8 State of the Nation Addresses of Arroyo

http://www.inquirer.net/specialfeatures/sona/view.php?db=1&article=20090727-217391
A review of the eight SONA's of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo from 2001 to 2008

Before SONA were Soka, Sorna, Sopia and Socga

http://www.inquirer.net/specialfeatures/sona/view.php?db=1&article=20090727-217393
This is SONA trivia. Congress Magazine editor and historian Frank Grego leaps backwards through time to trace the history of what we now know as the State of the Nation Address.

2010 elections - Pinoys for True Change

http://blog.teddycasino.org/category/2010-elections/
Teddy Casino, Bayan Muna Representative and a distinguished UPLB alumnus, articulates his thoughts on why he is running for Senate in 2010.

Cory and the justice of historical revisionism - INQUIRER.net, Philippine News for Filipinos

http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view/20090710-214708/Cory-and-the-justice-of-historical-revisionism
Dean Raul Pangalangan gives an insightful look into the Cory presidency and her place in Philippine history.

Mama, public service, and the promise of life after retirement

I called home early Saturday afternoon to check on what everybody was up to and my mother responded that she’d been busy checking out tributes to Michael Jackson (I suppose both in local and international television channels) since Friday when news of the popular icon’s sudden demise hogged the media limelight.

 Mama goes showbizy with Gabby C.

My mother recently retired from government service so she has all the time to be preoccupied with the latest news – whether in politics, business or entertainment. I suppose now that she is free from the burden of working at least 40 hours a week under the stringent civil service rules that lord over the government bureaucracy, she has deliberately skewed her interest to anything that is showbizy. 

In this blog, I want to pay tribute to my dear mother, specifically in her years of serving the government (faithfully and without fanfare). It is with great pride that I write this entry about her, who before retirement belonged to the throng of often taken-for-granted workers in the government bureaucracy but whose modest presence in the complex administrative system somehow made the abstract term ‘public service’ real.

 

Mama's graduation pic taken in 1966

The youngest child in a brood of four, Mama, named Estrella (meaning ‘star’ in Spanish; she is known as Manay/Ate Star among her colleagues), had at an early age come to terms with the idea that education was the only legacy her parents of modest means could leave her. She therefore took her studies very seriously, in fact, graduating valedictorian in Libon, Albay’s private high school (although she had to endure somewhat irresponsible complaints from her closest academic rival’s highly educated parents, who did not think that a daughter of an illiterate farmer and a mere housewife who barely reached second grade could top her class, which included those who came from families of teachers and professionals). 

After finishing high school in what is touted as Albay’s rice granary, Mama went to Manila to pursue her bachelor’s degree in commerce (major in accountancy) at the Far Eastern University, where she was an active member of the Student Catholic Action. She earned her degree in 1966, took and passed the professional exam for public accountants, worked in a rural bank in Albay then a private office, entered the convent but did not stay long due to poor health, and eventually joined the government work force as an employee of the Department of Agrarian Reform in the Bicol Region. 

 

                                                         Mama as a geisha with friends

She met Papa in the mid-seventies, perhaps a few months after her father passed on. They got married in April 1975 and had my sister Edelynn in October 1976.  In 1977, when she was heavily pregnant with me, she took the exam for a budget and management specialist position at the newly organized regional office of the Department of Budget and Management (DBM) in Legazpi City. She passed the exam and became one of the original employees of DBM’s Regional Office 5.

Mama would spend a significant number of years of her professional career with DBM serving as budget and management specialist, as public information officer/ media liaison (she would sometimes be heard over the radio or seen on local TV defending her department especially when it would be unfairly attacked by the local media), and generally as a loyal and faithful government employee. She retired from service just before her 63^rd birthday which she celebrated on Jose Rizal’s 147^th birthday anniversary.

 

In a way, I grew up competing with DBM for my mother’s time and attention. I still remember that at age 3 or 4, I would cry out ‘Mama’ when she would leave home for office early in the morning. I was told that my loud scream could be heard even half a mile away from our lot which at that time was surrounded with vast privately owned plantations of root crops such as kamote (sweet potato), kamoteng kahoy (cassava) and/or singkamas (jicama or Mexican turnip).

Being the dedicated mother that she has always been, Mama would easily choose her children over work. I remember her saying that throughout her service in the government agency, it was inevitable for her to use up most if not all of her leave credits for each year because she would take a leave from work whenever any of her children was sick or was encountering problems in school. She would specifically take a leave from office to visit my homeroom teacher when I would complain of being bullied in class by my much bigger (and perhaps, well connected) classmates in grade school.

Even after her work-filled 8-to-5 job, Mama would attend PTA meetings and would actively engage in the deliberations as to how student welfare could be advanced in our schools. (She and Papa made sure they attended each of their children’s homerooms’ PTA meetings. I remember that there was only one occasion in high school when I had to represent myself in a parents’ meeting with our section’s adviser. Neither of my parents could make it to the meeting so I had to attend it myself; in the agenda was an orientation on the newly revised National Secondary Assessment Test.)

In high school, my mother was my number one coach in writing and performing my original contest pieces for oratory or public speaking.  She would assist me in writing my draft, edit it, type it in the office computer during her free time using Word Star or Word Perfect, and listen to me rehearse my performance.  If a district, provincial or inter-school contest fell on an office day, she wouldn’t hesitate to take leave from work to attend and witness my public performance. She was present in my triumphs and defeat. I especially remember that time when I forgot my lines while I was in the middle of my oratorical performance (mastery of the original piece was a major criterion). My mother’s presence among the audience was comforting. Immediately after I left the stage, I sought for her warm embrace. Receiving her warm hug signaled that the debacle was over.

Papa's grad pic circa 1960's

Mama’s modest but hard-earned government salary became the staple source of our family income after Papa retired early from government service in 1989. What she earned as a senior budget and management specialist was instrumental in sending all of her four children to college. Three of us would graduate on time (my youngest brother who had to halt his studies a number of times due to his medical condition is finally in his final academic year and hopes to be able to earn his degree early next year) and that was made possible because of Mama’s dedication to her work in the government, particularly in the budget department.

Of course, Mama’s endurance in the government service was complemented by Papa’s support for her by practically doing the chores at home when he was no longer earning his post-retirement income from a promising but short-lived attempt at swine production, and later, a part-time office job in a local school. I often wonder whether the apparent reversal of roles at home – my mother as the breadwinner and my father as the house husband – was the realization of latter 20^th century feminist aspirations. My parents’ mindsets may have remained largely conservative – I tend to see them as more sympathetic to the Catholic Church’s conservative blocs – but the material reality at home, the dynamics of their relationship as husband and wife, has surprisingly shown signs of being progressive.

(Side note: My father’s transformation from nominal Catholic to arguably the most serious Christian believer at home right now is another interesting facet of our family life that is worth talking about, but I’ll leave that for a future blog entry. Or I’ll probably just ask my mother to write about it.)

I think it is not merely ornamental to say that I would not have been here in the Little Red Dot enjoying (and enduring) graduate school had it not been for Mama’s efforts and her unique partnership with Papa. I thank them both and I hope that the years following Mama’s retirement would enable them to enjoy what modest retirement paycheck she would earn from her decades of serving the government and the Filipino people at large.

Date with Christian Lacroix and Other Pretensions

On Wednesday afternoon, Lui and I thought of watching a movie at Cineleisure after our lunch date at Lucky Plaza (along the famed Orchard Road). We didn't like any of movies being shown so we ended up posing beside the hot poster of the upcoming film "Dive" featuring the "hottest boys" of Japan. Later, we decided to visit the Singapore National Museum to check out the exhibit of the one and only Christian Lacroix, costumier.

These are not great photos, but they're photos nonetheless.:)

Boyhood and memories of circumcision

On Friday night, I chanced upon this video clip titled Circumcision at the GMA 7 news website and it made me recall the same operation I had to go through almost twenty years ago.  

My circumcision came after my grade school graduation. It was summer of 1990. I was twelve going on thirteen. For years before my operation, I had been made to think that going through circumcision was the necessary thing for boys to do. My father, uncles, and male cousins would tell me that little boys have to be circumcised in order to become “real men.” I was warned that uncircumcised boys grow up to be dirty and that flies would chase after them all the time. (The male foreskin which is cut during the surgery is believed to accumulate a lot of dirt since unwanted fluids pass through it.) Uncircumcised boys are also usually taunted in school and in the playground by those who have “successfully” endured the operation.  

To my young mind, circumcision was a horrible thing inflicted on young boys like me but was something I just had to bear. On the one hand, I thought it would save me from taunts and teasing in high school. Besides, the operation would probably resolve the "identity crisis" I had been going through since I was in kindergarten. It would transform me into “a real man.” On the other hand, the very thought of being operated on – that is, being wounded, being lacerated deliberately – scared me so much that I vowed that if something bad happened to me during the operation, I would be the last boy on earth to have gone through circumcision. I imagined myself as the sacrificial lamb that would liberate the boys of this earth from the horrible, horrible surgery.

I was reluctant to go through the procedure but given the circumstances, I had no choice.  

In the summer of 1990, the date was set. I was to be operated at the Santa Teresita Hospital in Legazpi. My doctor was no less than the owner of the hospital. He would later be elected as a city councilor of Legazpi.  

Just before the operation, I requested my father to stay by my side and asked for a face towel to cover my eyes while the doctor inflicted pain on my hapless body. I held my father's hand while I lay in the surgical bed. (Had I known about the life story of St. Therese – the hospital’s patron saint – before the surgery, I would have imagined a shower of rose petals falling on the surgical bed as I offered myself for the liberation of boys in this world!) When my short pants were removed (I didn’t know if it was the doctor or one of his two assistants), I began to feel and act tense. My muscles got tight and stiff so the doctor said, “Relax.” I remember saying softly the lines “Oh Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who are recourse to thee,” a prayer that my mother advised me to recite when I’m faced with trouble. I would repeat the lines throughout the operation. The most painful part of the entire experience happened when I felt the needle pierce my helpless birdie. I was given a shot of anesthesia so I would not feel the excruciating pain of an induced laceration.  

The anesthetic shot partly numbed my sense of touch down there. When the doctor was doing the stitches, I could feel the pricks and punctures that made me shed a tear. Soon it was over. And the doctor said, “OK na. Tapos na (It’s OK. It’s over).” When I got up to see what had just happened to me, I saw my wounded self but was immediately drawn into the blood stains on the immaculate bed sheet (“So this is how women who experience menstruation feel like when they see blood stains on their bed sheets” was the thought that, quite ironically, first came to mind!). I survived the operation. I was not meant to be a sacrificial lamb, after all. And because of that, the ritual of circumcision would live on.  

It took weeks for me to fully recover from the operation. I had to stay home several weeks, clean the wound with Agua Oxinada after my daily bath, and apply an ointment that was expected to hasten my healing process.  

While I lay in bed to heal and rest, I tried to practice my vocal cords (vocal folds) by singing songs that would make me "belt out." One Moment in Time popularized by Whitney Houston was my favorite. You see, I had this preposterous notion that I would lose what I perceived then as a pitch perfect singing voice (I was classified as Soprano One in our grade school choir) because of the operation. Truth be told, I adored my grade school voice.  Losing it because of circumcision was one of the reasons why I dreaded the surgery.  

It took, however, two years for my larynx to fully develop and for me to bid my Soprano One classification goodbye. In high school, my experience in the summer of 1990 was eclipsed by more interesting encounters – juvenile ones. 

At this point, I can only recall it with fondness and a little embarrassment. How strange of the thoughts that swirled through my 12-year old mind!