Home for the Holidays

My daughter is home for the holidays. It has been four long years since we spent Christmas together as a family, and we have a lot of catching up to do in so short a time.

I remember the years when I was growing up in my parents' home, with my brothers and sister, and I was unaware they were among my life's best and happiest moments. We take things for granted when they are quite commonplace, but when they are no longer as such, we become willing to move heaven and earth to relive even just one moment of the lost glory and happiness. But, of course, what were then trivial, daily occurrences, have now turned into something impossible to obtain as the mythical eldorado and fountain of youth.

We lost my wife's mother and my own mom last year; and my brother Benjie this year. They are still home for the holidays, in our minds and hearts. We will, for our lifetimes, give tribute to their love for family and friends, and their zest for life, including their appreciation of small, simple, and genuinely wonderful things. They're forever at home in that most beautiful place and state we all aspire for. They've completed their journeys, while we are still plodding through.

We're going to make the most out of this time as a family, treat each day as special, not merely a sunrise to sunset thing. Life is so fragile and temporary.

Brief Visitor

I had what was probably one of the briefest dreams of my life, that of my brother Benjie, last night. I was unsure at first whether it was a real dream or not; I thought it could have been one of those random thoughts and images that I usually have between wakefulness and slumber. But I woke up from it, and so concluded it was a dream indeed.


We must have been engaged in banter, judging by the expressions on our faces. We had smiles, and I had my right arm fully on his shoulders, pulling him close, almost like an embrace; something that I do only in instances when I have an unmistakable communion of heart and mind and soul with, or unmistakable love for, someone.

Could it have been really Benjie visiting me in a dream? He knew that I've always dismissed ghosts as laughable products of a hyperactive imagination. Mom also knew of how I stubbornly cling to my beliefs, and so did not bother visiting me. She didn't want to waste her time. Up until now, I wish I hadn't been so vocal with her concerning my relegating ghosts to the realm of superstitions. Then she would have paid me a ghostly visit. Benjie, on the other hand, probably couldn't care less if I believed his apparition or not. I was simply on his agenda of visits before finally departing to where he was destined to be.

When the six of us were kids, a most wonderful time in our lives (and not entirely an impossibility, since I was 14 when Bennett, our youngest, was born, and teens during my time didn't mature as early as the teens of today, believe it or not), we hadn't a thought about death and mortality. Of course, we knew people die, and we had kin who did pass on, like Dad's own mom who died in the early 70's. It had to be my first time to see him in tears, still very dignified but in tears, as he hastily packed an overnight bag to go to San Antonio, Nueva Ecija, more than a hundred kilometers north of Manila, his hometown and where Lola lived. Being the eldest, I accompanied him. It was the middle of the night. We took the family car, at the time a red, two-door, white top convertible Chevy Nova. His elder brother, Tito Danny, was with us, including (if my memory serves me right), his sister, Tita Etang, and Danny's wife, Tita Hermie. We stopped by for flowers at the Paco Market. Mom and the rest of the brood followed by bus the very next day. But like I said, we were kids, and a rosy, unfettered future lay ahead and beckoned.

Had Benjie known that his life would be somewhat brief, then he would have done some things differently. This is not to say that he did mostly regrettable things; we all have our share of them, it is unavoidable. But he could have been in a real hurry, and possibly became one of those child prodigies. Or he could have become a total wastrel, cowered in fear, and waited for his appointed time. He could have been totally different, perhaps obsessed with completing things as much as and as soon as possible. He could have decided that all those children's games we played were a total waste of his precious, limited time. I could have missed having my first real sibling, playmate, and friend. He could have missed out on the true essence of living.

Thankfully, life is a mystery, with secrets that, in my opinion, should remain as such. It has enough of it to make us feel powerless and resigned, precursors to approaching it either philosophically, or angrily and head-on. The former predisposes to a life well-lived, imperfect but well-lived; the latter, to one that is mad and self-destructive.

Again, we were kids, and I don't believe we could have conducted ourselves and thought with this level of sophistication. Our preoccupations were games and toys and all the other things children's dreams are made of. We lived life like tomorrows would never ever run out. I am so grateful that we saw life and the world through innocent eyes. Everything was pure and unadulterated. We gradually outgrew our innocence, of course, and were exposed to life's harshness. Love, however, life's progenitor and antidote, will be with us until the very end.

"Benjie has left the building."

Let me borrow this leaving-the-building phrase from the fans of the late king of rock and roll. It was announced at the end of his concerts, and when the fans heard it, I'm sure they felt sad. Show is over. Go home now. But many of them lingered, hoping for an encore. Sometimes there was, at other times there wasn't. In both instances, the fans had hope.

My brother Benjie has gone. For good. We are devastated. We can linger, but there is no possibility for an encore ever. And unlike the king's multitude of fans, Benjie has only us, a mere handful. We miss him so, like fans miss the king. And some of the king's fans say he's not really dead, but in hiding, or in some sort of hiatus. The hiding and hiatus have been for quite some time now, I'm sure the king is entitled to be dead by this time. We can assuage our grief by saying the same thing, that my brother is in some hiatus somewhere, ready for a comeback at any moment, but we know otherwise, of course. He's never coming back.

I did not and do not miss the king. Mom did as she was a big fan. I'm not. But Mom took me to many of the king's movies, and I particularly enjoyed the one he made while doing his mandatory tour of duty in Europe in the late 50's or early 60's, "G.I. Blues." And, oh yes, how can I forget "Clambake"? I can say now with certainty that early on I exhibited a penchant for sun, sea, and sand. I never managed to live the dream, though, and today the nearest-to-my-domicile, passable mercury and dioxin levels-beach is some four hours or more drive away. Life.

I'll miss this guy Benjie for sure, our king of comic relief. He always had a funny thing or two to say. We grew up together, played, fought, and roughhoused. We enjoyed the same cartoons, and Godzilla movies; ate the same candies, and sometimes got a good spanking together for our misdeeds. We shared things with each other, but at times selfishness took hold and we kept things from one another. We were kids, and kids play out the entire gamut of adult behavior. But his selfishness was kid stuff, and he grew up to be a very generous person.

We had steel bunk beds. I occupied the top, and he, the bottom bed; the rationale being he was younger and so could fall from the top bed. I was acrophobic and I was assigned the top bunk. Just sweet. Our bunk beds doubled as indoor playground equipment: Sometimes it was our playhouse, and we hung a blanket on one side. The bottom bunk was the house, of course. At other times, it was a bus, and instead of a blanket, we had imaginary bus seats and passengers. We alternated playing bus driver and bus conductor, with the driver always focused on driving and the imaginary road, and who also did maintenance work on the bus, using a pen or pencil, some old toys, or whatever, as tools; while the conductor barked the destination and called out to passengers: Quiapo! Quiapo! Sakay na kayo! Children were more imaginative during our time, I think.

We've had some differences, I'm certain, but I honestly can't remember any of them right now. We most probably agreed that they were insignificant and of no consequence, and therefore should be completely forgotten. This happens when you genuinely love someone. You suffer from an amnesia of sorts with regard to the loved one's faults. I believe I had a greater number of faults, and so Benjie had a more serious case of amnesia.

A well-meaning person told me that my brother is now home with God. I was tempted to reply that Benjie should be at home with his wife and kids instead! I was only tempted. Life has a lot of unanswered questions. I actually tried wangling a deal to extend Benjie's life by praying each day that I be taken immediately, with my remaining years given to Benjie. I'm in pretty good shape and the additional years could see his kids through their adolescent years. But it doesn't work that way, I suppose. At least I tried. It wasn't something whimsical; I genuinely wanted it for my brother's sake. He would have done the same thing for me.

Thank you for being a funny and strong pillar of our family, Benjie. We would not have wished for another son or brother in your place. You were always the perfect fit. You lived a good and full life, not in terms of material wealth, but in the wealth of love and happiness. You don't have a horde of shrieking, clawing, hysterical fans like the king, you only have a handful of very grateful people. Our gratefulness is till the very end. Our sole regret is your rather brief life. You could have kept us happy and laughing and in stitches for many more years. I pray that your children learn about you, how you waited for them sweet, little angels to arrive, and how much you loved them till your very last breath. I'm quite sure they have you in their hearts, and that they'll also be joys to the people around them.

I think we'll linger awhile, but you go on ahead. Don't even linger outside the building. Go as far away from it as possible. Go to where you deserve to be, to the wide blue yonder of timeless and infinite happiness, love, and peace. Uncover the secrets I also long to uncover someday. We'll be fine, or at least we'll try our best to be. We'll just stay here awhile, probably to compare notes on how you touched each of our lives, like brag about who you helped the most, who you spent the most time with, who you gave the most money and the best gift to, who you loved and who loved you the most. It can go on and on, and the common denominator after all the discussion is that you touched each and every one of us. An encore is not needed, Benjie. You've given the best performance of your life, and we're thankful to be part of the audience.

Advance Directives

Lest I be misconstrued, I'm not actively seeking my demise, but I certainly will not go to great lengths to extend my life either. This world and life have only finite things to offer; everything is merely a novelty, becomes boring, breaks down, or runs out.

When I go, I hope it will be smooth and quick. I do not want to burden anyone. If my odds of surviving are quite nil, then just let me be. Don't even think of prolonging me. No measures out of the ordinary. Let me take my course. I've always shunned unnecessary expenditures. Absolutely nothing for something I would not benefit from. No exceptions. Spend the money on something else. Say, on a trip you've always wanted. Or on a new appliance. Yes, that'll be more useful.

If there is one Filipino tradition I hate the most, it's being dead and surrounded by gambling idiots, and noisy, chattering, gossiping people, who don't mean even an ounce of condolence. Keep me away from their kind, please. Keep the wake very short; or none at all will be better; I'm not some meat to be cured.

Bid goodbye to my lifeless body (or ashes) quickly. Those farewells are useless anyway. My soul (if I have one) won't be there. I have no clue where it will end up. Those who love me will feel genuinely sad, but I'm sure there will be those who can't wait to see me put away forever. To them I say, the feeling is mutual. It's only a matter of time. Put me underground the following day. If funds are available, turn me into ashes. Bury the ashes, or if you can, use it as fertilizer, and I certainly won't mind serving one, final purpose, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Beats rotting and worms.

Don't use those trite, run-of-the-mill quotes for my epitaph. Go over some of what I've written, and pick out a more imaginative line or quote, something more meaningful or profound that would create a good impression. I'm sure I've written one somewhere. Just my name will do if you can't pick or find one.

Don't visit my grave as often as you would want. Once a year, or even never, is fine. If you forget or don't feel like doing it, it's supremely okay. No need to feel guilty or anything of the sort. Carry on, move on. Life's chores and dreams await you. Don't waste time moping. I've done enough moping already. It wouldn't bring me back. I'll be fine wherever I'll end up. I promise. Who knows? Maybe we'll see each other again for old times' sake. Life and death are both unpredictable.

Integrity, Enjoyment, and Other Abstractions

Surveys seem to very trendy nowadays. They're almost everywhere: Malls, parks, theatres, churches, workplaces, planes, trains, buses, online; and for every subject imaginable: Preferred brands, popularity, poverty, opinions, sex, love, politics, happiness, hunger, finances, among many others. The power and persuasion of surveys cannot be ignored. Many a politician has ridden and won on the power of surveys. Surveys can shape our very lives. They can lead us to believe that we are happy and content, or are safe, hungry, lost, rich, poor, healthy, sick, desirable, benevolent, sane, or psychotic.


My workplace has not been spared. Do you perceive that your colleagues and management have integrity? Do you still find enjoyment in what you're doing? Or something to this effect. I always answer in the affirmative. I want to get on with what I'm doing, to browse news sites and answer e-mails, and do other things I'm supposed to do, and what I get paid for. Answering otherwise would require that I explain and qualify, but which I don't think will be understandable anyway.


You can't govern or lead based on surveys, if what you survey are opinions and perceptions. You have to do things right. Opinions may be representative of what people want or need, not what they are being given. You should never think you possess integrity just because a survey says so. People answer surveys either feeling wary and suspicious, or being polite, or both. Integrity is something you possess or don't; it's either 100% or nil. You know if you have it or not. It is like having a conscience, if you've ever experienced having one. Stop kidding yourselves.


As for the other abstraction, work enjoyment, it lasts only until the novelty of the job wears off. After that, one keeps the job out of sheer financial need, or the lack of other suitable, more appealing, and more generous options. You should notice the speed at which people jump ship as soon as better opportunities present themselves. Of course, there are the lucky few who work in jobs they really enjoy doing. They are the exceptions. The majority of us belong to the general rule. Do not tell me then, that you want me to have fulfillment. I can have that by getting laid.

My Aries

During the time I lived and worked in the U.S., when I tried building dreams, I moved around in an '89 Dodge Aries. I bought it for something like $500, from an elderly couple in one of the typical neighborhoods in the San Fernando Valley, several miles from North Hollywood, where I stayed with my brother, Bennett.

It didn't look particularly attractive: Oxidized paint, tires that were almost like racing slicks, interiors that could use a lot of cleaning and washing, a dirty-looking engine compartment and engine, and a trunk I swore could have sheltered a family of squirrels comfortably - dirty rags, old and stained newspapers and magazines, dried-up insect bodies, among others. But no human bones. I originally wanted something more late-model, but it was all I could afford. I saw the ad for it in one of those classifieds newspapers distributed gratis in the laundromat where I did my week's worth of laundry.

Prior to purchasing the car, I did some homework, and discovered that it was a finely built car in its time, built to last and compete with foreign makes, counted on to save the then-moribund American auto industry. This could be the reason that when I turned the ignition to test drive it, the engine came to life at first crank, without any hesitation, puttering, or misfire. I drove it, I think twice or thrice around the block, putting it through its paces, listening for some unusual sounds, feeling for some strange behavior. There were none.

It had no airconditioning, so I sweltered during summer; and no heating, that during winter I had to use gloves given me by my brother, so I could hold the steering wheel which felt as cold as icicles, and at the same time wore the thick outdoors jacket given me by my mom. I left very early for work each morning, before the sun was up, and winter mornings are unforgiving to someone accustomed to the heat and humidity of the tropics. The interior was very cold, and I could see my breath. This phenomenon actually amused me, and I began using it as some sort of indicator as to how cold a particular morning was. The more I could see my breath, the colder the morning.

In the company where I worked, I had colleagues who treated their cars as extensions of their homes. They retreated to the privacy of their cars during lunch break, munching on food brought from home or bought at a drive-thru window, while reading a book, the paper, or listening to the radio. I immediately took a liking to the practice, being generally introverted. Or at least, this was how I saw myself. I brought my lunch each day, homemade sandwiches all the time, the monotony broken only rarely by the leftover Chinese style fried rice I made myself for the previous night's dinner with Bennett. Sometimes I had an apple, or a slice or two of honeydew, or a small bunch of seedless grapes, or some baby carrots. My drinking water was from home, too. I tried all the time to live frugally, miserly even. Whatever little I earned, I sent almost half of it back home to my family. Occasionally, though, I gave myself treats, like those budget meals at Carl's Jr., less than $4 for three soft tacos or a full-sized burger with fries, and bottomless soda! If I ever ate more expensive food, and at a more expensive restaurant, you can be sure someone else footed the bill, either my brothers Benjie or Bennett, or my sister Belinda. They were fully aware I have a lot in common with a guy named Ebenezer. Humbug!

Then there were the people whose homes were their cars. Bennett and I once did our laundry where they had new washers and dryers, and we chanced upon a sedan parked near the laundromat, its interior hidden by blankets and shirts used as makeshift drapes. The car doubled as a home for two homeless men. I'm not naive, and I knew about homeless people in first-world countries, but seeing them in the flesh was somehow different. It was jolting, actually. That had to be my first time. Soon afterwards, I saw more homeless and vagabonds, the ones stereotyped in many a film, with grocery carts containing all their possessions.

I had a regular, a white family of five, who frequented the same neighborhood supermarket in North Hollywood. I went here straight from work, to buy food for dinner. I missed my wife's cooking a lot, and attempted to duplicate some of her dishes from e-mailed recipes. I chanced upon this family as I sat in my car on the supermarket parking lot, while pondering on the day's purchase. This family was efficient. They alighted from their Camry like troops alighting from an APC, and headed straight for the two imposing dumpsters. Then with their long, mechanical claws, the kind you could buy from toy stores or hobby shops, they rummaged and sorted and sifted and clawed and picked and smelled through the dumpsters' contents, coming up with still edible stuff like fruits and veggies and bread and saltines and even chips and beef jerky. When I first saw them, it felt like when I saw those two men living in a car. Soon afterwards, I began paying them progressively less attention. They became part of the landscape, like houses, people, street signs, and contrails, which I knew were there but hardly noticed.

The car-bound men and the scavenging family became for me epitomes of resiliency, a trait exhibited on a national level in my country. Year in, year out, we are visited by disasters and calamities both natural and man-made, and we always bounce back. We are decimated at times, but the temporary increase in mortality is never a cause for concern. It is no match to the national fertility rate. The country is literally a baby factory, and to service the promiscuity and prolificness, I've personally seen birthing clinics every two kilometers or thereabouts in some really big cities and towns. The unemployment rate continues to be high, and where men's bodies and minds are idle, the sight of the female anatomy offers interesting propositions, with nary a care for its proportions, or health and hygiene concerns. I now clearly see the reason why the Catholic Church is so opposed to aggressive population control. It wants to guarantee that the Filipino race will never ever become extinct. It was and continues to be an easy and profitable race to subjugate, and Filipinos should never run out. It is doing the country (and itself) a big favor, and so all you antichrists out there (and that should include me in the category of those who oppose the Church) should repent while there's still time. No way. Up yours.

Or it could be that the Filipino is genuinely prolific, or has been psychologically conditioned to be so. I come from a big family of six children; my dad's siblings also had big families, some of them larger than ours. My wife, too, comes from a big family. Machismo and big families seemed to go hand in hand back then. Nowadays, due to continually worsening economic hardship, ignorance and indifference have replaced manliness. A one or two-child family seems to be the norm; three at most, and beyond this number most people tend to form harsh opinions: Too promiscuous or too indifferent or too stupid.

My Aries was a reliable chap; pulled me through it all. Never, not even once, did it falter. If it were human, then it would be most akin to my wife who has always been there for me. One of my daily prayers was that I be spared from any kind of breakdown or even a flat. I definitely couldn't afford towing services if I had a breakdown on the freeway. God and my Aries obliged. I survived a nasty Pacific storm on the freeway one very late night, when I had to report for work to take part in an off-work hours inventory of the warehouse and walk-through refs and freezers. There were several instances when I unavoidably drove my Aries into unseen, deep pools of accumulated rainwater on sections of the freeway, pretty certain that the engine would die out on me. But it never did.

On better days, and certainly with better weather, my Aries got me around Los Angeles and San Fernando Valley, to my job agency to claim my paycheck, to the bank in Alhambra where I remitted money back home, to my laundromat, my favorite 99 Cents Only stores, WalMart, and Island Pacific supermarket in Panorama City. I made weekly trips to 99 Cents for my groceries, to Island Pacific for Filipino food ingredients, and specially the gratis Filipino newspapers. I took a copy of each kind, read them at home or at the laundromat while waiting for my laundry. It surprised me that while abroad, I missed everything Filipino. On the internet I looked for photos of familiar places back home: Malls, streets, buildings, churches; I watched four-day old "Eat Bulaga" shows (Now back home, I never watch it.); in December as I drove home from work I intently scouted for houses with a "parol," and when I saw one, immediately concluded that its inhabitants were Filipinos. Now back home, I again take everything for granted, and I think it's human nature pure and simple.

I drove my Aries for its last, long drive when I moved from North Hollywood to Palmdale, to spend time with other family members, weeks before my return to the country. It was a pleasant trip. The long, wide, undulating stretches of freeways were something I took for granted for most of the time I was there. Now, as I was nearing my departure, I felt that I would miss them, unsure of whether I would have the pleasure of experiencing them again. Yes, maybe. Maybe never.

I left my Aries with my brother Benjie so that he could sell it. He e-mailed me some weeks after I got back home that he was able to sell it to an old lady. That car certainly would have served that dame well, as it did me. She wouldn't have had any complaints about it, except perhaps about food crumbs on the carpet. I was always stocked with boxes of saltines and at least a bag or two of nachos, which I kept in the backseat, ready to be munched on, to keep me awake and alleviate hunger pangs on the L.A. freeways and side streets.

Unholies

I've lately been at odds with my religion, Catholicism. In my country alone, too many priests are being accused of being involved in sex scandals and other illicit liaisons and activities. Just a trifle too many for my comfort. A bishop was once accused of unwanted, sexually-implicit touching by no less than one of his staff. He denied it, of course, in full media splendor. Then he hied off to an undisclosed location in the United States, to let the heat dissipate, so to speak. Nothing came out of the incident; it died a natural death, like all news events not followed up. And this bishop is back, allying himself with a prominent lay Catholic preacher, who dons funny-looking, checkered clown suits, and holds the mike a la Tom Jones. I smell an unholy alliance between these two supposed religious and moral stalwarts. The bishop lends credence and the Catholic Church's recognition to the lay preacher's group, and I'm certain the bishop receives incentives that are to him heavenly, but not exactly from Heaven. The charismatic lay leader is an astute businessman, owns mansions and prime real estate, and presides over an empire of gullible followers, handkerchiefs with printed prayers on them, fans, healing oils, umbrellas, tees, etc., all in the name of The Almighty. He uses Bible verses as effective sales presentation, and the gullibles take them hook, line, and sinker. His style of leading is cultish, like Jesus himself, but I sense that he has a hidden, sinister agenda. His group's sheer numbers hold the Church hostage.

Some years back, a young, handsome Catholic priest was cited for public indecency. He was caught in the act by policemen, in his car, necking with a woman of his parish. I couldn't recall if the woman was married or not, but I believe it didn't matter. Her civil status had no bearing on the gravity of his sin. This story, too, died a natural death. Stories about priests and other men of God who fall into serious sin die natural deaths due either to people not following the events up, or the big bosses in the Church covering them up. The latter happens more frequently now.

Then there was this healing priest, whose famousness ranged far and wide. I had respect for this man of the cloth, until an equally famous journalist, who probably was disillusioned as I am right now, produced a short documentary on this priest. His lifestyle looked as if he renounced his vow of poverty: He was living in a condominium with a view of the world-famous Manila Bay sunset, furnished with expensive antique furniture; and went around in a chauffeured Mercedes. After watching that documentary, I vowed that if I should ever become afflicted with a debilitating or terminal disease, I would prefer going to a witch doctor than to this priest. Whatever became of him, I don't know. Even if he lost his following because of the documentary, I'm certain he could live very comfortably until The Almighty Lord takes his life away. But I think the story died a natural death, too. Most probably, this priest has become richer. The Catholic Church and its minions, by the way, are exempt from paying any and all forms of taxes.

More recently, a priest was in the news because of his involvement in the illicit ivory trade. Moreover, it was exposed that this priest escaped back to the country from the United States, where there is a warrant for his arrest, for seducing and engaging minors in sexual acts, two altar boys in the parish where he served for many years! The thing that angers me the most is that this farce-of-a-priest's superiors are attempting to minimise the whole affair, calling it a case of biased reporting and a move to put the entire Catholic Church in a bad light, a conspiracy hatched by no less than its enemies, the proponents of the Reproductive Health Bill. The sexually-deviant priest is allowed to retain all his priestly faculties, including celebrating mass, and consequently being in contact with altar boys. This priest belongs to a politically-powerful and wealthy family in his region. The story, I believe, has started dying a natural death, too, and I believe I'll live to see the day that this priest becomes a bishop.

It's only religion, I say. To hell with it. Ten years of Catholic schooling can't prevent me from bolting this sick Church. I relish the words of a Catholic nun who is pro-Reproductive Health Bill: When you die, you will not be before the judgment of these bishops and priests, but before the judgment of The Lord. Way to go, sister. Hooray.

I'm free from my religion, but my faith is intact. Only now have I realized these are two separate, distinct things that went together nicely when I was still young and naive, but which became more and more incongruous in the light of religion's fallibilities and cover-ups.