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Burials, suits, and picture-taking [May. 29th, 2011|05:10 pm]
I am in a room full of old stuff. It feels like the small room in the northwest corner of my old family house in San Juan, Ilocos Sur. There are boxes of things from my parents’ and relatives’ travels to and from abroad, gifts that haven’t been put to use yet, or just things we put away and forgot about.

I remember that I am looking for a suitable briefcase. My father had a number of brief or attaché cases. Most of them were gifts from friends, relatives, or subordinates. Most were never used. I see a simple satchel-style case right in front of me, sitting two boxes up and wedged between who knows what. I reach up, grab it by its side, and pull it down. As I do this, a layer of dust falls off it and explodes in the air, powdering my arm.

I back up and bend forward, holding the bag as far in front of me as the room will allow. Finally I set it on the floor and turn the flap over. The inside has two compartments, simple, no pockets.

Someone is calling me.

***

I am walking on what looks and feels like a Quiapo sidestreet. The highway is too my right. Vendors line both my sides, hawking everything from backpacks, uniforms, arnis sticks, and others. I am talking on to someone on my cellphone while I walk.

One section transforms as I pass through. The left side slides back. A marble counter appears and there are attendants beyond the countertop. This side has become a branch of Mercury drug, and the attendants are actually pharmacists. I walk past.

From the street, I am now walking up wooden stairs. They turn to the left at the top, and I am inside an old house, with wooden floors and furnishings.

I keep speaking into my cellphone: Tell (I mention a name) to find the contact numbers of (I mention two other names, people who are apparently out of the country). I need to call them, to tell them that Mama has died and we are burying her tomorrow. So, even if they cannot come, at least they know.

I come to a dark, narrow corridor. I notice that I am wearing a white longsleeved barong, but that I left my footwear at the entrance. I am walking barefoot.

Soon, I come to a room on my left. A lecture is going on. I turn to look inside and I find an old elementary school teacher and relative, Mrs. Leonides V. Purugganan, delivering the lesson. She spots me.

You were absent again, she chuckles.

I am sorry, Tia, I say. I need to go somewhere.

She does not respond to this, and I feel that we are still fine because this is Graduate School. You are credited more for output than attendance. But I still feel guilty, because there was a time that I deemed it a mortal sin, of anyone, including myself, to be on time, or at least attend something I ought to.

I redirect the conversation.

Did the opposing party attend, Tia? I ask. I suddenly remember that I appeared before her (as a mediator?) just recently, and that there was another setting after that. Apparently, I have submitted my position paper and we are now just waiting for the other party.

No, she says.

So we will just wait for the resolution, Tia.

I walk on. The corridor opens into a room with plastic armed chairs. There are two square posts inside the room. I assume that they are supporting a mezzanine. This looks like one of the classrooms of the Faculty of Civil Law.

Then I am in the middle of class. I am the teacher. Most of the members of the class are from a previous one. I am supposed to discuss a case.

Do you remember any case from last time? I ask.

When no one responds, I turn to my left. At the edge of the chalkboard is a small white board, where a list is
written. I walk to it, but as I do the list becomes a jumble of graffiti. Words, figures, and whatnot are painted, marked, or carved into the board.

But there, in the middle is one line written in permanent marker: People vs. Naples (or is that Nables?)
How about this one? I volunteer.

There is what sounds like a mumble of assent, with a few Yeses clear enough for me to hear.

All right, I say, and go one to narrate the case. As I do, the side of the classroom is suddenly open into a street, and the narration plays out there.

***

The case is about water pipes. A community’s underground pipes are obviously busted; water is seeping into and out of the ground (the scene is a street, with nothing but a wall at the opposite side). There are people walking by. The water company (Manila Water or Maynilad) has refused to dig up the pipes and replace them. They say they are trying other measures to cap the strong leak.

The first thing they do is replace the pumps (Suddenly, there is a metal monster of a pump at stage left. The background is the dark interior of a warehouse, but this scene fades into the outside street of a while back, in a way so that we are looking at a divided scene). A new pump is put in place of the old.

But the leak is still strong. But the water company insists that it is not about busted pipes. They say they will try cleaning the pipes (They dig a hole into one part of the street, deep enough to reach the pipes. Through each tube they drive a long metal rod with some cloth wrapped into a ball at the tip).

They reconnect the pipes to the pump. The leak is still there. The street is now flooded an inch. Now they say they it is the rubber hose that connects the pump to the underground pipes (a new rubber tube – it looks like the blow-tube of a melodeon – appears out of nowhere and is connected to the pump; the other end is lowered into the hole into the street, presumably to connect to a pipe). But the leak persists, and the flood worsens.

It is only now that the water company decides to dig for the entire length of the pipes. But before it does so, it announces to the community that it cannot proceed unless a collection be made to cover the costs (a sheet appears and there is a computation on it; on the bottomline is a P74 thousand figure, but I do not recall now the excess). The community refuses, and sues.

***

I realize that the opening into the street is real, and students have been going out to ogle or otherwise do other things besides listening at class.

Come back in, I command. Some of them do.

I do not realize that the facts have more to do with a civil case and not a criminal case. I go on discussing, with TL inserting some comments and details here and there (he is in the class as an observer). After a while

I feel that the discussion is over.

One of the people returned into the room. It is Alexis, a classmate from high school. He sits on a chair.
Can I have some money for gas? he asks.

I look at to where he directed the question. Ayesa is there, at seated a little to my right, one leg tucked under her. Without saying a word, she raises her chin from the cup of her hand and signals to my direction.

Alexis looks at me.

You got a car, huh? I say. How much do you need?

P2,500.00, he says.

You realize having a car costs a lot, don’t you? I say, but I reach back for my wallet and fish for bills. I give him the money.

***

JP and I are on what seems like a mountain park. We are waiting to ride a cable car the size of two vans placed side by side. We are going down to somewhere. When the car arrives and is secured to the side of the mountain, JP enters.

Instead of going through the door, I climb on the side and stand on the edge of an open window on its side. I hold on to the roof. Finally, after looking down, I feel fear and get inside. The car waits to be filled. The capacity is maybe 20 people. Then the anchor is released and we descend.

While we go down I see a network of cable lines criss-crossing out the window, at varying stages and heights, all connected to the mountain we just came from. The destinations are likewise various. Some are for cars. Some are for entire trains. There is a bridge in the distance that crosses a great river around 500 ft below.
Our car is on rollers, so we gather speed as we travel faster down the cable. When we reach the bottom of the cable, we swing back up for a short distance before the cable car stops by ramming into a great cushion.

We get down the side of a rocky mountain, and further down stairs carved into the rock. At the bottom, we are blocked by a family taking pictures with a river and the mountain beyond it as a background. The male leader asks help from JP.

Could you take a picture of us? he asks. The river should appear, as well as a view of the green mountain at our upper left, he instructs.

JP squats and shoots from that low vantage point. Meanwhile, behind him, I am framing the family with my fingers, and think I can get a better shot. I offer to take another one.

They say okay, and pose. JP steps behind me. I take a picture but am not satisfied with it.

One more, I offer, and move closer. But behind them is no longer a river. They move around. Someone adds to the group for a while, and then walks on. The mountain has also disappeared, I realize. The scene has transformed into agricultural plain. Behind the family is a nipa hut with some trees. They look like caimito (star apple).

I shift to my left, thinking the mountain will appear at their upper left, but it is not there. To the right is an expanse of fields, a mountain in the distance. I try to frame them but they keep moving back, around.

Come forward, I say. Now to the left. I motion them to where I want them.

They oblige, but they keep moving, talking, and laughing.

***

I wake up when I almost fall off the side of the bed.
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On Cameras, Climate Change, and Jumping Jeeps [May. 21st, 2011|06:14 pm]
I am in a big room with high windows that line one side of the wall. I realize that it is an empty warehouse, except for a table before me. I am momentarily blinded by the sunlight coming from the windows on the opposite wall. On the table are boards of some sort, stacked one over the other. There are people standing around, talking.

Now I am in the middle of the discussion. There is a 50ish man in a fine-striped blue buttoned shirt. He looks like professional of some sort, maybe a businessman -- bulging middle emphasized by his tucking his shirt in, thick-framed glasses, graying hair neatly cut and combed to the right. The other members of the group I do not really know or recognize; they are blurs around me.

The topic is cameras. I find myself taking the discussion by storm, like I am the authority on the topic, at least in this group. One is arguing for Canon. This person gains form, and turns into a client that I feel I have been failing. But right now, I forget about the case, and the client does too, apparently, because we do not speak of it. I launch into my argument ad ignorantiam; I do not trust Canon because I have never used one.
Instead, I argue for Nikon, specifically for the D7000, an item on my waking life's wishlist.

Nikon has always had the better lenses, I say. And for that I trust the brand more. How can I trust something which I have not tried? And besides, even if Canon has good processors, photography is about the eye -- what the photographer sees and how he composes the picture. How can you be good at that if you do not get the best lenses?

There is laughter from the group, like I have just pointed out a dogmatic truth that everyone should have seen but did not.

And besides, I say as I turn left to face the businessman, the D7000 is today's hottest digital single lens reflex camera.

Yes, so I hear, Mr. Businessman says, a smile on his face, one that says he cannot but agree. He is holding a white cup. I realize that we are having cocktail drinks.

As I let the last point sink in, I study the floor we are standing on. I realize that we are now on the table, stepping on the boards, which are actually giant circuit boards. We are standing on the components soldered to the board. Some of them bend. I am suddenly careful not to step the wrong way, or I would break a circuit or component. I do not let the group notice that I am somewhat afraid to fall. I notice, too, that we are now outside - the table is standing on a small grassy lawn. There is a tall hedge to my right, where I was facing before I turned to the businessman.

Not just that, if I have the chance to handle that camera, I can manipulate it so it works for me in five different ways, I continue. I can use it for macro, micro, wide, profile, and zoom shots, I say, as if these were very technical things unknown to the masses.

I see nodding, and there is a buzz of agreement. I find an excuse to leave the group

***

I am in an open, war-vintage jeep. Ayesa is on shotgun. I am driving downhill, on a winding road, with open grassy fields on both sides.

Knowing how Ayesa always complains of the heat, I am conscious of the fact that the jeep has no roof. Without waiting for her to say anything, I launch a pre-emptive strike.

This is already California, ha, I say. California is in the middle hemisphere. They have really cold weather here, but they have really hot summers, too. There is nothing we can do about it.

Ayesa stays quiet.

Now we have reached a place where the land on both sides of the road is planted to crops. Cabbage, they look like. The earth is wet.

See, I say. The atmosphere is hot, but the climate is actually changing, so do not worry. Look, after the recent rainshowers, the ground is cool enough to retain water, and not let it evaporate, I say.

***

We are walking on grass, at the edge of the cabbage rows. There are trees here. The orange leaves that have fallen on the ground looks like they are that of Santol, but there are other trees and shrubs. Bamboo. Just behind the tree line I see water. A river? I remember the treeline that separates the fields from the river in my hometown.

I turn to the left and walk, when suddenly there is a muddy path that slopes down to a shallow part of the water. I go down.

Just a few meters off the bank, where I am standing is a tree whose big roots have created a miniature lagoon before me. I squat to study the water. The earth a few inches beneath is fine -- loose mud that settled? I think it is sand. Then I notice that there are star-shaped indentations of varying sizes.

See here, I shout to Ayesa. Come look at this.

But she goes off running to something else, and shouts back that I should be seeing what she's up to, instead.

***

I am talking another 50-something guy. He is in a white shirt.

It's possible, he says. Just drive as fast as you can down the ramp. When you get to the other side, jump to reach the grassy edge. We will catch you.

I am driving the jeep again. I feel myself flooring the gas. Suddenly I go down a wooden ramp in the middle of trees, vines. The ramp ends into a ravine. The jeep revs fiercely as I launch into the air.

On the other side of the ravine is a muddy cliff face, something that a "Chocolate" hill in Bohol might look like if one half suddenly broke off. The jeep rams into the mud front wheels before rear wheels, just below the top. I jump.

The guy in the white t-shirt holds on to something and lowers his legs. I catch and hold on to the left ankle. Some earth from his brown adventure shoes fall on my face.

***

I am driving with Ayesa again. We are on what looks like an ongoing property development, but only the roads have been built. Other than that is just a grassy expanse; there are no buildings in all directions.

We come to an intersection. There is some sort of traffic jam. Two buses were positioned diagonally in the middle of the intersection, in such a way that blocked our path turning right to the other side. An SUV was also trying to cross from the left.

I am able to maneuver between the SUV on my left and the buses on my right, as I cross. But in order to get to the other side I jump into the opposite lane, because I do not see upcoming traffic anyway.

Still, I try to speed up. I see a cul-de-sac about a hundred meters away, and I plan to U-turn to the right, still into upcoming traffic, back to the intersection, where I would turn left and set our course back to rights. A car U-turns up ahead and Ayesa points this out. I tell her it is okay since there were two lanes; it would just take the outer lane coming at us. I make the U-turn and return to the intersection, and finally I turn left into our original course.

There are trees at the end of this road. The ramp. This is where we were headed. But when the jeep roars down the ramp and launches into the air, I do not think Ayesa is there. The jeep lands on the muddy cliff face.
I jump up to reach the grassy edge before the car falls down. The guy in white is not there. But another man with a ponytail and wearing a black-and-white shirt reaches down and grabs my hand. He pulls me up.

***

I wake up to Alejandra whining. She wants to be carried out of the crib. I get up and walk to her. She thrashes about excitedly when she looks up and sees me coming.
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Yesterday [May. 13th, 2011|03:21 pm]
There are two persons sitting on chairs, singing. I know them but cannot identify them. Neither do I have the urge to identify them. I just know them. They are rehearsing their “harmonettes”, they said when I asked them what they were doing. I am a part of that harmony, but I dismiss them and leave them to their practicing.

***

I am on a corridor. Looking ahead, I see that the corridor opens up, the ceiling is higher there, and there are long seats or benches lined up, facing stage right. It is a chapel, or church, I conclude. The benches are pews. The area where the corridor I am standing on crosses it is the nave.

I am looking at the nave now. The pews are full. There is music. Singing. I am singing, too. There is a performance and I am singing along. I know the song, but I cannot identify it. I cannot even hear the words. But I am singing, and still looking attentively at the nave.

Then the two persons – girls – were suddenly stepping into the middle, sliding each step, as in a dance. They were humming separate notes, in harmony.

I panic. I start walking toward them. I am humming a note now, too, consciously finding the tune that melds with theirs. I take what I decide to be bass 1. I still do not know what we are going to sing. But I am able to follow their tune.

Then, as I arrive where they are standing and turn left, to now face the back, the two girls – whom I still do not know, or identify – suddenly break into the first word: “Yesterday”...

The harmony is that of the Boyz II Men version, only, instead of three tunes, there are two, and since these are girls, they are doing it one octave higher.

I respond, as the bass does in the BIIM version, “Yesterday...”

But in half a breath, I also take the lead, “All my troubles were so far away...”

I start walking up the aisle, to the back, singing my heart out and injecting my personal curls, “Now it looks as though they're here to stay... Oh I believe in yesterday...”

Suddenly...

“Suddenly” I respond again, and now I am at the last of the pews. “I'm not half the man I used to be...”

I put curls on the last word and take it up, into a falsetto, and close my eyes for effect (“...I used to be-hee...”).

I mentally take note that my fellow performers are still at the nave, but I do not look back at them. I care, however, that they have been able to keep to their tunes and back me up.

“There's a shadow hanging over me...”

While I keep singing, I am surprised that the church/chapel does not end where I am currently standing. It opens up into a much bigger cavern. The back is a lot farther off. I think that if I was inside the body of an insect, I have just reached the end of the thorax, and am now looking into the larger, hollow abdomen.

I notice that there are several openings or doors at each side. There is light coming in through these open doors, and it is so bright that I do not see what lies outside.

“Oh yesterday came suddenly... Why she had to go, I don't know...”

I start to turn, counterclockwise, to go back down the aisle. As I turn 90 degrees to my left I see that there is a Fortuner parked there, at a 45-degree angle, facing the wall. The police department's red-and-blue flasher is installed on the roof. It is off.

“...she wouldn't say... I said something wrong...”

I now notice that this area has some policemen here and there, and they are “closing” the area off. Some people who have been standing by here are walking away as a result, going to the front. My first thought is that the people are leaving before we finish the song. I complete my turn and hurriedly walk back down the aisle, even as I keep singing, “...Now I long...”

“...for yesterday.”

I have returned to the nave.

Yesterday...

“Yesterday,” I respond again, in my bass tone, before once again picking up the lead, “Love was such an easy game to play...”

I continue walking, this time to the front, where I realize that there is no altar. There is no tabernacle. The aisle ends abruptly into a darkstained wooden wall.

“Now I need a place to hide away... Oh I believe in Yesterday.”

We stop. Or I stop. Because I am not sure of the next verse. I feel that we are going around in a circle, and if that is the case, how do we end? I do not realize that the song actually has a repeated verse. Nevertheless, I signal my companions to keep on singing.

The dream shifts, but I do not remember the rest of it.
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The Prosecutor and the Bamboo [May. 10th, 2011|11:54 pm]
I am in a room that looks like an office. It looks bare, a little cramped. The walls are of a light color, probably cream. There is a rectangular table in front of me, and suddenly I feel that this is a clarificatory hearing of a preliminary investigation.

How was your cruise, fiscal? I ask.

He doesn't answer. He moves some folders around, dark folders that have just now materialized on his table. He opens one and signs something inside it. He closes it and puts it aside. He gets another folder and starts again. I have a feeling he knows what I am talking about, but ignores me for the sake of propriety. He is handling my case, after all.

Then I feel that this is already after the submission of the investigation for resolution. We are waiting for the fiscal's decision. And that is why I am here, to follow up. But the fiscal keeps working with his folders.

***

I am standing on what seems like an opening in the middle of a grove. There is an opening on one side. Ayesa is behind me as I look out to this opening.

Are you not going to get bamboo? She asks.

Why are you telling me just now? I ask, irritated. I feel that it is time to leave soon.

But I am moving to get the bamboo. There is a bamboo grove around here, and I know where it is. I get out of the opening, and I am at the river. It is banked by stones of all sizes, smoothed round by water back when the river was mightier.

The river is right in front of me. The grove is somewhere to my left. I call out to Ayesa about it, and that we should be able to get what we need in a little while. Across the river, I see some bamboo shoots in a grove that is just starting. They are planted in square patterns, about a meter apart from each other.

I do not turn left. Suddenly, I am across the river, looking back at Ayesa, who is now standing at the opening of the trees at the spot where I just stood.

You can't even get the damned bamboo, she shouts.

I dismiss it as her usual moody outburst. I maintain, in my mind, that had she spoken of it earlier, this would have been taken care of. I feel a little embarrassed, though, because I suddenly have a companion, but I do not know who it is.

Goaded by Ayesa's urgency, I decide not to go to the grove I earlier thought of. I am across the river already, and there are bamboos here, anyway. I point this out to my companion.

We proceed to find suitably thick bamboo. The shoots that I saw from the other side are now more or less fully grown, and I am able to cut two or three after wresting my way through some thorny brambles surrounding the base. It is that variety.

I imagine cutting the bamboo in half, or in thirds, about one and a half meters each cut, for more portability. But I feel that we have not gotten enough.

I turn around and see that we are before the entrance to a modern house. The dark glass door is flanked by chinese bamboo and other plants. I ask my unseen companion where the bamboo grove is, and I am directed to a gate at my left.

Of course, say, while thinking how stupid I am. There is a bamboo garden behind this gate.

But when I open it, there is no bamboo, but the lawn is covered with neatly mown grass. There are big square tiles that are place in a pattern over the grass. The lawn is about 40 sq. meters. I totally forget about getting bamboo. The ones we did cut, I feel we have sent to the other side of the river. Now I feel that I shouldl exit this house by going across this lawn. There is another gate at the opposite corner, 11:00. and that is where I head. I feel there is a vehicle out that gate. I am going somewhere.
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Metal Mass (Easter Sunday, 24 April 2011) [Apr. 26th, 2011|11:31 pm]
I am at mass.

The venue is a very small room. The celebrant is a good friend – my high school mentor, Msgr. Gary Formoso. He is reciting the opening prayer, but I do not understand the words. My view of the scene is tilted so that Fr. Gary's head is actually pointing to an 11:00 position on an imaginary clock face. There is no one except me and three persons to my right, who are seated so that they are facing my right shoulder. One of them is holding a guitar. The musicians.

There are people in attendance, but they are not in this small room. They are in a greater hall, the entrance to which is behind me, to the right. I lean back and turn my head, and I see the an old woman in a white shirt, head piously bowed, eyes tightly shut in prayer.

When Fr. Gary finishes the prayer, he signals me by enlarging his eyes. You are not paying attention, he seems to say.

I look to my right, to the musicians. I do not know why. The next part is supposed to the Liturgy of the Word. But when I look at the musicians, they seem to understand, and the guitarist immediately sits down and bends over his guitar. He starts to play, and sing.

I look at Fr. Gary, who is now seated, altar left. As I look these words ring: is this okay? I am asking Fr. Gary if the singing is okay, but I am aware that my mouth is not moving. He nods. Telepathy?

Then I realize why I asked the question. I listen to the lyrics of the song, which sounds a bit like a pop ballad, and realize that the words are of the reading for the day. I look again at Fr. Gary, who is now fanning himself. It is a small room, and maybe that's why he is hot.

I look at the musicians, and now to the pamphlet in my hand, which I feel I have been holding all along. I do not see the words. Through the haze, the pamphlet I am holding seems to look like a hits magazine, with chords assigned to specific words, signaling where they should be played in the song.

I sing along. I know the lyrics (surprisingly, now that I am awake, I do not remember a single word).

Then the song transforms. The strumming has become more aggressive. Minor chords are dominating. The guitarist-singer is rasping his voice, now near-screaming. Metal.

I look at Fr. Gary again, but he seems not to mind.

The dream shifts.

I am now in a larger church, which feels like the chapel beside the Claret School of Quezon City. I am at a pew near the back. I feel that Ayesa, my wife, is with me, to my right. We are standing and singing.

Then I realize that it is communion.

Are you going? Ayesa asks.

Yes, of course, I say. I let her lead out of the pew.

We do not go to the front, however. The priest is at the left side, so we turn towards that direction. Marc Rosario, a doctor friend, is now in front of me. He is walking fast because most of the people have received communion. It is only us, now.

When he reaches the priest, I know that he has run out of hosts. But he breaks one and gives him a part of it. Marc receives it and turns left towards the back of the pews, and is walking back to the spot we came from.

I reach the priest, embarrassed to be the last to receive communion, and considering the priest has run out of hosts, too. But I hold up my hands in a cupped fashion, and he raises the other half of the host he has just broken. It is as big as an oyster shell.

Body of Christ, he says.

Amen.

I wake up, shake Eya beside me, and say we have to go to church.
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The Sportsfest [Apr. 26th, 2011|11:03 pm]
In my hometown of San Juan, Ilocos Sur, is a tennis court in the center of the poblacion, beside the former municipal hall in front of the church. This tennis court used to be a basketball court, and the raised pavement just beside it was the tennis court. But the local barangay appropriated the tennis court for the erection of its public hall. the basketball court moved to the public auditorium just outside the Church and the convent, and the former basketball court became the current tennis court.

I am in there, beside the former municipal hall, at a time when the barangay hall has not yet been built. The people I encounter, however, are of a time much later. Adrian Montemayor, a fellow lawyer and former editor of the Varsitarian, is there with me. We are standing in the middle, just out of the bounds of the basketball court, before the pavement rises.

Where will we hold the event? he asks.

Not to worry, I say. I have already given instructions.

As I say this, the scene rotates, and around the courts spring backboards and rings, even on the streets that run at the sides of the place, basketball rings of different colors, one after the other, until my view does an entire 360 degrees. I see that even the side of the tennis court has been lined with backboards, so that we are nor surrounded by maybe 30 or 40 baskets aside from the two on the court we are standing on.

Obviously, the event we are talking about is a sports festival. As I realize this, people appear all around, and are shooting baskets – practicing, perhaps, for a tournament that is to come. Adrian disappears, and I walk on to the raised pavement. There is a single basket standing on the north side of the tennis court, and this is where I walk to. I am now bouncing a ball, as if I have had it all along. My eye is on the ring, and I quickly concluded that it is not of regulation height. It is maybe a foot higher, but I feel that it was raised that high on purpose, to make it harder to practice shooting.

I throw a few, and fail to sink one through the net. The basket IS too high. Suddenly, people – of the V, I feel, but I do not see their faces; neither do I recognize their voices – appear around me, as if they had been there all along. One picks up my stray ball and chest-passes it back. I throw again, and miss.

It's too high, I mouth the excuse.

It's okay, says one. Alder? It can be adjusted.

We now approach the steel scaffold that holds the backboard to look for the adjustment. It takes a while, then we look up and at the middle there are rivets, in two lines, one perhaps a foot on top of the other, and they run around the scaffold. We inspect it and find out that the scaffold is actually of three sections – the one the is cemented into the pavement, the top section that holds the backboard, and the middle section, approximately one foot wide, which connects the two other sections by rivets.

There, I say. If we remove the middle section and just rivet the top section directly onto the bottom one, we will have a regulation height ring.

The dream shifts before we can commence.

I am in a building of sorts, in an anteroom that looks like that of the White Rock hotel that the Varsitarian staff stayed at in October of 2002. I am seated, pondering a volleyball game, when Elka Requinta, a former news writer of the V, comes and sits on the chair before me. She is wearing what looks like a red tank and a sports skirt, like the one tennis players wear. But her shoes are high heels, pink, and shining, like they had sequins. She raises a leg and asks if we like the shoes. A guy materializes to my right says yes. I reach forward to pat Elka on the back.

To my left is an opern door to an inner room, presumably the lobby of the hotel. I stand up and go through the door. where I meet four guys. The only recognizable one in the bunch if TL Fernandez, who is wearing a basketball jersey over shorts and his midcut rubber shoes.

We have a problem, I say. We do not have a setter.

We are talking volleyball. But as I mouth the word setter the person that comes to mind is Angelo De Alban, who is not a setter, but an attacker, because of his towering height. But I continue talking.

Angelo is playing basketball, I say. In my mind I know that he is playing for an official team, maybe the school's, or his college's.

Someone in the group mutters that we will jut have to do our best. At that, we go out. I am half-expecting that we would come out unto the sandy rotonda of the White Rock hotel, but we are on a paved outdoor volleyball court. The net has been set up. There is no transition from our exit to the start of the game; we are now playing. I am on the front line, and have taken the responsibilities of setter, despite my being an attacker. No one else in the team knows how to set the others up.

Suddenly, Angelo is standing at the side, by the referee's raised seat. He is wearing a white basketball jersey with blue linings. It feels as if he rushed over from his basketball game. But I feel that it is not yet over. I conclude that he must have been subbed so he came over to play some minutes with us.

Can I come in? he asks.

Yes, we are one short, I say. But you'll have to come in during the time-out (which I don't understand, because this is volleyball).

Okay, he says.

My mind eases up a bit, because I will have an attacker to set up soon.
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"Are We God?" Asked The Lesbian [Apr. 21st, 2011|02:05 pm]
I am in a room with a group of people. We look like a small class, or discussion group. We are seated in a circle. I do not seem to know the other members, but there is a lively discussion. The facilitator, or professor, is male, medium build. He wears a brown jacket over a white shirt with blue stripes, the collar open two buttons, like the costume Will Smith wears in Hitch, the first time he meets with the character Albert Brennaman (Kevin James).

I am looking at the scene from an elevated angle, and I see myself seated at one o'clock from this view before my sight travels down and counterclockwise, into myself. I am now seated and looking to the group, but the faces are blurs. But the professor/facilitator is on a roll. Riding the crest of laughter that punctuated his last point, he glides towards me and seats himself on the arm of the empty chair to my right.

How about you, he starts (or continues), a wide and happy smile on his face. What is PR?

Public relations, sir, I answer. It is the way an entity such as a company or office deals with media or the general public to promote itself, its goals or advocacies, or products, or protect or defend against misinformation and the like campaigns.

The professor/facilitator chuckles. This guy is good, he says. I look down in embarrassment, because I took that answer from nowhere; I merely interpreted the term according to how I see it practiced.

Do you know Nestor Cuartero? he then asks. He is a good friend of mine.

Yes, sir, I answer, and for a moment his face morphs into Nestor Cuartero's before becoming indiscernible again. He was one of the usual speakers that we got for the many seminars we held when we were still a part of the Varsitarian, I say.

The Varsitarian is the official student publication of the University of Santo Tomas. I was part of it for almost five years.

He is also a columnist, and a media practitioner, I add. The professor/facilitator claps me on the shoulder.

Suddenly, class/discussion is over, and the group breaks. While people are going their own way, the professor/facilitator announces things, but I do not understand the words. It feels, though, that he is telling us how to prepare for the examinations.

Then he tells me to go with him for a moment, as he had things to discuss further. We exit through a door at the side from where I initially viewed the room, into a hallway that looks like that which runs from the UST Central Seminary entrance to the Ecclesiastical Faculties administrative office, only narrower. And instead of the Ecclesiastical Faculties office at the end, there is a door to the right, which feels like the exit.

By this time the professor/facilitator has become a small, female person with black pixie-cut hair. The brown jacket has become a lighter fabric, which seems, through the haze, colored a very light pink. She is wearing tight denims and what looks like Chuck Taylors. I know that she is a tomboy, but she represents herself as a man, and I feel that I was the only one in the group who saw through this shenanigan. Or maybe we can interpret this as a manifestation of an innate prejudice.

By the exit she stops and finally sits down on a chair that seems to have been there all along, a plastic arm chair like the ones we used when we were students at the Faculty of Philosophy. She crosses her legs. I do not recognize her face. Neither do I feel I have known her before, elsewhere.

So, she says. Let's start. Are we God, or are we not?

Truthfully, however, I do not exactly recall the other disjunct. It could have been “...or are we animals”, or "...or are we man?" but let's just say the second disjunct is a negation of the first, i.e., “Are we God..."

I am stymied by the question, and so I pause and look away. My back is to the exit door, and from where I stand I see green blurs. Presumably this side is open to an inner garden. I was not expecting a philosophical discussion, but I am trying to gather my thoughts. Now this feels like a revalida.

Man is... I start.

No no no, she interrupts. Are WE God, or are WE not?

I take that to mean I should not use the word “man”. Then I instantly think of how to use it in the answer, anyhow.

WE – I emphasize the word – to an extent, are LIKE God. What, or who is God? Roman Catholic belief has it that he is the Supreme Being, all-powerful, all-knowing, creator of all things. We are animals, we, men, but we are not just that. We are said to have been created in God's likeness, but this does not mean our physical appearance. It means our having intellect, which allows us to think and cause things out of the natural order. In this sense, we are co-creators of a dynamic and ever-changing world. In this sense, we hold power over other creatures, and nature itself. We gain knowledge with the passing of time. We are not God, but neither are we plain animals. We are somewhere between (and at this point I gesticulate with both hands, marking two points, one on top of the other, then a third point, in between), and our trajectory as humans developing in intelligence, is up, towards God, so that our finite nature will in the end be one with the infinite.

She does not say it, but the tomboyish woman seems pleased. Her mouth opens wide with a smile. I make representations to leave. I start back down the hall to where we came from.

Wait, she says suddenly, and I turn. Let me get you lunch.

I ask myself if this person actually thinks I might like her, or even just fraternizing with her.But I feel obliged to go, for some reason. I feel I should not ruin her good nature. I feel she is still the professor/facilitator back at the room, not to be frustrated. And, since we are graduate students and both married (I feel this now, and I feel we both know it), there should be no harm.

I follow her through the exit door on the right. We are out back of a building, and I seem to know that there is a cafeteria at the other side, but to go around the building we have to go through a wrought-iron gate. It's rusted at the hinges, but I manage to pull the gate open, just wide enough for me to get through.

My companion, however, does not follow me through the gate. In one fluid motion, she jumps to pull herself over the crossbar above the gate, and flips herself up and down to the other side. As she does so, her light coat flaps up like a cape would do when one is falling down, revealing an underarm and a bare midriff below what seems like a blue sports top. I note that I did not notice her not wearing a shirt while she questioned me about God.

I wake up to Miguel tickling my left armpit.
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Wa-shing-shing Mashing (Ang Sikreto Ng Mga Gwapo) [Apr. 3rd, 2011|12:50 pm]
Not a lot of grown men can claim flawless skin, or even just a flawless face. But many “real men” out there will balk at the idea and say real men, the rowdy beer-raising gift of God to women and the world, are supposed to have oily foreheads, noses that are bumpy with whiteheads, and pores as big as artesian wells. Not to mention beer breath. As far as they are concerned, I will probably be stripped of my real man badge for even bringing this topic up.

It's true, though. Not a lot of men have nice faces. And while there are women who will go for apes as long as these have muscle and/or moolah, there are many now who go for the porcelain-cheeked nerdy sort of jock or Korean cutie.

My wife tells me, for example, that I have giant holes in my face. She is my superior in this and most other beauty things, but I snort. In my mind, I am making her jealous by recalling the singular instance a female classmate complimented my blemish-free countenance. And this was after I was hit with adult-onset measles.

That's not a bad compliment for a former provincial runt, so grimy that the mother doused me at one time with near-boiling water. This was after I decided to shower beneath the runoff of the dirty kitchen sink while someone washed dishes. I thought it was a quick way of cooling off on a hot summer afternoon, never mind the bits of food or the soap. I was a kid, you understand. I didn't budge even when I heard them call my name in a search. It was the househelp who realized that the runoff did not have the usual sound it made when the water hit the cement. Something, or in this case, someone, was breaking its fall.

Not a bad compliment, too, for someone who spent his wonder years with dirt caking the lines on his neck, armpits, the back of the knees, or just about any spot where the skin has a crease or fold. Dirt seemed to find its way to me like iron shavings to a magnet, and for that I got more than a fair share of hard scrubbing using the “lidlid”, a roundish, rough stone carefully chosen and picked from the nearby riverbank.

This was an imposed bath ritual until one was six, or later, depending on when one developed enough civility to admit that society did not tolerate the dirty, so that one learned to do it himself. Even then, there were still unreachable stretches of skin such as the dorsal muscles that run parallel to the spine, so that one would have to call in help to the bathroom. The usual quip made while someone ran the lidlid up and down my back said a lot: “Wow, you can plant kamote here.”

In my defense, my father had thicker dirt strips, and he was an adult. But in hindsight I do realize that his days off were spent either in the fields or just doing real man jobs around the house. Now, my father was not lacking in the looks department, or so I am told. I do not know if people knew how disgusting he was, too, not unlike me, then a six-year-old witness, nay, a forced assistant in his own bathroom regimen. I could not refuse this boy-to-man skin contact, despite the future real man that I was, for as I explain elsewhere, this was a family elder, enlightened in family gospel truths, and God save your soul if you messed with them.

Which brings me to a point. My father was admired by his female subordinates, mostly plump and middle-aged teachers gushing and giggling over their tall and manly supervisor, who returned the favor with the occasional tease. This was the same guy from whose back I scrubbed off filler earth. He broke wind like a cannon. In the morning, one grunt from the direction of the restroom would be enough warning to stay outside a 10-meter radius. But when Papa got out of the bedroom, dressed to kill in his office barong, he was a potbellied George Clooney. The point being, maybe there was something more to being downright filthy, something similar to the maxim “no pain, no gain.” No dirt, no dash.

The beauty industry soon recognized the principle and raised it to its proper place. In my gradeschool years I would first read about the benefits of mud on the skin. That article in Playboy (or was that Penthouse?) came with a photograph of a woman in a teeny bikini. No top. She was standing before a steaming lake with a geothermal facility in the distance, across the water. She was caked hair to toe in silvery mud, apparently a mineral-rich by-product of just the right conditions in and around that shallow lake. In the pool was her companion, a guy, but whose shoulders and head were also covered in the stuff. “Phooey,” I said, “there's mud like that here.” So, after flying kites one afternoon, when the neighborhood kids and I went to a spot down the river to take a dip, I proceeded to find the local beauty mud.

There it was on the other side, where the water ran against a raised portion of the land. Below the exposed roots of trees, shrubs, and other greenery was the gooey stuff the discovery of which the earth reserved to future comely men like me. Just beneath the water's surface, the soil was soft enough to take chunks out of with bare hands. I took a handful out of the water for study. The sample had a bluish tinge, from what I guessed was a particular layer beneath the topsoil. When I rubbed it on my arm, the light blue mixed with the brown enough to become what I deemed a satisfactory local version of what I saw in the magazine.

“Minerals, ne!” I shouted to the gang, who swam to me and looked at my find. A debate ensued. “That's just mud,” said one. “Maybe those are deposits from all the fertilizers and pesticides that the farmers use,” said another, for just a short distance beyond the higher bank were the rice fields. Irritated, I put on airs and told them that elsewhere in the world, mud like this was used to make skin smoother, which they have obviously not read about but I have, and I had the magazine to prove it (though I was secretly hoping I would not have to smuggle an adult men's magazine out of the house). Since I was at the top of my gradeschool class, they immediately backed off. In our small provincial pond those days, being at the head of the class was like using a “God” argument to end all debates; my argument and standing dissolved their disbelief in an instant. “Really?” asked one. “How does it work?” asked another. “Isn't that for women only?” inquired a third, to which I replied that it worked for men, too, calling to mind the magazine lady's male companion.

Then, the joyous melee. It started when one friend got some mud and suddenly wiped it on someone's cheek. Before we knew it, we were throwing mud at each other, so viciously that it hit with a thwack even when you were two inches beneath the water surface. Games of “It” and hide-and-seek evolved out of the chaos, and soon we were finding out who blended best into the mud by brushing the stuff on to our hair and faces, then leaning back below the tree roots and closing our eyes. When the sun started to set and it was time to go home, it still took a long while for us to wash off, because we were “soaping” ourselves off with more mud, singing as we went along, “Wa-shing-shing mashing. WA-SHING-SHING MASHING!” Needless to say, I was made to bathe in near-boiling water that evening.

Why shouldn't our childhood antics contribute to these present looks? Now, you find spas that use “scrubs” made of small particles and even processed rice husks. Back in the day, we did our own exfoliating using the native lidlid and whatever stuck to your skin after a good roll in the dirt. Oh, spare me that mud pack; my face has had all it will ever need. All-natural, too. So, it shouldn't be a wonder that I got that compliment.

I remember texting that friend back, saying I washed with Acne Aid at least twice a day. “Yan pala ang sikreto ng mga gwapo,” she replied. But if she only knew, even the Acne Aid was of little value. It took humility on my part to not divulge the entire secret, one I shared with other provincial boys of my time.

With these unspoken thoughts, I smile triumphantly at the wife, who frowns back with some curiosity. I do not bother explaining myself. To each his own, and I accept that she comes from a different world with a different take on human aesthetics. There they rub seaweed extracts to stretch skin, and apply hair products with Omega-3 for that extra shine. In the world where I come from, we eat the kelp and tuna. Let nature decide whether the essences we absorb will later manifest on the outside.

To straighten the record, I do not have flawless skin. Not even just a flawless face. I have a noticeable belly at 28, ill-defined muscles, and no mountain of cash. But I am a real man, you see, and so even after a lifetime of filth (or because of it?), well, I just sort of have “it”.
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Congratulations, and see you all in court [Mar. 17th, 2011|10:00 pm]
2010 Bar Exam Results
1. ABAD, Charmee R .
2. ABADA, Merlin I .
3. ABARIENTOS, Ma. Theresa M .
4. ABBAS, JR., Yusoph M .
5. ABELLA, Charmian Maria F .
6. ABELLA, Sheena Marie R .
7. ABIERA-MONTESA, Rosalyn B .
8. ABING, Ramil P .
9. ABONG, Mark Julio U .
10. ABRAGAN, Martin Luke G .
11. ABRAHAM, Sarah Joan M .
12. ABUBACAR, Rayhanah M .
13. ABUGAN, Herbert Calvin P .
14. ABUNDO, Judith Rowena D .
15. ABUZO, Djerovin T .
16. ABUZO, James M .
17. ACACIO, Rea Andria L .
18. ACAYAN, Moises Y .
19. ACEJO, Michael A .
20. ACUÑA, Emmanuel L .
21. ADAOAG, Maria Efelin C .
22. ADRIANO, Jasmine M .
23. ADRIATICO, Maria Clarissa N .
24. ADVINCULA, Margaux A .
25. AFIADO, Manuel Emilio B .
26. AFRICA, Marie Denise G .
27. AGA, Dennis M .
28. AGLIBOT, Ma. Katrina J .
29. AGNO, Regina Domini L .
30. AGUILA, Mary Jasmin P .
31. AGUILERA, Raymond G .
32. AGUINALDO, Ma. Angela Leonor C .
33. AGUSTIN, Paulo Francisco A .
34. AJERO, Chris A .
35. AKUT, Charissa Joy C .
36. ALADO, Patrick Vincent A .
37. ALAMIN, Lorajean A .
38. ALBARICO, Allesandra Fay V .
39. ALBERTO-ESTRELLA, Grace Irish C .
40. ALBURO, Alvin L .
41. ALCALA, Carla Diana P .
42. ALCANTARA, Rina C .
43. ALCOMENDRAS, Andrey A .
44. ALEGRADO, Julius P .
45. ALFARO, Plebiscito T .
46. ALIAS, Margarita R .
47. ALICAYA, Giancarlo T .
48. ALICO, Wendy Josephine L .
49. ALMAZAN, Gladys Joy B .
50. ALMIRANTE, JR., Eduardo Q .
51. ALONZO, Ronalin B .
52. ALVAREZ, Tyrone O .
53. ALVIOR, Marianne Carmel D .
54. ALZONA, Ivin Ronald DM.
55. AMOROSO, Dranyl Jared P .
56. AMURAO, Mark Anthony T .
57. ANCHETA, Glenn Thyron S .
58. ANCOG, Janette R .
59. ANDOY-GAWIDEN, Sol Marie P .
60. ANDRES, Ryan D .
61. ANDRES, JR., Antonio D .
62. ANG, Noel C .
63. ANGGOT, Anabelle A .
64. ANIAG, Bernard Benjamin T .
65. ANTONIO, Chantal Charisse Q .
66. APOLINAR, Jannierose O .
67. APOLINAR, Leanne Maureen S .
68. APOLINARIO, Reiner P .
69. AQUINO, Mark Christian M .
70. AQUINO, Philipe T .
71. ARANAS, Lucky Angelo T .
72. ARANDELA, Melrose R .
73. ARAO, Amador Iñigo L .
74. ARCENO, Arnold P .
75. ARCEÑO, Dee A .
76. ARDET, Arnie T .
77. ARENAS, Mark Ranier C .
78. ARNOCO, Marvey J .
79. ARQUILLO, Ma. Golda G .
80. ASDILLO, Angeline T .
81. ASENIERO, Antonio C .
82. ASILO, Kathrine Ann D .
83. ASIS, Enrico D .
84. ASIS, John Michael V .
85. ASUNCION, Amiel Victor A .
86. AUSTRIA, Katherine M .
87. AUSTRIA, Laurice Marie Angela T .
88. AVENIDO, Gian Marco F .
89. AVILA, Analyn G .
90. AZNAR, Katrina Monserrat F .
91. AZURA, Jules Emmanuel N .
92. AÑONUEVO, Leo Angelo Miguel R .
93. BABATUAN, Lei Maurae E .
94. BABON, Joanne B .
95. BABOR, Sarah Faye Q .
96. BACABAC, Candice V .
97. BACANI, Ramon Miguel E .
98. BACLAYEN, Pilipinas D .
99. BACSAL, Eric Allan E .
100. BADANDO, Artemis Q .
101. BAGAFORO, II-ARELLANO, Agnes Farida S .
102. BAGAMASPAD, Cris Lawrence A .
103. BAGO, Jayfrancis D .
104. BALAG-EY, Paul M .
105. BALAJADIA, Christine B .
106. BALALENG, Emil Rey I .
107. BALANA, Carmie A .
108. BALANAG, Kristine Gay B .
109. BALANSAY, Lorelei S .
110. BALAO, Edward Vincent P .
111. BALBASTRE, Billie Joy A .
112. BALDOZA, Limuel V .
113. BALGUA, JR., Mariano V .
114. BALISI, Reody Anthony M .
115. BALISONG, Analene V .
116. BALITA, Vanessa Juvy O .
117. BALMORES, John Paul M .
118. BALUCANAG, Suzette B .
119. BALUYUT, Cesar M .
120. BANDAL, Jason M .
121. BANDONG, Jayvee Laurence B .
122. BANGAYAN, Carrie Mae C .
123. BANTILAN, Bryan G .
124. BAQUIRAN, Joseph Lemuel B .
125. BARCENA, Johann Carlos S .
126. BARGAMENTO, Hazan F .
127. BARRAMEDA, Paul Isaac A .
128. BARRIENTOS, Marie Aileen L .
129. BATAAN, Aleah Rafel G .
130. BATALLER, Diana Elaine B .
131. BATALLONES, Gino Angelo P .
132. BATAY-AN, Rex D .
133. BAUTISTA, Carlo Antonio A .
134. BAUTISTA, Claribelle S .
135. BAUTISTA, Gilbert B .
136. BAUTISTA, Jose Javier P .
137. BAUTISTA, Melissa Ann M .
138. BAUTISTA, JR., Raymundo B .
139. BAUZA, Brian Ashley M .
140. BAYBAY, Ray-an Francis V .
141. BAÑEZ, Roselyn G .
142. BECEIRA, Rona M .
143. BEDING, Ronald Y .
144. BEJOSA, Theeza Danielle P .
145. BELCIÑA, Celeste B .
146. BELDEROL, Mary Joy P .
147. BELGICA, Marietta M .
148. BENITEZ, Lovelle B .
149. BENTULAN, Mae L .
150. BERAMO, Maria Daniaflor F .
151. BERNABE, Ericia P .
152. BERNARDO, Romina R .
153. BERNARTE, Kristine M .
154. BESOÑA, Rholie C .
155. BEÑAS, Kristine Paul B .
156. BIBANGCO, Jorlett L .
157. BISA, Myzel B .
158. BISNAR, Gerardo Alfredo M .
159. BLAS, Herbert J .
160. BONGCAWIL, Cherrie Mae J .
161. BORAIS, Charlyn D .
162. BORROMEO, Renato P .
163. BOSANTOG, Marlon P .
164. BROFAR, Reinier John G .
165. BUCIO, Erwin B .
166. BUDUHAN, Diana Grace D .
167. BUEN-MERENCILLA, Paula Michelle O .
168. BUENAVENTURA, Kathy C .
169. BUENAVENTURA, Kristoffer N .
170. BUENO, Gemicks Ace T .
171. BUENSUCESO, Sean M .
172. BUETA, Gregorio Rafael P .
173. BULAC, Michelle Mae C .
174. BULANG, Oliver C .
175. BULIYAT, Marie Mae D .
176. BUMATAY-GEMARINO, Sharon N .
177. BURKLEY, Florence Diana V .
178. BUROG, Marie Irahlyn C .
179. BUSQUE, Janice H .
180. BUSTONERA, Chito Noel D .
181. CABATINGAN, Marisar Ivy C .
182. CABE, Rodalice P .
183. CABRADILLA, Fritz M .
184. CABRERA, Stanley Kristoffer V .
185. CABUDOC, Edsel R .
186. CABUGAO, John Philip O .
187. CADAYDAY, JR., Clayton C .
188. CADLUM-BOCO, Eusebia A .
189. CAGUETE, Joan Kathlyn C .
190. CAGUIAT, Johnny DC.
191. CAGUIOA, Francis Carlos C .
192. CAHIG, Carmela Rosario C .
193. CALANGI, Amelia A .
194. CALI, Nesrin B .
195. CALIBUYOT, Gwin V .
196. CALIMAG, Maria Rizza M .
197. CALINGASAN, Christian C .
198. CALIP, Norren Joy B .
199. CALIPAYAN, Jamaal James R .
200. CALO, Ludmilia L .
201. CALSADO, Anna Carmi R .
202. CAMPOS, Rosalinda G .
203. CANCINO, Christopher M .
204. CANDA-MELODIAS, Cherry P .
205. CANO, Darwin F .
206. CANTRE, JR., Recolito Ferdinand N .
207. CAPONES, Joanna Eileen M .
208. CAPUL, Christopher P .
209. CARAMPATANA, Glenn C .
210. CARANDANG, Carlo Brian S .
211. CARLOS, Kristine Joy G .
212. CARREON, Divina N .
213. CARREON, Jerilee R .
214. CASIS, Rainier J .
215. CASIÑO, Rhett S .
216. CASPE, Ma. Jesusa D .
217. CASTILLO, Lysander N .
218. CASTILLO, Margaret V .
219. CASTRO, Premier Dee Ewigkeit C .
220. CATABAY, Criselda J .
221. CATEDRAL, Ralph Vincent G .
222. CAYMO, II, Apolinario L .
223. CELIS, Ana Katrina C .
224. CENIZA, Brian P .
225. CERCADO, Crispin Simoun P .
226. CERO, De Mille V .
227. CHAGUILE, Adryan B .
228. CHERREGUINE, Clarence G .
229. CHING, Margaret R .
230. CHING, Princess Bambi B .
231. CHOTRANI, Dolly J .
232. CHUA, Germaine L .
233. CHUA, Katrina Pearl C .
234. CHUA-ASIS, Maria Aileen R .
235. CHUA-CHAM, Rosita
236. CHUNG, Jae Woo
237. CIUDADANO, Gil Norman D .
238. CLARAVALL, Benedicto Bienvenido C .
239. CO, Joan Kristel C .
240. CO, Zsa Zsa Lae K .
241. CODERA, Jandy P .
242. COLOMA, Janice G .
243. COLONIA, Chito John J .
244. COLOYAN, Sigrid Smile P .
245. COMIA, Frankie E .
246. CONCEPCION, Aleli U .
247. CONCEPCION, Anthony Chadd R .
248. CONDE, Bethany V .
249. CONOS, JR., Servillano A .
250. CONSTANTINO, Jeffrey B .
251. CORPUS, Ponciano Dexter Hector S .
252. CORTEZ, Deneesse Lou T .
253. CORTEZ, II, Jose Charito I .
254. COSALAN, Katarina Gabrielle V .
255. CRUZ, Eric C .
256. CRUZ, Jonas C .
257. CRUZ, Nicolette Ann P .
258. CRUZ, Ria Carmela R .
259. CRUZ, Trisha Andrea G .
260. CRUZ, Vincent Patrick R .
261. CUADRA-ROBINTA, Madyll S .
262. CUANAN, JR., Edgard B .
263. CUARTERO, Mary Anne C .
264. CUERPO, Von Bryan C .
265. CUIZON, Jasmine L .
266. CURADA, Alvin B .
267. CUTARAN-CONTACTO, Yvette F .
268. DADULA, Joel B .
269. DALAGAN, Maria Romina M .
270. DALAUIDAO, Jan Michael U .
271. DALIVA, JR., Anacleto I .
272. DARVIN, Daniel Nicholas C .
273. DATO-ABUEL, Juanita Lilet A .
274. DAVID, Melba A .
275. DAVIS, Herbert C .
276. DE ALBAN, Ma. Caren Gail M .
277. DE CASTRO-BAQUIRAN, Cristine A .
278. DE CHAVEZ, Maricel L .
279. DE GUZMAN, Adrian T .
280. DE GUZMAN, Angela T .
281. DE GUZMAN, Ria Flor C .
282. DE LA CRUZ, Paul Vincent G .
283. DE LA CRUZ-JAVIER, Sheba V .
284. DE LEON, Carlos Rafael G .
285. DE LEON, Ian Jerny E .
286. DE VERA, Reagan S .
287. DEAÑO, Carmelita D .
288. DEIPARINE, Sydrick Jose Andrei G .
289. DEL BARRIO-ALCANSE, Franchesca L .
290. DEL CAMPO, Charisse Kay J .
291. DEL ROSARIO, Jerome F .
292. DEL ROSARIO, Powell A .
293. DEL ROSARIO, Richard M .
294. DEL VALLE, Irish Kay J .
295. DELA CRUZ, Ramon Alfredo E .
296. DELA CRUZ, JR., Cresencio D .
297. DELA PEÑA, Plen John Mark M .
298. DELOSO, Izelle Iamly P .
299. DENSING, Teresita A .
300. DIAZ, Robelita B .
301. DIGAUM, Ma. Zusabel R .
302. DIMAANO, Mae Belle D .
303. DIMAANO, Manuel M .
304. DIMARUCUT, Bernadette C .
305. DIONISIO, Emmylou M .
306. DIONISIO, Lorenze Angelo G .
307. DIZON-VICTORIO, Cristy B .
308. DOCENA, Melinda L .
309. DOCTOR, Brenn A .
310. DOLENDO, Arvin C .
311. DOLON, Nadine B .
312. DOMASIAN, Evan E .
313. DOMINGO, Jennifer V .
314. DONALVO, Percy Valsan Jun P .
315. DONATO, James Daniel S .
316. DUGASAN, Ann Kilsa M .
317. DULHAO, Mary Joan M .
318. DULLA, Maria Estrella G .
319. DULLANO, Phoebe Lou B .
320. DUMALE, Eraño A .
321. DUMDUM, Genevieve T .
322. DUMLAO, Nadine U .
323. DUÑGO, Carl Derick C .
324. DUÑOS, Lory Jean G .
325. EDQUILAG, Michael R .
326. EGAY, Aimee Faith L .
327. ELEAZAR, Norguel Yazer M .
328. ELMACO, Lloyd Jeson L .
329. EMATA, Sheila Marie P .
330. EMRALINO, Maria Virginia P .
331. ENCONADO, Aman Y .
332. ENDICO, Marricar C .
333. ENDRENAL, Anthony L .
334. ENDRINO-FRANCISCO, Florida L .
335. ENRIQUEZ, Kristie Auriel T .
336. EPONDULAN, Yvonne A .
337. ESCALANTE, Daisy L .
338. ESMAN, Persel G .
339. ESPEDIDO, Spence V .
340. ESPINA, Julius A .
341. ESPONILLA, Ryan P .
342. ESTANISLAO, JR., Rizalino C .
343. ESTRADA, Lea S .
344. ESTRELLA, Anatoly N .
345. EVANGELISTA, Edmon B .
346. EVARDONE, Pearl Fatima L .
347. FABELLON, Katherina S .
348. FABIAN, Jocelyn T .
349. FABROS, Ari Vergil P .
350. FACULANAN, Jefferson T .
351. FACUN, Ramon D .
352. FELICIANO, Joseph Dexter M .
353. FERMO, Augusto P .
354. FERNANDEZ, Jamara Leigh C .
355. FERNANDEZ, John Dennis C .
356. FERNANDEZ, Joseph Christopher Y .
357. FERNANDEZ, March Jefferson M .
358. FERNIZ, Betsie A .
359. FEROLIN, Perr R .
360. FERRER, Kristine R .
361. FERRER, Sherwin C .
362. FLORES, Lyra Miragrace C .
363. FLORES, Reynaldo L .
364. FORTES, Gladys A .
365. FRANCISCO-LAO, Katrina Marie C .
366. FUYONAN, Milanie M .
367. GAANAN, JR., Eduardo Cezar D .
368. GABRIEL, Golda May D .
369. GAERLAN, Rosette S .
370. GALAN, Rene Rose DS.
371. GALIDO, Jeffrey P .
372. GALLEGA, Francis Avelyn B .
373. GALLEGO, Rhonalyn C .
374. GALLENERO, Sharmen D .
375. GAN, William Benson S .
376. GANDILLO, Alpha Faith A .
377. GARCIA, Aristeo Franklin M .
378. GARCIA, Enrico C .
379. GARCIA, Radney R .
380. GARCIA, Richard V .
381. GASPAR, Jervis A .
382. GATDULA, Isser Josef V .
383. GATMAITAN, Camille Bianca M .
384. GEMELO, Therese Xyza D .
385. GEMENTIZA, JR., Diosdado N .
386. GENDRANO, Jose Federico M .
387. GENERAL, Reuben Carlo O .
388. GENEROSO, Analie L .
389. GENIO, Jill Julie V .
390. GERALDEZ, Gia Angeli R .
391. GIALOGO, Edward G .
392. GO, Aldwill T .
393. GO, Eunice C .
394. GO, Gracyl Criste D .
395. GO, Lauren Niña A .
396. GO, Mary Jane L .
397. GO, Natasha M .
398. GOLOSINO, June Marianne E .
399. GOMEZ, Diana G .
400. GONZAGA, Rey Daniel N .
401. GONZALES, Geepee A .
402. GONZALES, Genevieve N .
403. GONZALES, Jose Paulo G .
404. GONZALES, Marvey Jay A .
405. GONZALES, Tristram E .
406. GONZALES-AGUINALDO, Melissa R .
407. GONZALES-DARADAL, Abigail M .
408. GORRA, Jypsie Rose M .
409. GRANDE, Joanalyn A .
410. GUADES, Jose Crisostomo Y .
411. GUARIN, Rudolph Val F .
412. GUEVARRA, Loralee Suzette A .
413. GULTIANO, Eudisan P .
414. GUMABUN, Leonardo Nick D .
415. GUTIERREZ, Margarita N .
416. GUTOC, Abraham A .
417. HALLARES, John Fred C .
418. HAUTEA, Kathryn Joy Q .
419. HAW, Charmaine Rose K .
420. HERNANDEZ, Ana Lynn O .
421. HERNANDEZ, Dave John T .
422. HERNANDEZ, Jeffrey C .
423. HERNANDEZ, Maria Rowena P .
424. HERRIN, Mark Andrew C .
425. HO, Aaron Jarveen O .
426. HO, Charlie L .
427. HOSAKA, Jenicka Elizabeth E .
428. HUMANGIT, Maria Carmen Hazel N .
429. IBARRA, Marvin B .
430. IFURUNG, Nina Diorella K .
431. IFURUNG, Viralysa E .
432. ILAGAN, Rowell D .
433. ILEDAN, Jerald I .
434. ILO, Cecille Marie D .
435. ILUSTRISIMO, Vanessa L .
436. INFANTE, Maria Katrina L .
437. INTERINO, Honey Lyn B .
438. ISON, Jayson Jay P .
439. ITCHON, Reyna Fe C .
440. JABINES, III, Arturo B .
441. JACINTO, Gino Carmine S .
442. JACOME, John R .
443. JADULCO, Francis A .
444. JALIT, Ruby Ann S .
445. JARAMILLA, Dennis L .
446. JAVELOZA, Eric B .
447. JAVIER, Filemon Ray L .
448. JAVIER, Geraldine F .
449. JAVIER, III, Francisco P .
450. JIMENEZ, Ma. Cecilia B .
451. JIMENEZ, Minerva A .
452. JIMENEZ-SERRANO, Ethylene Grace A .
453. JO, Arvin A .
454. JOAQUIN, Dyanne O .
455. JOBOCO, Christian Alexander A .
456. JOCOM, Allister Michael C .
457. JOSE, Frederick August I .
458. JOSE, Raphael Augusto I .
459. JUMAMIL, Gerard Joseph M .
460. JUPLO, Ember Jann M .
461. KASILAG, Andrei Josef Y .
462. KOTAKE, Hiroshi R .
463. LA CHICA, Justin Vincent J .
464. LABAGUIS, Alden Patrick C .
465. LABANDRIA, Julius D .
466. LABOR, Sheeherazadee A .
467. LABUGUEN, Eric O .
468. LABUGUEN, Rhyss William G .
469. LACAMBACAL, Maria Icel L .
470. LACANDAZO, Jamahlin D .
471. LADERA, Jairo M .
472. LAGAN, Ana Pia Amor M .
473. LAIDAN, Karym B .
474. LANDAYAN, Paula Danica B .
475. LANDICHO, Alvin B .
476. LAPE, Janice S .
477. LARAÑO, Melbian Jerome E .
478. LASMARIAS, Peter Elfred A .
479. LASTIMOSO, Fritz A .
480. LAURENTE, Ann Camille A .
481. LAUZON, Mario Ryan E .
482. LAVISTA, Honoriza Krystle M .
483. LAYGO, JR., Hospicio I .
484. LAYUS, Cecilia Maeve T .
485. LAZARO, Jose Miguel N .
486. LAZARO, Vladi Miguel S .
487. LEDESMA, Mariness L .
488. LEE, Bryan Vince M .
489. LEE, Gene Nicholas A .
490. LEGASPI, Warren-derick T .
491. LEJANO, Charles Albert R .
492. LEQUIN, Lloyd M .
493. LIBANG, Gabriela Andrea R .
494. LIBATIQUE, III, Reynaldo C .
495. LIBUNAO, Dennis G .
496. LIDUA, Randall F .
497. LIGUTAN, Leo J .
498. LIM, Alexander F .
499. LIM, Camille Alison D .
500. LIM, Dyan Danika G .
501. LIM, Emma Malou U .
502. LIM, Esther Claudine F .
503. LIM, Ruth Katherine K .
504. LIMBO, Leonardo Oliver F .
505. LIMPANGOG, Junella G .
506. LIMPASAN, Fahkriemar H .
507. LINAG, Christopher S .
508. LIPAR, Mark Anthony H .
509. LLESOL, Rey T .
510. LLIDO, Jc Ma. Rose B .
511. LLOREN, Julie G .
512. LLUZ, Hobert N .
513. LOABLE, Nestor A .
514. LOINAZ, Maria Del Carmen Beatriz L .
515. LOPEZ, Jake J .
516. LOPEZ, Lew Carlo C .
517. LORENZO, Christine F .
518. LOTERTE, Vitto Duart C .
519. LU, Jocelyn B .
520. LU, Kristi Fe Mari E .
521. LUCAS, Margie Joy F .
522. LUMANLAN, Jennifer R .
523. MACALALAD, Alpheus D .
524. MACALINO, Joel U .
525. MACASAET, JR., Virgilio I .
526. MACASERO, Richyl Marie A .
527. MADAMBA-MALAPITAN, Roxan D .
528. MADREDIJO, Aemilda B .
529. MADRIAGA, Jesus Malcolm G .
530. MADRIAGA, Ma. Charizma B .
531. MADRIAGA, III, Frederick Faustino A .
532. MADRID, Nicolina C .
533. MAGALE, Suerlan T .
534. MAGALGALIT, Noel B .
535. MAGALLANES, Jonathan P .
536. MAGALLANES, Mark Anthony Lester N .
537. MAGBIRAY-PE, Monica S .
538. MAGSINO-SILOTERIO, Maria Elizabeth G .
539. MAGTANAO-TAGUINOD, Minerva R .
540. MAGTURO, Gale Auzen M .
541. MAGUIWET-FAUSTINO, Grace P .
542. MAJAROCON, Mandy R .
543. MAKALINGGAN-GLORIA, Gemma E .
544. MAKILING, Raymond S .
545. MALADAGA, Arabella L .
546. MALANYAON, Vera Q .
547. MALASIG, Alvin C .
548. MALIHAN, Marjorie B .
549. MALIWAT, Anselma P .
550. MALIWAT, Dax P .
551. MALLARI, Ianne Joy R .
552. MAMAD, Norsary S .
553. MANA-AY, Gary Angel S .
554. MANALOTO, Grace A .
555. MANGALINDAN-ESCALA, Olive M .
556. MANGASAR, Lora L .
557. MANGROBANG, III, Jonas Cesar C .
558. MANGUBAT, Brenda D .
559. MANGUIAT, Maria Pia Caterina M .
560. MANLANGIT, Nikko Rey Aicetel T .
561. MANONGSONG, Marie Joyce P .
562. MARASIGAN, Cyril G .
563. MARCELO, Dave Francis G .
564. MARIANO, Maria Antoniette V .
565. MARTELINO, Dino B .
566. MARTIN, JR., Edward Cesar C .
567. MARTINEZ, Judith R .
568. MARTINEZ, Marinelli T .
569. MASANGCAY, Jay G .
570. MATEO, Arnel D .
571. MAURO, Adryan S .
572. MEDALLA, Meiline C .
573. MEDINA, Gerald Y .
574. MEDINA, Narcisa T .
575. MEJIA, Vina Grace B .
576. MENDIOLA, Peter Leo G .
577. MENDITA, Francis Roy F .
578. MENDOZA, Bernice C .
579. MENDOZA, Charlene Clara G .
580. MENDOZA, Jocelyn Q .
581. MENDOZA, Jowell A .
582. MENDOZA, Zeus Gamaliel S .
583. MENESES, Christian Gil P .
584. MERCADO, Maria Tara A .
585. MERCANO, Steve Paolo A .
586. MERIOLES, Paul Michael G .
587. MESA, Maria Monette F .
588. MIANE, Jojane D .
589. MIGRIÑO, Charlene Mae S .
590. MILITANTE, III, Reynaldo Gregorio T .
591. MIRALLES, Marvin M .
592. MISCALA, Melvin A .
593. MIÑOZA, Mary Hazel B .
594. MOLERA, Sheryl Anne S .
595. MONARES, Unalee R .
596. MONGE, Vanessa Joyce I .
597. MONTALBO, Jeremy P .
598. MONTEMAYOR, JR., Jose C .
599. MONTEROLA, Janice P .
600. MONTES, Lemuel R .
601. MORALES, Mitzele Veron L .
602. MORALES, JR., Jesus Emmanuel O .
603. MUNZING, Susan A .
604. MUSICO, Keith Andrew G .
605. MUSONG, Richard Joseph R .
606. NABUNAT, JR., Maurice C .
607. NACAR, Jansen T .
608. NACILLA, Elvin Kein M .
609. NAJERA, JR., Jose A .
610. NAPAY-LITUSQUEN, Jean S .
611. NAVARRO, Michael Jourdan J .
612. NEPOMUCENO, Jonathan Francis C .
613. NG, Edison L .
614. NG, Jacob T .
615. NICDAO, Katrina Myra M .
616. NICOL, Ma. Donna Marcy B .
617. NOCOM, Hans Chester T .
618. NONATO, Regina Ann L .
619. NUDO, John Joenelle V .
620. NUESTRO, Juan Carlos P .
621. OBERIO, Charmagne Joie T .
622. OBLIGAR, Norhan C .
623. OCAMPO, Darwin S .
624. OCCIANO, Salvador Justino E .
625. ODI, Athenie Laarni S .
626. OI, Michico Rizza G .
627. OLA, Winnie Fred C .
628. OLARTE, Theodeus M .
629. OLAVERE, Erwin N .
630. OLBES, Renato P .
631. OMAR, Sorayda M .
632. OMELIO, JR., George C .
633. ONDA, Amie Rose L .
634. ONDI, Rey Mar G .
635. ONG, Ferlyn C .
636. OPERIANO, Aimee Joy B .
637. ORBE, Joanna Lyn P .
638. ORDOÑEZ, Levy P .
639. ORIG, Esperanza Caridad A .
640. ORPILLA, Julius G .
641. ORTEGA, Pinky D .
642. ORTIGUERRA, Marcel M .
643. ORTIZ, Martin Iñigo C .
644. ORTIZ, Rotela Fatima A .
645. ORTUA, Maria Christina C .
646. PACO, Michelle U .
647. PACURIBOT, Ban Mikhael C .
648. PADATE, Danieza Julaidah J .
649. PADATE, Wallad Abdani J .
650. PADILLA, Maria Vinina Bonita A .
651. PADLAN, Darwin Troy J .
652. PADLAN, Jay Vincent S .
653. PADRE, JR., Edgardo T .
654. PAGDANGANAN, Joeffrey G .
655. PAJARON, Jose Marie N .
656. PAJE, Scarlet Joy C .
657. PALAYON, Jethro M .
658. PALER, Paula Shena P .
659. PAMMIT, Oliver Gem C .
660. PANAHON, Emmar Benjoe B .
661. PANALIGAN, Marjorie B .
662. PANCHO, Jose Carlo C .
663. PANELO, JR., Salvador Paolo A .
664. PANLILIO, Carmina Marie R .
665. PANTI, Dante W .
666. PAPANDAYAN, Omar Camal G .
667. PARADA, Williamore P .
668. PARCIA, Charls Mark B .
669. PARIDO, Ma. Pelisa Corazon S .
670. PASIONA, Brix A .
671. PAYOT, Junefe G .
672. PAÑO, Diana Abigail A .
673. PELLAZAR, Brian B .
674. PENDINATAR, Aisa L .
675. PERALTA, Jeffrey P .
676. PERALTA, Siena Karen DG.
677. PEREZ, Ryan Romeo P .
678. PEREZ, Tara Tsarina B .
679. PEÑA, Rita Carla Fernandina O .
680. PEÑAFLORIDA, Kay Angela R .
681. PICCIO, Kathleen Joy C .
682. PICHAY, III, Benedict R .
683. PINEDA, Jesse Kenneth B .
684. PIZARRO, Abigail Camille A .
685. PLETE, Marianne P .
686. PO, Christine Glaisa S .
687. POBLACION, Krizelle Marie F .
688. POBLACION, Samantha L .
689. PULA, Sahlee T .
690. PULAYAN, Sherwin Peter O .
691. PUNO, Reginald Anton J .
692. PUNO, Theresa Marie C .
693. PUNZALAN, Kristine F .
694. PURUGGANAN, Kristin-zia B .
695. QUAZON, Paolo Justino T .
696. QUEJANO, Paolo Dominique O .
697. QUERRER, Anna Marie T .
698. QUILANG, Jennica M .
699. QUILOÑA, Zoraida P .
700. QUINAY, Pamela Elaine B .
701. QUINTO, Emma F .
702. QUINTO, Fitz Gerald G .
703. QUINTOS, Jay Antonell M .
704. QUIOC, Noven Joseph P .
705. QUISMORIO, Leo Angelo A .
706. RABE, Merryl Ann Hermila M .
707. RABON, Janine A .
708. RAFALES, Wilfredo B .
709. RAMA, Globel N .
710. RAMA, Mikel F .
711. RAMA, Tara Triztina C .
712. RAMEL, Ava Mari F .
713. RAMENTO, IV, Serafin L .
714. RAMOS, Archibald S .
715. RAMOS, George Ramil C .
716. RAMOS, Ma. Josephine M .
717. RAMOS, Ronald Allan D .
718. RANARA, Ruth D .
719. RANCES, III, Renato Ramon B .
720. RAÑESES, Ben John B .
721. REGAL, Miguel Antonio S .
722. REGOSO, Janice C .
723. REGUETA, Shyr Phoebe F .
724. REGUNTON, Katrina Gladys G .
725. REMEDIO, Irish Dwight L .
726. RETUYA, Niño Rey B .
727. REVIL, Jo Kristine C .
728. REYES, Alessandra Maria Anna Gloria O .
729. REYES, Alex Miguel P .
730. REYES, Catherine S .
731. REYES, Felix Conrad B .
732. REYES, Gerald James B .
733. REYES, Jan Manuelle
734. REYES, John Dominee A .
735. REYES, John Erwin A .
736. REYES, Lili-mae T .
737. REYES, Margaret Joyce M .
738. REYES, Mark Wilfred M .
739. REYES, Norly P .
740. REYES, III, Felipe Joaquin A .
741. REYES, JR., Isidro Martin F .
742. REYNALDO, Suzette R .
743. RICALDE, Rowena R .
744. RIEZA, Danielle Marie S .
745. RIMANDO, Clarence B .
746. RIVERA, Yvonne Marie A .
747. RIVERO, III, Roberto A .
748. RIÑOS, Shiela A .
749. ROCAFORT, Regulus R .
750. RODRIGUEZ, Christian Patrick S .
751. RODRIGUEZ, Francis Jerome V .
752. RODRIGUEZ, Josefina S .
753. RODRIGUEZ, Paolo Manuel T .
754. RODULFO, Vivien Leigh S .
755. ROMERO, Rafael Al D .
756. ROMULO, Mikhail G .
757. RONCALES, Gretchelyn G .
758. ROQUE, II, Rosalio D .
759. ROSALES, Robert H .
760. ROSARIO, Jearemmy S .
761. ROSARIO, Resida Rose T .
762. ROSAUPAN, Daniel T .
763. ROUX, Alma Jean Ganayo L .
764. ROXAS, Liberty D .
765. ROXAS, JR., Alan Maximilian Y .
766. RUBLICO, Roberto S .
767. RUFIN-CAIRO, Maricel C .
768. RULE, Eileen D .
769. RUPERTO, Ramon Antonio A .
770. SABIO, Jose Conrado Barker C .
771. SACO, Ronaldo B .
772. SACPA, Allan C .
773. SALANDANAN, Irish Krystle S .
774. SALAVANTE, Joanne P .
775. SALAZAR, Francisco Domingo Pascua L .
776. SALCEDO, Leandro B .
777. SALENDAB, Badr E .
778. SALGADO, Sabrina Gretchen D .
779. SALILIN, Arnan Amor P .
780. SALINAS, Stephen Ivan M .
781. SALIPSIP, Darren L .
782. SALISE, Rhys Hywel N .
783. SALOM, Kristoffer Bryan L .
784. SALONGA, Regina S .
785. SALUNAT, Blossom Joy V .
786. SALVADOR, Ralph Jerome D .
787. SALVAHAN, Jon Paulo V .
788. SALVOSA, Paolo R .
789. SAM, Rizza Mae H .
790. SAMBAJON, John Zernan T .
791. SAMONTE, Gerald Joseph H .
792. SAMONTE, John Paul T .
793. SAMPANA, JR., Alfonso G .
794. SAMSON, Ramon Miguel C .
795. SAN BUENAVENTURA, Maidy S .
796. SAN JUAN, Bryan A .
797. SAN JUAN, Sara Jei L .
798. SAN LUIS, Sophia Monica V .
799. SANTIAGO, Edlyn Margaret C .
800. SANTIAGO, Ryan Erik C .
801. SANTIAGO, Vesmind T .
802. SANTIAGO, JR., Roberto T .
803. SANTOS, Daryll Matthew T .
804. SANTOS, Sandra Jill S .
805. SANTOS, II, Honorio R .
806. SANTOS, JR., Emelito O .
807. SANTOS, JR., Roberto K .
808. SARANGAYA, Mary Joyce M .
809. SARAUM, Michelle Kristine D .
810. SARAUSOS, Janine J .
811. SAREMI, Kurush R .
812. SARENAS, Francesca Lois V .
813. SARIA, Eva Christine I .
814. SARITA, Jacky T .
815. SARMIENTO, Glaiza G .
816. SARMIENTO, Patrick P .
817. SARMIENTO, JR., Conrado R .
818. SARSABA, Ayn U .
819. SASTINE, Edda Marie M .
820. SASUMAN, Carl Vincent D .
821. SAVELLANO, Charmaine Joy R .
822. SEACHON, Art Ryan L .
823. SEBIDO, John Paul L .
824. SEGUIT, John Ryan E .
825. SEIJO, Edward Jason P .
826. SERGIO, Gerald C .
827. SERRANO, Czarina Grace A .
828. SEÑGA, Francesca Lourdes M .
829. SHALIM, Faye Miriam T .
830. SHONTOGAN, Genevieve M .
831. SICAT, Melissa Ann B .
832. SICO, Michael Angelo G .
833. SIMBULAN, Reuben Antonio A .
834. SIMON, Robin P .
835. SINGZON, JR., Cesareo Antonio S .
836. SINON, Elvamay M .
837. SISON, Eva Marie M .
838. SISON, Ryan Donviv C .
839. SISON, III, Maximo Paulino T .
840. SO, Ralph David D .
841. SOLANO, Marc Gregory M .
842. SOLIVA, Peter Paul A .
843. SONGUITAN, Olive Ruth A .
844. SORIA, Ma. Maharani Liwaya P .
845. SORIA, Marinheide B .
846. SORIANO, Karl William Louise L .
847. SORIANO, Paolo T .
848. STA. ANA, Erwin D .
849. STA. MARIA, Karen Kaye M .
850. SUAN, Lordan G .
851. SULLA, Ronald Jose C .
852. SUMCAD, Antoniette K .
853. SUMONGCAD, Elsie B .
854. SUNGA, Johana T .
855. SUPERIO, Leoncio H .
856. SUSTENTO, Rex S .
857. SY, Candice Niña Marie O .
858. SY, Marianne Camille C .
859. SZE, Louie Brian R .
860. TABIRARA, Glacy S .
861. TABOTABO, Bianca Chloe S .
862. TADENA, II, Reuben A .
863. TADEO, Domer B .
864. TAGALAG, Bernadette V .
865. TAGUDIN, JR., Joseph T .
866. TAGUINOD, Carol B .
867. TALIPING, JR., Rogelio R .
868. TALON, Krizia Katrina Leanne D .
869. TAMBIS, Mariedel P .
870. TAMONDONG, Blessalyn M .
871. TAN, Candy N .
872. TAN, Elaine G .
873. TAN, Jean Cathleen Y .
874. TAN, Luis Martin V .
875. TAN, Manuel Anthony S .
876. TAN, Rolan L .
877. TANCHICO, Reizel Ann A .
878. TANYAG, Lauren Rose R .
879. TAVERNER, Marianne S .
880. TAWAY, IV, Gil G .
881. TE, Wryan Martin C .
882. TECSON, Ma. Christina E .
883. TEJIDA, III, Guillermo C .
884. TEMPLADO, Ruby R .
885. TEMPROSA, Francis Tom F .
886. TENORIO, JR., Orlando F .
887. TETANGCO, Anna Teresa G .
888. TEVES, Patrick Ryan G .
889. TIANSAY, Kristoffer L .
890. TIROL, Roxanne Rhea G .
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903. TORRES, Jesus G .
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912. TUGDAY, Carmi Czarina V .
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Those Age-old Ilocano Doctrines [Mar. 13th, 2011|04:50 pm]
By the time I was 10, I was already terrified of asking money from my parents. Aside from the standard brushaway that we were not rolling in cash, I was afraid of crushing my wee little heart when I could not have what I wanted bought. I should probably stress that I did not fault my parents for not buying me the thing; I faulted myself more for not having P10 for that much-coveted balloon dog. And I would not have dared to fault my parents anyway since we would just have exited church, and in church they taught respect and reverence for parents and all the latter's gospel truths, as well as fear of eternal damnation if you crossed even a simple gospel truth such as “awan ti kwarta tayo.”

Of course, at times I was too weak to resist the dream-like beckoning of some plastic toy, and I prayed hard to the gods of the house for reprieves. I was barely into nursery, for crying out loud, and my best friends had Bio-Man suits. Bio-Man suits! They were Red One, Green Two, Blue Three. I was green, too, all right. With envy.

My grandmother was more humorous. One time she may have tired of my persistence, she gave me a “nikol”. This was 5 cents (from the American “nickel”), but to my four-year-old mind, I was filthy rich, and so promptly walked with a friend to Nana Pina’s push-stall at the plaza in front of the church. I picked up two White Rabbit candies, and handed her my coin. Then she said, “this is only five cents; you will need to give four more of these.” I said I did not have any more. Told to go ask for more money, I opted to return the candies, telling the old lady to never mind. I had just discovered the feeling of cheeks going numb with humiliation. But because of gospel truths, it never crossed my mind to be mad at the elders.

My brothers, more than half a decade older, were already more learned in those truths, so much so that they had become as direct and astute at proclaiming them as our parents. Like that one time I was in kindergarten, and was bragging to a classmate about my big brother in sixth grade (the second; the eldest was already boarding in secondary school in the provincial capital). “Let’s go borrow a peso,” I proudly told my companion. The old two-storey, wooden intermediate building still stood where the Japanese donation now stands in our local public elementary school. My brother’s room was on the first floor, nearest the gate. After discerning that the ruckus inside was not an ongoing class, I finally located him and waved. When he heard of my mission, he said “awan ti kwartak.” Aw. But to be fair, I did not feel bad (just a little embarrassed) because this was already after recess, so he was probably saying the truth. Even my five-year-old genius could not chip at this faultless logic.

I think the life-changer came in third grade. I was nine, going ten. It was nearly summer. The toy was a wonderfully tantalizing handheld “brick game” device. It had 16 variations of the game. Its white plastic exterior was as smooth and summoning as a… well, just that (I was too young for female metaphors). In the main bedroom, which I shared with the parentals, albeit on a separate bed, my father was discussing something with my mother. Quite serious, because they were unusually hushed. “Papa,” I began. They both turned their heads down toward me. They looked very tall. “I was thinking,” I followed up. “What?” came the authoritative baritone. My next sentence was a squeak: “I was wondering if you could buy me that brick game.” Then I launched into an offensive, giving it my all: “It has 16 games so I will not tire of it easily, and I can share whenever someone wants to borrow it, and it seems sturdy so it won’t break easily.” After looking at each other, my father answered back as gently as he could, “we can’t buy that yet because your manong has some needs for school.”

This, again, involved unassailable reasoning. They were not trying to frustrate me. There were just more important things. But there was something new now. Something I convinced myself to do from that time on. And it wasn’t surrender. I felt so strongly about it that I dismissed the latest disappointment and went on with my pre-pubescent life. My resolution: as much as possibile, I would not ask for anything again, offer to pay for things when I could, and be thankful for graces when they still came.

Ang korni.

Lest the late Mr. and Mrs. Peredo send thunderbolts from the heavens, they had occasion to grant wishes, too. Emphasis on occasion. On birthdays, or Christmas, I had maybe two or three or sometimes even four gifts – one from either of them, both, and one from this mysterious Santa Klaws when I was angelic. Outside of those seasons, “awan ti kwarta tayo.”

But I started saving. I did. My daily allowance then was P10.00, good for a cup of miki and powdered juice at the school canteen. When we were able to evade the teachers’ spying eyes, I spent this money on a small plate of pansit and a bottle of Coke at Nana Petra’s canteen beside Nana Pina’s push-stall (yes, she was still there), or a hot bowl of rice porridge (without chicken) at a new eatery beside the community health center. A simple mathematical formula dawned on me. Two 10s made a 20. And that's only three 10s less than a 50. If I could make it to 50, why not a hundred? In 1993, that would have bought an entire case of eight-ounce bottles of Coca Cola. I realized that I could save, especially since my mother, just a year earlier, showed me a bank book under my name, and said the account contained every single money gift I had received since my first birthday. She showed me this because I had asked for a new bed (which was a logical request, I assure you, given the state of my bed at that time), and since “awan ti kwarta”, we were going to use “my” savings to buy “my” bed (it cost around 5kiao).

So I COULD save. God bless my scrawny little soul, I figured why they did not give me my money gifts for buying lots of brick game devices. Now I was buying a bed. Its mass and volume (yes, I thought in those terms) was equivalent to 5,000 of those breakable things. This bed was to be procured with my money. It was going to be my bed. In hindsight, one negative effect of these newfound possibilities was that I became very protective of the things I bought, or that were bought with my savings. If I woke up in the morning and found either of my brothers even just sitting on the edge, I would kick viciously until they went away. In contrast, I am lax with things I do not claim to be my own. I am digressing.

I started skipping recess for the required number of days when I was saving for something. To compensate, I ate bigger meals at breakfast and lunch at home. To this day, I am not a “snacky” person, and would rather eat a homecooked meal than spend outside. If there was no homecooked meal, well, I learned to cook.

I was further encouraged when one time, in sixth grade, I was salivating for a table tennis racket. Its handle was anatomical for better grip, and sported full-thickness Butterfly rubbers. Our community was enamored with the sport; a local member of the national pool was training all young takers whenever he was in town, and makeshift tables were springing up here and there. Mang Teddy had also trained our brother Izzy five years before this, and the latter went all the way to the Palaro. Besides, I was in training for the school’s varsity team.

I had already been fasting for three months and a week, and was still about three hundred and fifty short. The district meet was a month away, in October, if memory serves. I went to my father after pacing about for an idea. “Papa,” I ventured, head down, foot scratching the bedroom floor like a hopeless chicken. “Hmm?” he said, removing his office barong. “I’d like to get an early birthday gift,” I said. “Why? What do you want?” My face was getting numb. “Well I NEED (this word worked sometimes, so I used it sparingly) a pingpong racket and I am maybe three hundred pesos short.” I thrust my money in his hand and started to turn away, ashamed now of this new treachery against the gospel truths and my two-years-young policy.

“Where did you get these 10s?” he asked in amusement, leafing through the bundle. He was smiling but I did not know what to make of it; my face was so hot and my ears were ringing that I thought I would faint from embarrassment. “My allowances, I saved them” I heard a distant voice say, sounding like me. I was on the verge of 11-year-old tears. “I will tell you what,” he finally said. “We will put this in your bank [account], and I’ll just get you that racket.”

That. Was. AWESOME.

In high school, I opened three bank accounts, two with the help of my mother, one on my own (with PNB's Peso Camp). I put whatever I could save from my now P200 weekly allowance (raised to P500 in fourth year, after negotiations and logical arguments on need, of course) in those accounts. It took sometime before Mrs. Soria, a schoolmate’s mother who was a teller in one of the banks, became used to getting just a hundred-peso deposit among the people lined up before her. But she was so surprised and incredulous the first time that she exclaimed, much louder than my 14-year-old sensibilities wanted, “P100 lang?”.

In college, my mother deposited my allowance in my bank account every 15th of the month. I was more comfortable, since I was fortunately not paying tuition (which affected my choice of school, but that will be another story). I could buy all the books I wanted, and occasionally spreed on hundred-peso steaks at Steakhouse at the mall food court. I still had weaknesses, of course. I am human after all. And in 1999, it was the cellular phone.

The number of cellular phones in the Philippines increased exponentially that later part of the 1990s. Text messaging was free. Hear that, teenagers? It was a bonus feature on all phones with so much as a one-line lcd screen, taking the beeper concept (do you even know those?) and putting the power to send the message from an intermediate operator-company to the user-sender. But the primary reason why I wanted a cellular phone was that I was using classmates' and friends' phones so much (don't ask for what) that I was afraid they were close to kicking me out of their rooms. I remember the models: Jak had an Ericsson GA 628, the one with a changeable front panel, and CZ had an Alcatel One Touch Easy.

I ever so subtly hinted to my mother about getting a cellular phone one weekend I was calling home (I had to call home every weekend. Later Mama said I should call more often, and I agreed, with the proviso that the calls would be collect.) It was one of the few times my mother used another family doctrine: “distraction dayta, baka haan kan to maka-adalen”. But I had very good grades! VERY. Good. Grades. But not another peep.

I spent the next 4 months in the dormitory. I did not eat out. No movies. No new books, and at this time I was at my most voracious at reading after my discovery of National Bookstore and Booksale. And I started writing for the purpose of submission to any publication. My first was a very, very naïve rambling about God's existence – one I typed in an internet cafe while on a two-hour break from school. It was published under a pseudonym in the Inquirer's Youngblood section on 23 October 1999. The check from that piece was the capstone to my little pile, and soon I had a family friend accompany me to Greenhills. Nokia just broke ground those days; 5110s and 3210s were best sellers. I chose to break into the business line, and got a model 6150.

Even today, I would rather buy my own stuff when I can, and when people ask me what I want, I honestly don’t know what to answer. My wish lists are always ridiculously expensive to discourage people from buying (an exception, of course, is the Kris Kringle, because it's shameful not to participate, and I get to give something, too, anyway). This is not to say that I refuse gifts, because that would be false and mediocre. I just always feel that in due time, I know I can get the same things on my own. But deep inside, seated side by side with my shame, is thankfulness for grace, and the service to my need. When my brothers asked what I wanted for graduation from elementary school, for example, I told them to just give me something that I would need. They gave me a nice green backpack which I used for the next five years.

I recall these little episodes because I have opened two bank accounts, for Miguel and Javi, even before they can properly speak their names. In due time, I hope they'll learn to live by the old family doctrines, too, and hand over all their money gifts for deposit. By the way, their accounts are under their names: Miguel Romano C. Peredo, and Javier Santiago C. Peredo, for the information of those who, uh, will give checks (har!).

I do not think it's cruel not to let them enjoy the money gifts they receive. They just waddle around now, but they will discover soon enough that things of value can be found – and lost fast – in many ways. It's the lessons and patience in management that I hope will stay with them. Later still, they will also find that sometimes, more than the lessons stay. Although I have yet to be a millionaire, of the three bank accounts I opened in high school, two exist to this day. The bed is still at home. The pingpong paddle is now with our eldest brother, the table tennis champ, who uses it for inter-agency meets. He just changes the rubbers.

I guess the cliché is true and not just (or, especially ?) for material things: stuff don't always come when you want them; they arrive when – and IF – they're due. So the trick is to forget wants for the meantime and continue to do the spade work. Take that brick game device, which eventually came along. Following my brother's tuition payment, and after I won a school contest, I woke up to the elders sitting side-by-side on their bed, the new and still boxed toy in my smiling father's hands.
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