Finding the Right Buttons

Just when I am beginning to get the hang of it, the digicam my second son, JB, passed on to me acts up. Due to poor handling, my mind says. The tiny buttons have often been pressed and pushed in the wrong directions and they could only take so much.

Being a word person, I have problems with symbols, tiny ones at that!

Lately I’ve aimed the camera at beautiful moments and all it has been giving me back are dimly lit photos with fine pink streaks.

Finding a replacement is a task more difficult than finding the old camera’s little buttons. The handy ones which I require to carry in my bag wherever I go are way too complicated and too expensive.

Until one afternoon . . . I take my friend Ggie (as art director, she is into serious photography) to the camera shop to help me make a decision which has been taking too long in coming. She points to the prettiest of the lot—an all-black sleek beauty. Wide angle lens, 7.1 mega pixels, dual lens, at a price higher than my budget.The saleslady lets me handle it. The first and only thing that strikes me is: it has no teeny-weeny, confusing icons. Instead, all knobs are labeled—yes, in words! Delete. Review. Menu. Share. Battery. Etc. In a flash, I decide to take it home. To demonstrate how good it performs, the saleslady takes a shot of me and Ggie.

I look at the photo and it captures my thoughts: Wow, at last, this here is a camera that’s really user friendly.

Go ahead, say it: Idiot proof.

Three Treasures

There are three different watches on my dressing table that I treasure much more than the others. And I am not talking about costs or how much they’re worth in pesos and cents. I will share them with you in the order of their chronology, not of their importance. For I hold them dear in my heart for different reasons.

Watch No. 1

I have a group of friends (five of us) and we call ourselves “The Golden Girls of Alabang.” This is half accurate—our ages range from 40 to 60. But we all live in the area of Alabang, a place south of Manila. We meet regularly to talk about our lives, most especially that part in the workplace which we once shared and the common friends we sometimes meet and those we don’t see anymore.

It was nearing Christmas and over lunch, a celebration of someone’s birthday, we talked about gifts. Ggie, the artist in the group, was wearing this exact watch model but the charms spelled A-R-T-I-S-T. We coveted it on sight—and each wanted to buy herself one (like a friendship band uniform). The only difference would be the charms (which should describe what we do). We each gave Ggie our pesos, the exact cost of the watch. Simple.

But this group has a penchant for complicating matters. We had the brilliant idea of an exchange gift on Christmas. My pesos would pay for Mabel’s watch, and Mabel’s would pay for Dolly’s, and Dolly’s would pay for Gigi’s, and Ggie’s would pay for Baby's, and Baby's would pay for Grace’s—more or less. Ggie, who'd rather draw, didn't take down notes so that when she gave us all our watches, nobody knew whose watch-money went to whom.

My author-watch is a gift from… Mabel? Or Ggie? Or Dolly? Or Baby? I wear it often, especially when I go out with the “The Golden Girls of Alabang.” In all the other occasions when people say it is a beautiful watch, and it is, I volunteer the unusual tale of how it came to me. Their faces twitch and they hold my hand to look closely at the A-U-T-H-O-R.

 

Watch No. 2

My client, and now a friend, Lita, has a collection of watches (like I do). But hers comes with names I can’t spell like Gerard Peregeaux, Patek Philippe, Beobachtugshur, IWC Da Vinci, and such bought in her many travels abroad. Mine have names like Redo, Sioko, Possil, Esprek, and such bought in my many trips to flea markets.

In one of our meetings, she burst with what she might have been trying hard to rein in her mind. “Grace, where on earth did you get that watch?” I was appalled that she was appalled. It was a perfectly great plastic watch with multi-colored rhinestones.

In our next meeting-cum-chit-chat that week, before she could sit down, she dangled a black velvet pouch before my nose and said, “Your watch really agitates me. Throw it away and wear this.”

I carefully took it out of the pouch and I sucked in a great volume of air, sounding like a heavy-duty vacuum cleaner.

It was grand! It smelled fresh out of a Swarovski store, with more Swarovski stones than my own rhinestones. And, although I don’t think of costs when it comes to watches, an errant mental note read, this new watch costs more than all my watches combined!

I took off my old watch (put it inside my bag with quiet plans to wear it where Lita won’t ever see it again) and put my new watch on. Now I wear this royalty watch to very special occasions—meetings with Lita.

Watch No. 3

My mother won this fancy thin watch with a matching bracelet in a parlor game played in one of our clan reunions. I happened to be beside her when she opened the box and I let out a teeny yelp of admiration. Aware of my mother’s legendary generosity, I knew what she was going to say next. “Here, you may have it. The watch which you gave me is still in running condition.”

“Mom, you won it. Keep it.”

I never would have guessed that a few months later, mom would leave this world in a rush. After the funeral, my sister and I looked through her things, or what was left of the earthly possessions she gave away. One of them was the box with the thin-strapped watch. Averse to anything that glitters, my sister shoved the box to my chest and grimaced, “Eeek, your taste, take it.”

I loved the watch the first time I saw it. I love it even more now because it was my mother’s. I like to think she must have really wanted me to keep it because it wasn’t one of those she gave away.

If I had a daughter (which I don’t), or a granddaughter (which I don’t—yet) I’d will these three watches to her. And I will tell her that even after I am gone, she should treasure them because they meant the world to grandma.

(I know, I know, my photos of these treasures don't do them justice. I got a beating from Ate Vi, who has gotten into the habit of peeking over my shoulders; and Ggie called, giving me many pointers on jewelry photography. But when I look at the photos above, my heart does not see the wrinkled background and the metal glare and the flat composition, and the other gaffes. I see only grace.)

The Boy in the Jeepney

In the Philippines, less than 5% of the population can enjoy the luxury of private vehicles. The rest of humanity takes public transportation.

Now that I work mostly at home, I no longer need a full-time driver. I therefore try to work my schedule around my husband’s so I can borrow his driver.

But that can get complicated.

So whenever I have a quick errand, I make my life easier. I join the rest of humanity and take a tricycle, or a bus, or a taxi, or a jeepney, or an FX (an airconditioned van that packs 14 passengers in a space for 10), or a combination of all.

It was difficult in the beginning. But everything in life is just a matter of getting used to. I once hated okra, now I can’t live without it.

One day I needed to go to the NBI to get a clearance for my upcoming travel. I jumped into a jeepney and started solving the crossword puzzle that I usually bring along to shorten the hours.

A little boy about the size of a four-year-old but may already be around eight, startled me when he put a letter envelope on my and everybody’s lap. In someone’s handwriting, the message read, “Please help me. I belong to the Aeta tribe and I need some money.” Suddenly a man behind him, hanging on to the rear of the jeepney, started beating his small bongo and looking sternly at the little boy.

On cue the kid started wiggling and dancing in the small space where cramped knees from both sides met. I looked at his face and it revealed nothing. After a few minutes, he took back all the envelopes and looked straight at me. That stoic gaze gored my heart.

I fumbled with my big bag trying to look for my purse. Before I could find it, the boy had jumped off the jeepney tailing the man with the bongo.

Must any child be subjected to such indignity and cruelty? He should be somewhere else playing with other kids or reading children's books! I looked at the lady beside me. She was chewing a gum, oblivious to it all. I looked all around, and the whole packed jeepney reeked with apathy.

That scene would be replayed many times over in other jeepneys. And I sat there, with my crossword puzzle and big bag, my heart bleeding, unable to do anything except to close my eyes and ask for grace—that it may be poured upon that little boy to whom the kingdom of heaven belongs.

In Matthew 19:14, Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven."

Yet we adults do hinder them. We play the bongo and let them dance. And we sit there as though it’s just one of those things.

Gate Crashing

While looking, for the nth time, at the pictures of the stately white house in Tagaytay (a cool, high-altitude city south of Manila) and recapturing the magic of the day we spent in it, I pondered the freebies of friendship.

Friendship is a visa to a world of wonders. It gives you the liberty to say anything you want or to ask for anything you need. You may be censured for what you said or may not be granted your wish, but it does not matter. The relationship stands. And the stately white house proved me right.

We’d known for months that Boy P had been spending his free time in Tagaytay, supervising the construction of his weekend house. (I’ve always said that Boy P missed his calling; he should have been an architect.) We, Boy P’s friends from a workplace now non-existent, had been dreaming to spend a day there once it is ready. We knew it was going to be as awesome as everything Boy P puts his hands on. So we kept asking him, “Well, is your house finished yet?”

He couldn’t lie, could he?

Next we asked him point-blank, brooking nothing that faintly resembles a refusal. “Can we come?”

He couldn’t say no, could he?

“Okay.”

Cotcha! “When?” we pushed.

“This weekend?”

All of us (ten gate crashers) who invited ourselves took our word for it and drove to Tagaytay. Boy P has impeccable taste, but with the stately white house he outdid himself!

Still meters away from the gate, while navigating our way through a narrow road flanked by pineapple plantations, our eyes popped. I wouldn’t attempt to describe it so I took photos from three different angles.

It isn’t so much the look but the feelings it evokes. The interior was even more magnifique—but I must have been drooling too much I forgot to click my camera.

For lunch, Boy P prepared a healthy menu for our perilous ages. “This is all you’re eating,” he said. Just fruits and vegetables.

But we grumbled (some silently and some noisily), aching for rice and meat. Unable to control ourselves, we raided the fridge and voila! There were adobo and caldereta and lechon and lengua (dream dishes or nightmares, depending on whose point of view), and in minutes, after a quick microwave heat, they were washed down.

Boy P shook his head, tut-tutted and tsk-tsked, but between friends, who listens?

The Tagaytay breeze chilled our skin even inside the commodious house and the conversation warmed our hearts even out in the rolling garden. We recycled well-worn jokes and anecdotes, and there was much nostalgia, but the laughter was new and fresh.

The stately white house regally stood on its sprawling lawn, mutely listening to the sounds of friendship.

Isn't He Lovely?

Going over my September posts, all I seemed to be doing was whining—from internet to health to passport problems. Let me do a 180-degree turn and speak about the topic that takes away the blues and the blahs.

The loveliest baby in the world.

This is the baby I have yet to cuddle and hold in my arms. He lives 14,000 miles away. Born in the USA on May 5 this year, he lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan with his parents—my second son, JB, and his wife, Gianina.

Someday, my husband and I promise (and threaten), we will spoil Adrian, our first and only grandson. Meanwhile, we will treasure all his photos and videos as though he were right here. Funny how one little bundle can render a writer wordless.

So let me borrow from (this definitely dates me) Stevie Wonder who celebrated his daughter Aisha’s birth in 1976 with the song, “Isn’t she lovely?” I am taking the liberty of changing some words for my purposes—like she to he and Aisha to Adrian.

 Isn't he lovely?
Isn't he wonderful?
Isn't he precious?
Less than five months old
I never thought through love we'd be
Sharing one as lovely as he
But isn't he lovely made from love

Isn't he pretty
Truly the angel's best
Boy, I'm so happy
We have been heaven blessed
I can't believe what God has done
through our children He's given life to one
But isn't he lovely made from love

Isn't he lovely
Life and love are the same
Life is Adrian…
Isn’t he lovely?

(A gift of grace is he.)

Am I in Hong Kong?

Outside forces conspired to make me miserable in Hong Kong. But they failed. I made the most out of my four days there and I came through grateful for small and big blessings.

I was still nursing the remnants of a two-week stubborn cold from some strain of a virulent virus when I landed in HK. I felt lethargic, a new kind of feeling which was alien to me, so I slept if off the whole afternoon.

What a contrast to my HK trips with friends when I was young and peppy! (And foolish.) As soon as we had deposited our luggage in the hotel, we would run to the all the shopping centers, come back to the hotel when the bags got too heavy to carry, then rush out again for more bargain hunting. We’d grab a quick, cheap meal and shop some more till 12 midnight when all stores were locked up for the day. The next day would be the same—we shopped and never dropped.

A shopper’s paradise HK was and is.

But that was not to be, not for me this time around. After waking up from a long nap, I got ready for the formal dinner where I was invited to deliver an inspirational talk at the Christian Trade Association International convention.

I felt woozy and was feverish but I received enough grace to be inspired and, I hope, inspiring. I was rewarded with an applause and a heavy chunk of good-looking glass (or maybe crystal?) with my name etched on it from the organizers.

I thoroughly enjoyed meeting new friends from all over the world. The representatives from mainland China spoke a different language but through a competent interpreter we understood each other to the last article and conjunction.

I met an American author, John Mendola, with whom I had a spirited discussion about his books on the end times. He gave me complimentary, signed copies—seven in all.

The next day was not much different. The tenacious fever would not let go. I looked down from my hotel room on the 19th floor and saw people rushing in and out of stores carrying shopping bags filled with goodies.

HK was, as usual festive and feisty. It was a perfect time to go down the elevator and join the shopping crowd. I went to bed and read John’s first three books.

The next day, I thought I should earn my keep and attend the convention. I did—for half an hour. I wasn’t concentrating much anyway so I decided to walk around and maybe trade my cold virus with the shopping bug. I struggled to walk to HMV for the CDs my first son wanted. They were not yet available.

Then I had to look for a Giordano shop for the tees son number 3 specified. Got a few on sale. I saw a myriad of “sale” signs—which would have pumped enough adrenaline into my body to last a year—but they seemed more like the signs I see along EDSA, Bawal umihi dito (Don’t pee here).

Got back to my room and finished reading the rest of John’s books with constant references to my Bible, a luxury I am often deprived of at home. I imagined myself, some other time, in that wonderland when lethargy and fever would be gone. It was a great thought.

The day of my departure, on the double-deck bus going to the HK humongous airport (where you need to take a train to go to your deaprture gate), I never felt better. It was as though the difficult three days never existed. I looked around the place which was once magical. It still was—in a different way.

The modern buildings under construction, new infrastructure, neatly landscaped patches of green in a cement jungle, efficient service, and clockwork precision kept me awed. They spoke of people who think alike about progress and a distinct place in the global village.

They became dreams for one’s homeland, up until the end times: “For truly, I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law until all is accomplished.” Matthew 5:18 (ESV)

(That's me in the photo, receiving my chunk of crystal.)

At the End of My Rainbow

Do you have days when at the end of your rainbow you find a question mark instead of a pot of gold?    

I do. These last few days seem that way.

Apart from my internet woes with PLDT’s My DSL, which until now (after almost two months) has not been solved, I now also have a passport problem!

Truth is stranger than fiction indeed.

My passport was issued in 2003 and will not expire till 2008. I have been using it for my travels abroad (a total of seven countries). In short, I have been in and out of Philippine Immigration with absolutely no problems.

But upon my arrival in Philippine soil two days ago from Hong Kong, I got a shocking, disconcerting news. The name that registered in the Immigration computer after inputting my passport number wasn’t mine! Someone else has just left the country with my passport number! Her first name is also Grace and her last name is also Chong. But she has a different middle name, nationality, and birth date.

Agitated, spent, hungry, and nursing a fever, I immediately prayed for patience then called my son who’s almost a lawyer. He told me to tell Immigration Officers that they cannot bar his beloved mother (endearment mine) from entering my own country with a document issued by the Philippine government.

To their credit, the Immigration Officers were very helpful. They showed me the data on the computer and explained that I should go to the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA) immediately to solve the problem. DFA has just instituted a new high-tech computerized system for passport issuance.

Now that my passport number has been assigned to someone else who was apparently allowed to leave the Philippines, I will, in future, be barred from leaving the country by Immigration Officers if I used my passport because it is now a “duplicate!”

Wh-what?! Wh-why?! Wh-why me?!

The burden of proof that I am who I say I am—the original owner of said passport number—suddenly falls on me! And to make matters worse, I am to leave for abroad to conduct a writing seminar in three weeks.

Only by a mega dosage of grace was I able to get out of Immigration without losing my cool. I kept my composure even after my son told me that no matter what inconvenience I am and will be unwittingly saddled with, I will remain helpless. A citizen cannot sue a government entity!

I’ve written and will continue to write tons of letters to the authorities to get answers and solutions. I trust they will come sooner—not later.

My DSL, passport, etc. are reminders of life’s valleys and falls. Whether we deserve them or not, they come, they shock, they disappoint, they are there; sometimes they fester in your heart if you allow them to. I hope, I wish, I pray I will focus instead on the peaks and rises. And look for that pot of gold at the end of my rainbow!

Ah, it’s liberating to set my woes off in writing.

Did I Enjoy the Fair?

Did I ever!

A few pictures tell the story. Please scroll down to the bottom . . .

A live interview on DZAS right inside the booth of OMF Literature, Inc.—by Eric Maliwat, Head of DZAS.

Behold the newest (and #10 book) in the Oh, Mateo! series:

Teo’s Cockatoo!

A group of mimes (two shown below) walked around carrying posters announcing my day’s activities.

Book signing and let’s-chat-with-the-author time. With columnist and parenting advocate Maricel Laxa-Panguilinan and her daughter, Inah.

In short, I never got around to booth hopping and buying the books I coveted all year. But my escorts, JC and JR, did while waiting for their mom relish her own groundswell of grace.

And hey, there’s always next year!

(Photos courtesy of my friend Aleks)

I could and would write more but I am still distressed and oppressed by intermittent My DSL. Sigh.

Let's Go to the Book Fair!

Let me try if I can publish this post. It's been sitting in my drafts file for two days now. I see green light (blinking rapidly) in the modem.

There's an oasis in my blogging desert: The 28th Manila International Book Fair!

It opened August 29, at 10 AM and will end on September 2, Sunday, 10 PM. Venue: World Trade Center, Gil Puyat Ave. corner D. Macapagal Blvd., Pasay City.

Books, books, books! I have been exercising my arms to be able to bring home as many books as I can.

Don't fail to visit the OMFLIt booth - right behind the National Book Store booth. All of my books are discounted.

See you at the fair!

MY DSL: A Blogger's Bane

Many times—many, many times—I have tried writing a new post. But My DSL makes it impossible. Before I could save it, or shoot it out, pffft goes My DSL again.

Despite complaints— many, many complaints—to the PLDT Customer Service, nothing is being done. They write good excuse letters, but letters don't get you connected to the outside world. All told, I probably get only a total of two hours of internet time in one day. And to think that I pay for 24/7 service! It's been this way for the past three weeks and it gets worse everyday!

What gives?

There is a breach of contract somewhere here. I signed up for My DSL but am getting, instead, invisible service.

Is there anyone out there who can help me? I want to write more but My DSL light is blinking again. I better publish this before My DSL conks out on me!

Our Home is a Junkyard

Moving into our very own pre-fab, low-cost home ages ago, I had lofty dreams and lowly cash.

I wanted our living room to be restful after a long, hard day’s work in the office. But my trips to home décor stores proved to be frustrating. There was not an item—not even a small planter—that the string budget of a new homemaker could afford.

I wanted green accents to the pristine white walls. Plants would have been great but they needed caring and I had two small children who needed it more. While unpacking all our paltry earthly belongings, I found several empty bottles—most of them green. I brushed them clean and put them on the shelf and on my piano. They looked good, I thought. When the sun or overhead lights hit them, they had a refreshing glow.

Soon I would be asking friends if they had any empty green bottle in their trash cans which they might want to donate to me. An avalanche ensued!

Like my husband’s Elvis collection, my green bottles had become . . . “Oh, you collect green!”

In over 20 years, I now have a motley collection of green glass in all shapes, sizes, and shades. In recent years, glass trophies and plaques have become a vogue and so, those that we receive in green glass have joined the collection!

Among the unusual ones are a bottle shaped like a nude lady and a stretched seven-up bottle. One is a 200-year-old antique liquor bottle and the biggest bottle of them all—called damajuana—used to be a vinegar container when commercial processing was just an idea.

Some double up as candle holders, flower vases, paper weights, fruit trays, lamps, coasters, door chimes, pitchers, etc. Now I hardly have a space to place new arrivals!

I am not complaining, I am bragging. Because here, in the living room of our very first and only owned home, these hundreds of green glass gewgaws (except for a few exceptions—well-chosen and well-priced gifts from friends and family on my birthday), once junkyard bound, have a place all their own. Within white walls, they and my family share a history.

After 20 years of back-breaking, brain-draining, energy-sapping stint in the workplace, I am often asked by friends who have moved from our neighborhood to newer villages, “Aren’t you moving to a new home?”

My answer has always been, “Ours is irreplaceable.”

In the same manner, I can now reward myself with shopping in those pricey home décor stores. But should I?

If my green glass junks could talk, they’d reply, “We’re irreplaceable.”

Elvis is Alive (?)

“Elvis is alive” has been a lingering rumor for exactly 30 years on August 16, since Elvis Presley died. In my family, this lingering rumor has morphed into a roaring humor—which is another story of grace.

You see, my husband, Tony, has been an Elvis fan since . . . forever. What makes this rumor/humor even more uproarious is, Tony’s birthday falls on August 16! That’s why the most natural thing in the world was for cousins to give him the moniker, “Elvis is alive.”

How apt. Tony keeps his childhood memories of Elvis alive in an Elvis room. Here he stores Elvis memorabilia—from wine glasses to books, wall clocks to neckties, tees to RPM records, paper weights to what-have-you.

They appear like a collection of a lifetime and by looking at the odd little and big pieces, you’d think he either looted Graceland or all he’s been doing every day of his life is search for them.

Not quite. Most of the items are gifts from friends and relatives—a phenomenon that never ceases to amaze me.

It happens when people see a few of his Elvis pieces. They exclaim, “Oh, you collect Elvis!” Before the cock crows, he is deluged with gifts of Elvis—on his birthday, office anniversary, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, or any day worth celebrating.

It doesn’t stop there. Whenever there is an event that needs intermission numbers, “Elvis is alive” is pushed into singing a few Elvis tunes, which he obliges with little prodding and much heckling.

(I used to have a collection myself of over 300 clowns, which started with three, on my desk at work.  Guests who entered my office would exclaim, “Oh you collect clowns!” And then the clowns started marching in—pasalubong (arrival gift) from all over the world. Now that I am no longer in the workplace, what happened to the clowns? I’d tell you, but not on Elvis’ day.)

As “Elvis is alive” celebrates his birthday, he receives gifts and greetings from family and friends with the motif . . . Elvis.

His staff, I am sure, will find another Elvis novelty item that will top the previous Elvis dancing wall décor and the Elvis paper sculpture. Son #3 sent him an e-card with Elvis singing and all the URLs of Elvis trivia.

Our kids were often put to sleep with Teddy Bear, Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog, Jailhouse Rock and other Elvis songs. When son #2 was four, he heard an Elvis song on radio. He cried, “Papa, the singer is mimicking you!”

My “Elvis is alive” is not alone in this madness. Elvis outsells all other recording stars even today, 30 years after his mortal remains left earth. Even the Fabulous Four (Beatles) acknowledged that there are only two music eras—before Elvis and after Elvis. Of course media have a lot to do with marketing genius, but it puzzles nonetheless.

And it brings in lots of ribbing. Whenever a friend gives “Elvis is alive” another Elvis novelty gift or an Elvis message, the moment becomes a full-blown event: riotous bantering, laughing, and reminiscing. It keeps alive the magic of childhood that never leaves our memory, even as we number our days with many birthdays.

That room is not so much an Elvis room as it is a special sanctum of friendship and relationships. In it are pieces which friends and family took time to craft or choose so they will bring a smile to the receiver.

Enjoy your day of grace, “Elvis is alive!”

(The photos in this post comprise only 25% or less of the collection. Simply snooping, I am loath to open drawers and cabinets lest I break or misplace a sentimental relic.) 

Thirteen Blogs in a Row

The biggest challenge for me as a “teacher” is how to teach.

Meh.

What an inane statement you may say. If you can’t teach, then you’re not a teacher. True.

In which case, most of my teachers and other teachers in classrooms everywhere are not teachers. They lecture, they preach, they talk about their experiences, they give quizzes and assignments, they conduct workshops, they echo whatever textbook is there, and they spew all the ideas from books they’ve read, but—they don’t teach.

I take responsibility for the preceding paragraph. But it came only after a long reflection on my own plight as a teacher, and after talking to my outstanding students (majoring in Marketing, or Advertising, or International Business) about what they expected from their teachers.

To clinch the issue, I looked up “teach” and the meanings are very telling: to show how; to impart skills and knowledge.I once had a teacher who gave us a list of books to read on the first day of class. In succeeding sessions, we were either given a written exam or were made to report on what we read. He taught us how to do things on our own. But he, unfortunately, didn’t show us how, neither did he impart his skills or knowledge.

Many teachers lecture for hours. They care not about gauging how much a student has absorbed.

Having spent most of my working life in the corporate world, I have imbibed the value of communication. It’s what sells ideas. It emanates from a sender to the receiver, and back to the sender. If the cycle is not complete, no learning takes place.

This is what I carry close to my heart in my part-time teaching.

So may we take a look at the following statement again? The biggest challenge for me as a “teacher” is to teach. It isn’t inane, it’s a struggle.

The language of the youth today is technology. They’re into gadgets—mobile phones, i-pods, PDAs, internet, cameras, and video games. More are coming. I decided to use their language to get their attention.

In my Business English class, I found out on day one that writing formal letters and memos, staples in my time, is not as revered as “cut and paste.” There were a few gallant tries from some students, but the rest was dismal.

So I asked all 13 of them to blog. Yes, blog!

The task was for each one to create his blogsite where he can freely write his thoughts on a given topic. They are online most of their waking hours anyway (we are the world’s biggest Friendster user), so why not practice writing in blogosphere? Too much extra work for me, having to visit and post a comment in all 13 blogger.com sites, but it is a relevant option.

I am appalled by what has become of grammar, capitalization, and punctuation. The ellipse has never been more abused. Paragraphs have disappeared. There is utter disregard for spelling. Choice of words is haphazard. Fragments have replaced sentences. And the pronoun “I” is in lower case!

But as days wear on, each post is becoming more organized, more interesting, more lyrical even, and better written. Writing, indeed, can only be taught through writing, in a medium one enjoys.

Also on day one, I asked them to always bring a small dictionary (others prefer laptops). Whenever there is an argument about a word and its usage, we look them up together. It’s fun and funny, ideas are tossed like beach balls. Though I use slides for the day’s topics (Power Point), which models lessons on presentations, our chairs are often arranged in a circle for better communication.

As the final exams—moderated in our affiliate school in the UK—near, I hope I have prepared my students for the biggest hurdle of their lives this term; and for the workplace eventually. In this post-modern era, Business English seems to have no appeal to “techno-addictos,” but if taught in their language, it can be appreciated.

Someday, when they are conferred with degrees, I pray that one of their ammunition shall be what they learned from this writer who blogs on grace and wants to earn her title, “teacher.”

Simpchongs

It turned out that my two boys did not have to talk me into watching Simpsons, the movie. I said “yes” before they could ask.

Blame it on inclement weather: Typhoon Dodong rendered us useless. Classes were suspended, the internet connection went kaput, the electricity was fluctuating, places of interest were flooded, and Tony attended the wake of a friend. Two boys and one mom—me—found ourselves marooned at home, facing each other with not much to do.

One had the brilliant idea of having pizza in the SM Southmall, a most convenient neighbor. While chomping and munching, we dreaded the prospect of going back home to listen to the lashing of the wind and with not much else. I think I might have said aloud, “Simpsons, the movie.”

In a breath, one rushed to the third floor to ask for the screening time: in less than a hour! The other hustled me up another floor to purchase a gizmo for my mobile phone (a thingy that would allow me to download the photos I’ve been taking of just about anything).

The movie house was the roomiest I have ever been into.
 There were only three people inside—us. This proves that even the best marketing efforts do not work during typhoons in third-world economy.

Homer was at his nastiest and dumbest best; and his wife, Marge, sticks with him like bee to honey. What she said, or the essence of it, struck me: “The reason I stick with you Homer is because I overlook all your failings.”

Overlook suddenly becomes a good, operative word for spouses. With it comes a slew of other virtues: tolerance, patience, reasonableness, resilience, staying power, kindness, and—forgiveness.

This concept comes from the creator of the cartoon himself who describes his belief as agnostic. Not by accident, I hope, these are the same wifely virtues found in Proverbs 31:10-12 (ESV): “An excellent wife who can find? She is far more precious than jewels. The heart of her husband trusts in her, and he will have no lack of gain. She does him good, and not harm, all the days of her life.”

More than Homer’s contrition in the end—and his recovered image in his son Bart’s eyes—it was Marge’s attitude that redeemed the irreverent (okay, extremely funny, too) movie for me.

P.S.

We stayed till the very end of the mile-long credits (literally thousands of cast and crew!) because advertisers hyped the surprises after the end of the movie. Baby Maggie, after 30 years, spoke for the very first time, “Sequel!” I hope I misheard it.

My Mom's Best Friend

She may have all the woes of an octogenarian, but my Auntie Pat is physically healthy and I know she will still be with us for sometime. Yet, somewhere along the way, we lost her. And she can’t find her way back.

Maybe in a special part of her mind, we do exist. But that part doesn’t come around too often anymore—not in the last months that I saw her.

Auntie Pat is my late mom’s younger sister and best friend. When my mom suddenly died four years ago, Auntie Pat still had the capacity to grieve over the loss of her manang (older sister). And grieve she did for a year or two. But like mist, the grief wafted away, not because “time heals all wounds” but because she started to think of my mom in ancient past, when they were children, in and out of her confused and indistinct time zones.

Alzheimer’s is fast becoming an epidemic, afflicting today over 24 million people worldwide and counting. I personally know of other aunts, uncles, and moms who have left the world before their time while we, their families, mourn the passing of their minds.

As an Ambassador’s wife, my Auntie Pat has seen the world and has rubbed elbows with the world’s Heads of States. But she and her husband, my Uncle Love, chose to come back to the small town which my mom never left; the town where Auntie Pat and her older sister grew up and raised their young families.

Coming home, and leaving her grown children in America, Auntie Pat became a probinsiyana (rural lass) once more.

Reunited, minus the responsibilities of growing children, Auntie Pat and Mom had the time of their lives. They traveled and enjoyed new things together. They sought out their other siblings and redefined bonding. It was idyllic and comfortable, you might say, for a few years until Mom passed away and Auntie’s brain had begun to falter.

Barely two years after, my uncle Love passed on, as well. We couldn’t tell whether losing her beloved husband of over 60 years was something she was aware of. She seemed to be grieving, but not really. Or maybe she had forgotten what grief means. Her children began to worry. They live too far away to give Auntie Pat the caring she needs. So one day, her eldest daughter (my cousin Minna) came home for a few months to see to her needs.

In all this, here’s a baffler. Although her memory has been practically shut—forgetting everyone—she knows God! She follows your lead in prayer and sings hymns with fervor, most lyrics in her memory still.

The difficult decision to bring her back to the US had to come, but only after a tug-of-war of emotions.

“We can’t uproot her all over again.”

“But she doesn’t know where she is anymore anyway.”

“Her memory takes her to so many places and America won’t make much difference.”

“There we will all have the chance to show her our love and take care of her.”

On the eve of her departure, we had a party. She sang, danced, laughed, and prayed with us—happy memories that could last forever. But not in Auntie Pat’s mind. An hour after we left, she was on to a totally different era, maybe a snippet of one not-too-pleasant memory.

The Auntie Pat that I knew was always a refreshing, calming presence—a gracious hostess, a mild-mannered lady, a considerate woman, an attentive listener, and an appreciative guest. As I described her in one of my books, “She talks like a queen and walks like a queen.” Well, the queen is no longer here; she is not in America either.

Cousin Minna updates us and sends Auntie's latest photos—the next best thing to being with her. But the once-sweet smile is perfunctory and the once-bright eyes are glassy.

We miss her. Where could she have gone?

One of my prayer partners, a doctor, makes everything seem right. She says, “Your Auntie Pat is blessed. In her condition, nothing can hurt or worry her.”

“But what if all she remembers are those that hurt and worried her?” I ask.

“All her memories are short, or gone,” she retorts.

“But her feelings aren’t,” I reply.

“Right, but the feelings are fleeting. And fleeting feelings—sad or happy—don’t count.”

Indeed, what counts is that one day, up there where Jesus lives, when all of us shall have left this earthy life, Auntie Pat will recognize Mom and us. And we, who dearly love her, will see the queen as she was—a wonderful aunt who prays hard and sings glorious hymns with her heart full and mind intact.

Simpsonized!

I am not overly fond of the Simpsons, but my children are. And since sights and sounds in and around the house have a way of creeping into my eyes and ears, I get to watch or hear them.

At the moment, son #3 has the TV set blaring. Bart's and Homer's voices are unmistakable. They are arguing. They are whining. They are complaining. Often, you can't tell which plays which role. Bart and the other kids have as much authority as their parents. And their parents don't teach them or model values. Not overtly anyway.

It takes a certain amount of maturity and appreciation of sarcasm and satire to learn from these yellow irreverent characters. Well, it takes the same maturity to learn from life's lessons. At my age, I have experienced all sorts of horror stories so I guess at this point, I look forward to shows which remind me of the simple stories I learned as a child from children's books and the Bible:

Good prevails over evil. Heroes don't die, villains do. That's what the good Book says about eternal life, implicitly and explicitly, with as many examples as there are possible—from Genesis to Revelation.

Putting myself in my children's shoes, however, I see what draws them to the Simpsons—a hit since it debuted on television in 1987.


I also see why, in my blog hopping, my friend Aleks (a hundred years my junior) took time to Simpsonize himself. In one of his posts, he has a character of himself in yellow skin. Lest you think of me as ancient and unbending, I followed Alek's example. I simpsonized myself.
Here's how I see me from my own eyes, in the inimitable style of Matt Groening. Of course, with a little help from Adobe, give or take a few lines and bumps here and there.

After this self-portrait, I might even be talked by my boys into watching Simpsons, the movie.