported shiny gadgets bursting with an array of must-have features. Some children refuse to kiss and hug or even mutter the three magic words because their parents would imply immediately or would simply be ice cold. But either way, I believe that children, no matter how austere and unemotional parents are, must have the initiative even just out of such debt of honor to let them, the parents, know that we, the children, do love them. Regardless if the parents would react or not, at least the child made a move and an effort to let them know.

I am someone who needs to feel in actuality before I would believe. I am someone who needs to be hugged, kissed and be said I love you before I would internalize that you indeed care. It feels really different to kiss your parents goodnight than to just assume that the three of you would have sweet dreams. You have to let them know that everything they've been through, everything their going through and the reason for them to continue remains with all the worth in the world because you appreciate those everything. It is so easy for us when we were children to reach for daddy's hug and be soaked in mommy's kisses because we weren't thinking of what others might think. The point is, I love my parents and that's that. But, I wonder why when we grow older and realize more the worth of our parents that should have actually give us more the reason to give back, we tend to grow far apart from them.

Hugging, Kissing and Saying I Love You, these three, especially hugging, triggers the release of oxytocin which is a hormone in our body, causing us to be more relaxed and at ease. We all have our fair share of stresses, and our parents are just around. You get two benefits from hugging, kissing and saying I love you: first, you get to feel more relaxed and rejuvenated and second you have made someone close to you happier. It just takes some few minutes of tight bear hugs to tell a woman who bore you painstakingly for nine months and eventually risk her life giving birth to you, to let her know you are in gratitude to her love. It just takes some few steps to walk towards your father who for several years had work blood and sweat to offer you the best, to kiss him goodnight and let him know that you appreciate him.

If some would say kissing, hugging and saying I love you to parents is childish and immature, then yes.

I am Childish and Immature.

Destruction of Distraction 11/18/08

Destruction of Distraction
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

A classmate who just got a near-failing grade in one of our hourly
exams asked me, "How do you study, how come you get good grades, and
do you have a secret?" I stared at her straight into her eyes, and for
a second, flashes of episodes consumed my mind with familiar
scenarios. Those days when everybody else enjoyed the leisure of an
exam-free week, I couldn't help but instilled into my will some
milligrams of anxiety which fueled me to open up some few chapters in
our textbooks and read ahead, reading in advance. Those nights when
everybody else couldn't risk some few hours beyond their bedtime, I
couldn't help but fixed myself some cups of hot choco which kept my
eyes wide awake to memorize some pages in the dead silence of the
night. Those moments when everybody else chose to drown themselves in
the addictive lure of computer games, or text-messaging while midterms
grew closer, I couldn't help but prevent myself from the possibility
of cramming the day before a hundred-fifty-item exam which brought my
determination higher and unto less chances of faltering.

When reality pulled me back, I saw her tapping her thumb into the keys
of her cell phone with an expression of kilig coating her whole. She
took advantage of my periodic blank states which she at some point
might have thought it was painstakingly boring or just weirdly eerie.
I snatched her cell phone and held it, examined it for a few seconds
and heaved something halfway between a sigh and a smirk. "You know
what? I just don't get distracted a lot." She took her cell phone from
my grip and giggled in reply, I wondered if she understood what I
meant.

Goals, dreams, ambitions, everybody has them. Maslow clearly stated in
his hierarchy of needs that man, after filling up to his
physiological, psycho-social, and aesthetic needs must come face to
face in realizing his self actualization needs: to find fulfillment
and realize one's potential. I and the rest of mankind certainly agree
with Mr. Maslow, we all wanted to be Einsteins, Roosevelts, or
Spinozas in our own accord. But why is it that only less people get to
reach the highest level of self actualization in Maslow's ladder?
Maslow conducted a study to a population of college students and found
out that what he believes to be the self-actualizers made up only 1%
of the population.

This 1% may either have practiced the ideal behaviors or simply didn't
succumb to distractions. The thought of being distracted primarily
focuses on the youth's struggle of graduating from a degree with all
the luring temptations of today's morally-shaken society. Some would
attest that intimate relationships and commitments before getting a
stable job or at least graduate may be a strong distraction. Every
time your sweetheart would get on your nerves and end up with you two
in a cold misunderstanding, you can't deny but get awfully distracted
in your studies or even your very outlook from day to day. Some would
claim that addiction to computer games or internet surfing, staying
more than five hours hooked into the monitor screen could allow you to
withhold studying for tomorrow's exam. You could not avoid the growing
urge to finish up one level or destroy all known two dimensional
enemies. You could not help but submit to the vain desire to pimp-up
your space in a dating site or chat your several hours with some
person whom you barely even know. Distractions come in different
forms, and just as goals, dreams and ambitions do, everybody has them.

I got my own share of distractions. I'm addicted to television
programs, and if given the chance, I wouldn't dare to miss even a
single episode of some crime-solving, disease-diagnosing dramas. There
was a time when it was already the season finale of the program, but I
have an upcoming exam to study for. For some minutes I was in a state
of delirium, not knowing what to satisfy first, my wants or my
possibility of graduating. Then, after some minutes of regression and
self-awakening, I chose to sit in a corner and goggle my eyes over my
huge textbook. I could wait for a couple of weeks for the replay.

Distractions are distractions if you let them. Computers remain as
computers, helpful to communication and convenient research; they only
become distractive when the person using them let them be.
Relationships are relationships, intimate and securing; they only
become distractive if the lovers let them be. I am certain we all have
the capacity to postpone our urges, desires and addiction. We have the
will and rational thought to choose, to modify, and to prioritize. We
have to power to set limits and thus keeping us safe from these
monsters of distraction.

Distracted?
Only if you let them be.

Dinner beside a Tombstone 11/11/08

Dinner beside a Tombstone

By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

The sky was as blue as ever, it has been painted perfectly with sketches of puffy clouds scattered along the breath-taking scenery. The grass could not have been greener; it tickled the restless feet of children chasing each other in circles. Several food kiosks crowded the side walks with mouth-watering display of tasty delights. Countless tents paraded the entire area, housing families with their resounding laughs and catching up gossips. I gazed upon such sight; it was a pleasure that I was living the picnic paradise. For a second, I thought I was in a locality's suburban park joining a massive family reunion. I brought my head down and caught sight of gray marbles with fancy name engravings and a variety of flowers outlining the plates. I was in a cemetery, a memorial park, and a place for the dead where the sky was bluest; the grass was greenest and the best place for a family reunion.

Cemeteries remind most of one lingering truth, and that is death. The graveyard supposedly screams the creepy aura of standing just six feet about once-alive corpses. Yet, the days of black mourning umbrellas and the ambiance of solitude was taken aback and made way for multi-colored tents and live band concerts. It cannot be denied that since man found reason, he had been practicing some customs for the dead, the burial practices. The Neanderthals started the fad with their red ochre and the Egyptians followed with the now widely accepted art of embalming. For so long, the living had given much respect and importance in remembering the dead, in commemorating the life those departed had once lived. Yet, the birth of high density cholesterol fast foods and the sheer need to vacate from half a year's worth of work had baptized a less melancholic and tissue-thrift remembrance of the dearly deceased.

At some point it may sound quite unruly for the still breathing to take advantage of the dead people's day to lean back and gather blood links, to hold a family reunion. But, the way I look at it, there is not much point of spending the entire day crying hearts out of a fifty-year old worm infested skeleton. Their time has long been done, and their mission either fulfilled or otherwise has been defined by their own actions and their own fate. It is then more meaningful to give more focus on the living people we barely meet once a year. The gravesites with their flourishing epitaphs will remain as long as the memorial park's in the business, but the opportunity to spend precious time with relatives and family just comes once in a while.

It is even amusing and heart-warming at the same time to listen to families talking about the memories they had together with someone who's digging it in literally with earthworms. The celebration of the dead bridges the distance between relatives, friends and even families who live far from each other. We still pay homage to the dead and the context of respect and honor remains, but as innovative as we are, a little twist was added and we integrated another value, to hold tighter the family ties. It gave me butterflies fluttering inside my tummy, when I saw what seemed to be the departed's husband and son who were talking to her as if she was just right in front of them. Then what seemed to be a minute later came what I presumed to be the departed's parents who brought some snacks for their cheerful vigil. The day the husband and the son remembered a mother who cooked the finest meals and the wife who smothered the most delightful kisses, was also the day when a much closer relationship with the in-laws began.

The night grew dimmer; the developing first quarter moon shone its silver gloom over the graveyard. Yellow glow from vigil candles identified each tombstone and reminded a depressing aura of longing. Petals of flowers started to drop as the chilly breeze passed along each grave. I gaze upon such sight, and if I didn't realize the hundreds of children still chasing around in circles with their glowing sticks and hoops, if I didn't see the dozens of families eating dinner together beside the tombstones, if I didn't hear the joyous music echoing in the entire memorial park, I would have thought I was in the most dramatic or scariest movie nominated in the Oscars.

That day, I lied down beside my great grandparent's gravesite with a comfy car carpet and blanket to rest on.. who couldn't resist? I ate dinner heartedly with almost three cups of rice in a place where necrophobics dread. I ran around with my cousins, with wide smiles on our faces, on the streets where most horror films are shot. All Soul's Day may at first sound be a reason for teary eyes and unhappy realizations. But it doesn't stop man's innate ability to be happy amidst the heartbreaking truths of loss, grief and death. All Soul's Day is just another day for a much awaited family reunion.

I guess it was right for some of my friends to send me a text message saying, Happy All Soul's Day.

Riddikulus 11/4/08

Riddikulus

By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

The professor's velvet cape wandered aimlessly back and forth, brushing the dust off the wooden floor of his classroom. His wolf-like eyes traveled leaving a hint of terror to each student present. He moved briskly towards a large antique wardrobe, it shuddered as it felt his presence drawing near. The students trembled in reply, they were third years clad in black robes and at that moment were attending Defense Against the Dark Arts under Professor Remus Lupin. Professor Lupin withdrew his wand and positioned himself in front of the furniture. The knob twisted open and out came a fickle being which in a split second transformed into a silver full moon. This shape-shifter is known as a boggart, which takes the form of whatever a person fears most. Professor Lupin, being a werewolf, shivers in the very sight of a full moon. Arachnophobic Ronald Weasley got the boggart to change into a gigantic spider. Parvati Patil frizzed when the boggart wrapped itself in plasters imitating a mummy. The famous Harry Potter couldn't stop sweating when the boggart turned into a dementor in front of his round spectacles.

This is how multibillionaire author Joanne Kathleen Rowling defined fear. She not only proved herself more worth than the Queen of England, but also perfectly described fear's subjectivity. Fear is present in each of us; we all have our own reasons of hiding under our blankets. Each one of us will somehow reach the point of feeling nauseated or acquiring a strong urge to urinate right after being a few inches away from your most dreaded fear. Yet, Fear takes various forms; the concrete symbol of relentless panic, horrifying tremor and unmanageable anxiety is relative. What may weaken and wobble your knees might cause no sign of pallor to another.

Psychiatrists say, when a fear becomes intense and persistent, it becomes a phobia. Five to 10 people out of a hundred are diagnosed with phobias, among the most common are hydrohphobia (fear of water), ophidiophobia (fear of snakes) and claustrophobia (fear of closed spaces). But, the way I look at it, there is a much deeper fear than snakes, water or closed spaces in particular. I once had cynophobia; I feared dogs. Every time a panting four-legged furry creature would pass by my side, you'll see me perspiring heavily and looking for the nearest chair to stand on top. Never did I consider them as my best friends. But soon, I have come to realized that what I feared wasn't exactly those playful sniffing pros, as they were actually quite cute and adorable. What I feared was the possibility of getting bitten by their deceiving grinders or getting infected with rabies. It is then possible that some of us don't really fear what we fear. You're not afraid of the water, you're just afraid of getting drowned into its depths. You're not afraid of snakes, you're just afraid of getting bitten by its fangs and being poisoned by its venom. You're not afraid of closed spaces, you're just afraid of being squished flat and thus not being able to breathe.

Fear is certainly a mysterious feeling, a debatable fact, and irony in itself. I see fear as subjective and not as what it seems. Though it may appear as something we all dread about, though it may seem as something we all wish to never have existed; fear remains an integral ingredient to spice up and preserve the savor of life. When we have fear, it reminds us of the fact that we have something to protect, to shelter from harm, to defend. Fear makes us realize that we are human and we are not invisible. Fear lets us remember to have faith either to a religion or to certain people, whom our strength comes from. I would not be truly glad if fear ceased to frighten and scare. Somehow I still enjoy cuddling myself beside my parents at night when thunder strikes. In one way or another, I still love crouching under my warm blanket when darkness seems to gulp me whole. By some means, I still take delight in feeling helpless and soon finding out my faith is still in a good working condition.

Professor Lupin raised his wand and shouted, "Riddikulus", and in a split second the silver full moon deflated into a whooshing balloon. The room was filled with laughter; the professor couldn't help but let out a smile as well. Ron whispered Riddikulus, and the huge spider was equipped with silly looking roller skates. Parvati muttered the same spell and whisked the mummy into entangling itself rolling his head off. Harry didn't get it on the first try, but soon was able to produce an advance magic of a Patronus Charm.

Lupin and his class made the boggart look ridiculous to conquer its fright. They made fear hilarious, temporarily restraining its terror. I tried my own style of Riddikulus and as of now I have four cute looking dogs welcoming me home from school everyday.

What's your Boggart like?

Belated Happy Halloween.

Sa Lugar Lang 10/28/08

Sa Lugar Lang

By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

I was certain I'm standing within the perimeter of the yellow line; no more reminders from the blue boys this time. The last time I tried my luck in commuting home on a PUJ, I pissed off an auxiliary police for waiting on a no loading and unloading zone. I guess it would have been either I needed to consult an ophthalmologist or the yellow paint on the road was just coming off much earlier than expected. The latter proved to be true since my vision is not that far off from a perfect 20/20. My right arm stretched out in the open almost involuntarily and the turquoise Mandurriao jeepney submitted to my whims and came to a stop. My arm muscles trembled in hopeless surrender while heaving two huge textbooks that I just bought from a bookstore along Calle Real. I sat on the far end of the jeepney, placed my Pathophysiology and Pharmacology textbooks on top of my unfortunate lap, gripped the handles for safety and set myself for what seemed to be a twenty minute ride.

A cool afternoon breeze disrupted my normal melatonin cycles leaving me drowsy on the first half of the ride. But just as my eyelids were about to fall into a tight shut, a resounding giggle from three grade school kids gave up all my hopes for some ten minutes in peaceful dreamland. They were chitchatting on how disgustingly unfashionable their teacher's two-inched heels looked like while munching on a stick of sweetened banana. I couldn't help but chuckle with them in unison. I shifted my view to other passengers and got hold of the thought, that inside the jeepney was a multitude of unique personalities, a gathering of various lifestyles, a blend of diverse philosophies, all fused into one aggregate. A simple community bounded by a common jeepney fare worth 7.00.

There was a teenage male on the front seat, hugging his electric guitar as he dozes off with headphones glued to his ear, presumably listening to punk-rock tunes. He might have been burned out from a whole day's worth of band practice. A grandmother was sitting some two seats in front of me; she was with her timid grandson whose eyes are akin to the marbles he's grasping inside his little fists. Both of them might have shopped for a week's worth of groceries, the two yellow plastic bags looked just as heavy as my textbooks which at that very moment were crushing my thighs in agony. There was a well-dressed woman probably in her forties, who couldn't let a second off her cell phone. She might have been from her routine hectic office work by the looks of her numerous wrinkle lines.

I was enjoying myself in delight while guessing the background of each passenger that I have already forgotten what seemed to be an unmanageable drowsiness. I felt as if I was in one of Agatha Christie's novels applying the great Detective Hercule Poirot's psycho-analytic abilities of people watching. At that moment, I figured out forensic science could have been a fun course for college, but my super spy fantasies faded into a blur as the loudest of the three grade schoolers almost shouted right to the driver's ear, Sa lugar lang. My smile widened as he went down, he might be doing his Math assignments soon right after he helps his mother with cooking rice for dinner. One after the other, the passengers gradually emptied the turquoise Mandurriao jeepney and lingering thoughts entered my head. The amateur teenage guitarist, once he arrives home, I'm guessing he'll run straight to his bedroom and dump his drowsy head to sleep. The grandmother and grandson, once they arrive home, I'm guessing they'll start placing their groceries on their cupboards and cabinets with the other grandchildren rejoicing for a hunger-free week to come. The forty something woman, once she arrives home, I'm guessing she'll be preparing dinner for her children and finally loosen the tight grip to her cell phone.

Those passengers, they all came from different walks of life. They have different agenda, before they boarded the jeepney and after they reach their destinations. But during the twenty minutes we're all together in the turquoise vehicle we bonded into simple commonalities. We all paid our fare; we helped each other out to pass the coins and bills to the driver; we listened to each others stories (if ever it was loud enough to be heard). It was a simple experience that I had, but it truly made me realize how all of us live the same journey with different routes and paths, but still the same adventure. My stop was getting nearer. I heaved the two huge textbooks and made sure that I paid the fare. I stared at the driver and offered him a smile, telling him that we're both on the same journey. I am not sure if he got the message.

He just smiled back.

It was my stop.

Manong, Sa lugar lang.

Hero vs Superhero 10/21/08

Hero versus Superhero
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

It was in 1938 that some farm boy named Clark Kent knew that he could
lift himself from the ground thus landing him on cover feature of
Action Comics. It was in 1962 that a certain Peter Parker was bitten
by a radioactive spider almost instantly he became the front liner of
Marvel Comics' issue number 15. A few years went on, and the world was
hooked on how telephone booths can become instant dressing rooms for a
man who wore his briefs over his pants. Just after enough endorsement
from the press, and the world was trapped in a human spider's web,
bedazzled at how a newspaper photographer roamed around the city
jumping from building to building. Superman and Spiderman, these are
two of the most loved superheroes, which have captivated the hearts of
enthusiastic comic book collectors and average citizens alike.

Since the birth of flowing capes and neon colored underwear, everyone
can't seem to get enough of superheroes. I personally had that stage
in my delirium trodden childhood when I started looking up the sky for
a bird, or for a plane, or for well, Superman. I could not resist
admiring those spider-like reflexes and outstanding x-ray vision, and
for every triumph each superhero had against their archenemies, I
became one with the roaring crowd who showered them with praises. Mary
Jane and Louise are amongst the luckiest women on earth after they
proved that the iron hearts of these men of steel are actually
malleable. The growing obsession for superheroes had become evident
with the dozen remakes on the big screen and a ten-year old's fantasy
called action figures.

But then, what exactly is a superhero? Encarta Dictionary defines a
superhero to be a fictional character, who has superhuman powers and
uses them to fight crime or evil. Fictional, I stared at that word for
a couple of moments and realized how it became a detour for my
damsel-in-distress days. Superheroes have taken over the heroes we
once knew, those heroes who have, to the greatest extent, died for his
country's independence or a simple woman who endured nine months and
half a day of labor for her most awaited first baby boy. Nowadays,
most children would rather spend hours reading a multi-colored comic
book than watch a documentary on the trials and tribulations of our
national hero. Some would opt to view the latest franchise of an
action-packed superhero movie then spend a night chit-chatting with
the less known hero who brought him to life.

I may sound negative with comic book exposure but frankly, as
idealistic as I am, I also enjoy reading comic books as it would
broaden one's imagination to heights that have never been reached.
But, I am growing concerned at how some fellow youth would ignore the
real heroes they should treasure. Even before 1938 when Clark Kent
realized he was from a glowing planet called Krypton, was the
historical 1896 Revolution of the thousands of Filipinos called the
KKK who initiated our sovereignty from the Spanish rule. Yet, their
significance is just limited in the history textbooks that some
students would barely dare to open. Just a year after 1962, when Peter
Parker started to climb walls, gave birth to the two most special
persons in my life, my parents. Yet, often times I disregard their
value and worth all because I have forgotten that I owe my life to
them, that they are my heroes.

It would be nice to have some super human flying back and forth saving
one person at a time, the law enforcers would have an easier job at
that, but since nobody has yet discovered a planet called Krypton or
mutated a radioactive spider that could alter DNAs, let us just be
grateful of the not so super heroes we have who are just lurking
between the pages of our history textbooks and tucking us all to bed
with warm good night kisses. I also realized that if indeed Spiderman,
Superman, Darna, Captain Barbell or any of the superheroes do exist,
they can't possibly be our own personal superheroes because they
belong to the world. You could just imagine if you'll ask Superman to
help you with cooking lunch; he'll just use his laser vision to heat
up your mixed vegetables and right after that he'll be off to assist
your spinster neighbor whose cat got stuck on a tree branch.

Our freedom fighters, revolutionary heroes, idealists, although they
can't swoop over by our side to assist us in times of need, they will
always be available to be a concrete and feasible influence. Our
parents, friends and significant others, there won't be any reason in
the world why they wouldn't set us on their first priority; they will
be always there to help us solve trigonometry problems, share some
pieces of advice on emotional breakups, or stay awake with us when we
couldn't sleep. No red or blue capes, no neon colored underwear, no
x-ray vision or spider-like reflexes, just the full heart to care.

It's a bird
No, it's a plane.
No, it's…

Who's your hero?

Time Machines 10/14

Time Machines

By Maria Reylan M. Garcia

The aging population has gotten more anxious and compulsively concerned of the current medical statistics regarding the prevalence of Alzheimer's disease during man's degenerative stage, when the once porcelain tight skin reveals a heave of layered wrinkles. According to Dr. Richard Bixby of Dallas's Doctor's Hospital, it is estimated that about 5 percent of adults over age 65 will have it (Alzheimer's), and as many as 40 percent of adults over age 80. Alzheimer's disease involves the malfunction of the nerve cells that causes changes in certain parts of the brain leading to a decline in mental function that would affect thinking, language, behavior and worst, memory. Yes, even I am alarmed of the reality that someday when all of my thirty-two ivory teeth are changed into artificial white dentures I may forget the very memories I hold dearly.

Man was bestowed by nature the gift of memory, the gift of reminiscing the past moments that he might have treasured or despised, and it seems man continues to enjoy such privilege. I guess this would be the very reason why we are still uncomfortable to the truth that someday we'll grow old and we will alas forget. The past may be an invisible entity brought to some momentary perception by shiny photographs and a minute's length of videos, but the provoking power it has to lure man into either regrets or hopes encompasses the concrete site of the present. The past, for me, is a vacuum of similarly cherished and damned memories that has one way or another built the persons we are now.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." George Santayana vouched these words with great conviction that it had been the very first sentence on the very first page of my high school history book. I've always thought that he meant, if I could not remember all those historical facts, how Genghis Khan rode the mountains of Mongolia, I'll have to repeat taking my exams in history over and over again. But now that I've learned to comprehend what my friend George is really trying to say, it simply shows that the past bears such a weighty impact on the current present and the futuristic tomorrow. We ought to remember the past; we ought to learn from the past, we ought to live with the past. The first time you fall down, bruise or cut yourself the bleeding will be painful because you never anticipated the situation. The second, third and fourth time you tumble and earn a thick rough scab, the healing will be more tolerable because you have felt the pain once and it had made you stronger and more secure.

Time Machines have been one of the science fictions that have boggled the minds of many advocates of physics, the possibility seemed thin but who could question man's ability nothing seems impossible nowadays. I am not sure if everyone would agree, but if I would be given the opportunity to step inside a time machine and transport myself to a specific era of my life, I would certainly pick the past. Time Machines are usually dreamed of many in order to correct their mistakes in the past rather than see the outcomes of their precedent foolishness in the future. I want to go back in time more than I want to explore the future. Tomorrow could be a different thing if the past would be modified, replaced, changed. But the past will always be the past even if how much we flood ourselves with regrets and intoxicate ourselves with lamentations in the present time and tomorrow's future.

I was flipping through the pages of my high school yearbook and I couldn't help but smile at what has been even if the episodes that flashed in my mind may seem to be more bitter and resentful than a dreamland of sunshine and spring daisies. Yet, I am still confided and at ease with the fact that I could still remember, even if everything I could recall defies all the laughter I have right now. It doesn't matter if I would recall the dim memories of childish competition and cold quarrels with friends all it matters is that I have recalled, I still have that memory. The memory that helped shaped the dome to which I stand at the moment.

I am not sure if I will be among the 5% by the age of 65 or among the 40% by the age of 80 who'll be unlucky enough to gradually forget the keepsakes of the past. I am not sure if I will die with a blank and absent memory, I hope I will not. But, one thing remains sure, as long as I could still remember, as long as I could still reminisce, I won't stop doing so.

My friend George says…

When we remember, we learn.

Ready for Red Days 09/30/08

Ready for Red Days

By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

I could not recall how my already trembling little feet minced its way to the college's comfort room and dragged me unto doing laundry on a Thursday afternoon. Yes, I was doing laundry while the rest of my kind was rejoicing for relief on the last post test of the semester. My body was looped into a twist since I was rubbing the stain off from the backside of my currently worn white pencil-cut skirt. The stain wasn't a question of my inherent clumsiness in fish sauce spills or ketchup splatters, but it did seem to appear like either of the two. Rather, the annoying foul smelling bloody stain marked not only my second day of menstruation that month but also my intrinsic nature of being unprepared. My mother always reminded me to have an extra skirt in my bag if I were in my blushing red days. But it seemed to have always escaped my mind. Thus, on that Thursday afternoon my white pencil-cut skirt was some inches away from resembling a Japanese flag.

Being ready and prepared, these are some attitudes many have failed to set into a habit. I am not certain if it's the rush of hormones and heart pounding anxiety that lured us into the usual cramming and last minute resolutions. Several others remained glued to their belief of time pressure to be a successful stimulus to creative ideas, wise decisions, and enhanced memory. Students these days would work on their projects previously given some months ago just the night before the deadline. Last minute shoppers would flood the groceries and department stores pushing their heavily loaded carts a day before either Christmas or New Year's Eve. The birth of rush i.d and passport sized pictures that catered to seemingly ill-equipped job applicants. It is as if launching a military war without any training or ammunitions, without neither cannon nor some grenades to spare.

Yet, I remain cemented on my foothold that quality weighs more than quantity. Take the millions of Chinese produced milk that were refused by most importing nations due to its harmful reactions to the body. Profit was indeed the mindset, that none of the manufacturers prepared for the consequences of adding in melamine, a crystalline solid compound used in making plastics. Quality is defined by the lengthy planning and a prepared state of mind to carry on with fabricating long-lasting health safe products and receiving the much coveted 1.0s on a semester's project. Two students both who are about to take a twenty-item quiz; one decided to study several days before the quiz and the other resulted to cramming some hours before. Although the unprepared might miraculously have a higher grade than the prepared, slim would be the chances. In the end, the prepared would retain some day's worth of study for a long time until the final exams. In most cases the unprepared would have all those information fluttering out of his retention right after he answered number 20.

The worst of all scenarios is the uncanny ability of some to swallow their guts and ask for an extension from the deadline. It was called a deadline for a reason. Some might overestimate their abilities of working well in a short span of time before the target date, and soon would realize that time is ticking and no one has yet invented a time machine. The essence of preparation comes in when everything else wouldn't fall into place and wouldn't lay out as one wish. For an unprepared lad he'll eventually raise that white flag in surrender, yet for a ready time gratifying lass, she'll eventually pull out her Plan Bs, Cs and Ds. It really pays to be ready and be prepared ahead of time, although rare others might have been gifted with speed and accuracy to meet tomorrow's, everything else will pay off if done slowly but surely.

At long last, the stained turned into what appears to be a light shade of dust that reasoned out an accidental sitting on a filth covered bench. I hastily went back to our classroom with an unnoticeable soaking white pencil-cut skirt, bearing in mind to follow a mother's reminder of an extra white skirt during those reddened days.

Be Prepared.

The Nurse Who loves to Write 09/23/08

The Nurse who loves Sauté

By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

Do you really want to be a nurse? The strict yet doting college instructor lowered her glasses as if wanting to get a clearer view of my seatmate. She asked the question again. Do you really want to be a nurse? 8 seconds, I counted the time it took until my now anxious seatmate furnished our instructor with a smiling yet trembling yes. The answer wasn't automatic, it wasn't straightforward; it seemed my seatmate had her doubts. She told me a while back, that she was dragged into taking up a course deviant to her interest. She dreamed of being a chef someday, mastering the arts of sauté, dressing chickens and upside down cakes. It was like the smell of burning caramel when her parents brought her out of the kitchen paradise, and compelled her to spend the rest of her days with the noble cap on top and a promising future of a greener pasture. My seatmate is one of the several millions who remain bitter about not being able to pursue a college degree they personally would like. The path for them has already been paved and nothing else is left but to follow that road obediently.

I have to admit, when I'm forced unto doing something I don't like, either I would constantly ignore the nagging or purposely let it fall into a sad and chaotic mess while I enjoy remaining naïve. Aside from overreacting on a bean sized pimple right on top of her nose, this is one of the many impulsively passive features of a confused youth. I see a lot of nursing students who wanted to be culinary artists, a multitude of engineering students who dreamed to be English majors, a crowd of political science students who yearned to be accountants. But because poverty dwells on every nook and corner, because unmet dreams haunts some dissatisfied parents, because she's still not old enough to make the decision, those nursing, engineering and political science students remain as is. Being dragged into a situation deviant to one's personal beliefs and interest would be tormenting and everyday would be but a subtle torture. A true blue classical music lover will be placed in a dormitory with gothic rockers who listen to nothing more than punk music at an amplified volume as roommates. Disturbing. How much more being pushed into a college degree diverse to what you really wanted to have as a career? Upsetting.

But at the end of the string, parents, and those who forced the guts out of us, want nothing more than our benefit and maybe a little extra for them alongside if our paycheck has gotten a raise. A daughter spent four years to graduate as a teacher all because her mother didn't get to become one in her youth. Although it may appear that some parents are determined to realize their unfulfilled dreams in their children, it doesn't end as selfish at it appears. The mother knew she could have a better life and a much honored status in society if she pursued being a teacher; she wanted her daughter to enjoy these fruits yet to be ripened. She wanted more the good of her daughter, and less of gratifying those unrealized dreams. Whatever the case, a mother, a parent, someone who cares would always want the best for the person they love even if it would be difficult at first, but they know everything will pay off in the end.

Science would tell us that a diamond is simply a pure black coal made good under pressure. Those who were forced, lured and dragged appear and as if they are black coal, but their parents who seem to be the pressure don't want anything else but for them to be sparkling and shining diamonds. The only problem is both don't fully understand, both haven't understood the concern of each other. I personally didn't have Nursing to be my first choice; it remained top two on my list. I wanted to pursue a course on writing as it is my passion. My parents opt for Nursing, but didn't force me per se. We laid down some time to talk and listened to each of our points, in the end I was the one who made the decision and stuck to the belief that I can always write any moment of the day even if I am already a nurse on duty. A nursing student who dreams of becoming a chef someday and her parents who wanted her to live a stable and secure life. I don't have much solution to settle their differences. Just communicate, take sometime to talk, this really helps.

And it was my turn; the strict yet doting college instructor shifted towards me and asked me the same question. Do you really want to be a nurse?

1 second later.

Yes, Ma'am.