Enderun Eng110: please download and print. It will be good to have a copy during your debate.

ARR

    The classical tragedy as defined by Aristotle is when there is a reversal of fortune of a certain protagonist from good to bad. At the same time, the audience experiences a catharsis of sorts in response to the emotional roller coaster that the character goes through. A teacher of mine in college simply posits that a tragedy is when a character almost consciously places him or herself in harm’s way. When I watched Supersize Me with my English101 students in Enderun Colleges, I couldn’t help but think what a crazy dude that Morgan Spurlock is. He went from a healthy lifestyle to unhealthful living overnight. I mean who in his right mind, would actually put himself in such a position to eat nothing but Mickey D’s for an entire month. Only in Greek and Shakespearean tragedies have I known such personas. And just to prove a point, he did; and what a revelation it was for everyone who watched.

    Did anyone learn the lessons of Supersize Me? I leave that up to the viewers and maybe the vegetarians and the small eaters to opine… but that’s just them. Amusing as Morgan Spurlock’s exercise may have been, I embarked on my own burger binge. So obviously I paid no heed to his documentary. I’m not certain as to why I go on burger binges. From time to time, whether out of gluttony or possibly triggered by some vitamin or cholesterol deficiency, I just find myself wanting to eat burgers at least once a day till I satisfy the craving. However I’m not as whacked as Mr. Spurlock. I plotted out an itinerary of small burger joints found around the Metro so I’ll have a variety of hamburgers to feast on. Hopefully no reversals of fortune happen on this sojourn except for the hole-in-the-wall burger joints to come out of their shells.

MONSTER BURGER

    Let’s begin with a hole-in-a-wall. My new favorite sandwich of the bovine persuasion is Monster Burger. The name of this small establishment also announces their signature fare. And when you see the patty on this one, you can tell it’s monstrous. I’m not going to spoil the surprise. This one I’d like you to see for yourself. The bun is soft and fresh as all buns should be, pun intended. And the good thing about this burger is that it’s not overdressed; just a small dollop of mayo and ketchup, a piece of lettuce and that’s it, just add ketchup to your heart’s desire while you eat.

    Take the 20-minute Monster Burger Challenge! I’ve only been told of this, I wasn’t aware of it when I first went to their tiny store of parking space proportions. I was told that this burger is as big as a plate; bigger than their monster burger. Simple rule, if you can finish it in 20 minutes, it’s free. If not, you pay Php250 or thereabouts. I’m afraid to ask. I think I’d rather just buy it, bring it home, and enjoy.

    It's easy to miss so follow these directions. It's along Katipunan across the empty lot between the Ateneo and Miriam College. You will see Bo's Coffee to your right. If Bo’s coffee is on your left, you’re headed in the wrong direction! Make a quick U-turn and slow down. Monster Burger is right beside a handicraft stall. If you see a Burger Machine stand, you've missed it. But here's the thing, they don't seem to have regular hours. Sometimes they close shop late and at times as early as 6:00pm. Best bet, go there between lunch time to late afternoon. So see you there you burger monsters!

WAGYU BURGER

    Okay, get into your car. Take South Luzon Expressway and exit Santa Rosa (yes the one with the giant Coke, Royal and Sprite cans). Take a leisurely drive up to Tagaytay. Turn right at the junction and just go straight. Watch out for a place called Cliffhouse on the ridge side; the side with the volcano, don’t look the other way or you’ll miss it for sure! And don’t be tempted to stop at Yellowcab or Leslie’s, which are right beside Cliffhouse. Go in and park, there’s a Php100 parking fee but that’s free if you patronize any of the nice little food establishments in this terraced compound.

Look for Massimo. Ask for Wagyu Burger. Don’t complain about Php235 price tag just for a burger. Keep in mind you will be having real Wagyu beef and soon biting into burger bliss. This is sandwich simplicity. My guiding principle in edibles and potables: simplest is best. Again, this is Wagyu beef from cattle pampered to the highest of standards only to meet its grilled and seared demise; animal sacrifice for carnivore heaven so to speak. To put mayo-ketchup based secret sauces and too many other condiments would be sacrilege. The Wagyu steak is tender enough as it is. Imagine it ground delicately and formed into a nice burger patty. And after this gastrorgasm, get gelato or coffee for dessert if you please.

GOOD BURGER

    The name speaks for its products; Good Burger (GB) serves good burgers. If you want a refreshing alternative then GB is the booth to find. I’ve only seen one outlet so far; so post a comment on xanga.com/alroi if anybody knows of any other GB joints. The one I frequent is located along C5, across SM Hypermart, right by the curb. Their signboard is easy to spot.
   
    What about their burgers? It’s the relatively more healthful alternative. They serve lean chicken patties and veggie burgers. Among all the burgers I’ve tried, this one is the most reasonably priced. A hundred pinoy bucks will get you a heavy double patty burger on soft, pan de sal-like bun and it’s just perfect to the bite. You get a good mouthful each time. And one thing I like about this burger is that it doesn’t slip and slide and come apart like some messy commercial burgers. GB may be a bit on the bland side for some people but then again that’s the way health food is. No need to fret though; the different dressings you can choose from can easily fix this and add the proverbial pinch of salt. From simple ketchup or cheese, to salsa, GB offers dressings and other condiments that should suit your preference in sandwiches. Here’s a type of food that you have to try for yourself to see if you like it or not. So log off your computer and head on over. There’s usually ample parking, and if you find yourself stuck in rush hour traffic in this part of C5, it’s worth the stop.

ESCALATORS FOR IDIOTS

by Allan Roi Roño

 

            1. Approach facing forward towards the direction the escalator is going.

 

            2. Look down. But don’t look bewildered, yes it’s a moving flight of stairs.

 

            3. Don’t be afraid, it will not bite your feet and swallow you.

                       

            4. Put one foot first on the step like you do on ordinary stairs, NOT on the edge unless you want to lose balance and scrape your shin on metal teeth!

 

            5. Hold onto the rubber railing for safety. Don’t worry; it’s only an urban legend that people wipe their boogers on it.

 

            6. Remember, step and hold AT THE SAME TIME! Don’t grip too tightly before stepping on the escalator unless you want to get dragged and scrape your face on the escalator’s metal teeth. Still don’t be afraid; humans generally heal well.

 

            7. Approach the escalator with no trepidation. If you do, there will be a quick line of people behind you who will want to push you or wish that the escalator would actually eat you. They will think that you are from some far flung barrio of some remote region in the middle of somewhere, Philippines and that you’ve never seen, much less gotten on this miracle of modern technology; which is not so modern because it was actually patented in March 9, 1859 by Nathan Ames for an invention that he called Revolving Stairs. His design for the escalator was far ahead of its time, yet was never built. It appears that Mr. Ames died in 1860. The earliest working type of escalator, patented in 1892 by Jesse W. Reno, was introduced as a new novelty ride at the Old Iron Pier at Coney Island NY, NY in 1896. (http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/escalator.htm, 2008)

 

            8. Do not yell “wheee!”

 

            9. Step off the escalator as you reach the top or bottom and let go of the railing, unless your hand gets stuck on a booger that someone legendarily wiped on it. Step off quickly or there will be a repeat of item # 7.

 

            10. Do not attempt to go up the down escalator, lest you defeat its purpose. Now here’s a philosophical question you ponder as the escalator takes you up: If you ride an escalator going down, is it still an escalator?

 

ESCALATOR TRIVIA

 

            The longest escalator in the western hemisphere is located at the Wheaton station of the Washington Metro subway system. It has an overall length of 155 meters or 508 feet and takes over three minutes to ride. The world's longest escalator is the four section Ocean Park outdoor escalator system located at the Ocean Park Amusement and Entertainment Center, Hong Kong.

The escalator has a vertical rise of 377 feet and stretches out to 225 meters or 745 feet in length. (http://thelongestlistofthelongeststuffatthelongestdomainnameatlonglast.com/long184.html, 2008). And this perhaps may be the longest, goddamn URL as well.

 

            The shortest escalator in the world is in the Okadaya Mores shopping mall in Kawasaki, Japan. Its vertical rise is only 32.8 inches (83 cm). (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Escalator, 2008).

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

 

            Here is a sanitized history of your school’s name. It’s good to know this so that we may represent the school for what we envision it to be. Keep in mind that a school is NOT its name or the history of its name. The school is YOU; primarily students and teachers, and everyone involved directly or indirectly in the educative process that makes the school. This is the Endeavor: the first graduates will debut the true grit and quality of the school and will lay the first bricks of its reputation.

 

 

A brief history (Source: http://www.yok.gov.tr/webeng/histedu/part1_3.html)

                “Ottomans innovated a special and unique institution of education, the Palace or Enderun (the inner most) Schools for upbringing the Sultan's Kullar (slaves), better known as Janissaries (new-soldiers), who were originally recruited from selected Christian families and called Devshirme (draftees, the systematic collection of non-muslim children and their involuntary conversion to Islam followed by their conscription as regular troops for the Ottoman Empire, [Wikipedia, 2008] ) or Acemioğlanlar (freshmen). The Enderun Schools brought up these freshmen into a professional corps of state guardians. Ottomans seemed to have been fairly successful in this unique experiment of trans-culturation (forced acculturation). Many statesmen, who held the seal of authority and fate of the Empire in their hands, were products of this process. It should be mentioned at the outset that the Janissaries as the end products, Enderun as the school and Devshirme as the selection system were closely interrelated.

 

                Every three to five years, the Sultan's special scouts would come to the field in search of new talent to be drafted. They would look for healthy, strong and handsome boys and youths, aged between 8 and 20. There was yearly total of about 3000 boys but only one boy would be drafted from about 40 Christian families, settled in Rumelia or the Balkans (Albania, Serbia, Greece, Bulgaria and Hungary). Orphans, only children and those who were married would be exempted, as were the Jews, Russians, shepherd's sons and Turks themselves for reasons which lie beyond the scope of this essay.

 

                The children would be brought to Istanbul, circumsized and initiated to Islam in due process and taught to say the Shahada (God is but one and Mohammad is his Prophet). After the ritual, the boys would be sent to live with selected Turkish families for three to five years, learn the language, culture and Islamic practice of praying. After this process of enculturation they would be registered and enrolled in seven Acemioglan (freshman) schools, in and nearby Istanbul, for military drill and basic training, along with one-fifth of war prisoners (known as pentchick). According to the law and customs they were considered kullar of the Sultan's sword. Those making the grade then would be selected and sent to the Enderun School located in the Topkapi Palace (Campus). Those not qualifying for this high honor would join the field units that constituted the regular, professional Janissary Corps.

 

The Enderun School

                The incoming students called iç oglanlar (the inner boys) would be further educated by working in the Sultan's services, mastering natural and Islamic sciences,  developing their physical fitness and acquiring some vocational or artistic skills.

 

                In-service training in the Palace consisted of going through seven consecutive chambers or gates, for one to two years each, namely:

 

• The Little Room (learning mainly the 3-R's)
• The Big Room (preparing for promotion to higher room services)
• The Hawk (Doyhancılar) Room (taking care of the Sultan's hunting birds)
• The Wardrobe (Seferli) Room ( in charge of clothing)
• The Butler's (Kiler) Room (catering services for the Palace)
• The Treasury (Hazine) Room (the Sultan's valuables)
• The Private (Hass) Room (daily private, valet services of the Sultan)

   

                Every 5-7 years or whenever a new Sultan was installed in the Throne (enthroned rather than Crowned), the alumni of the Private Room would be appointed to important functions or positions, as qualified public servants of the state.

 

                The Enderun provided a theoretical (academic) education. In addition to the Islamic sciences taught at Madrasa, the Enderun offered Turkish, Persian, literature, history and mathematics. The syllabi of courses and scholars invited to teach them lead to speculations that the Enderun was in fact a school of liberal arts, well above the level of Madrasa.

 

                The Enderun also required physical training or martial arts suitable to the young men's aptitudes and interests, like archery, horse-back riding, spear throwing, wrestling, as well as the fine arts like music, poetry, calligraphy, miniature, drawing, book-binding etc. The music school located in Palace was known as the Meshkhane.”

 

            So you see the name Enderun has quite a colorful background. But a name only becomes what you make of it. You may be descended from the aristocracy yet behave no better than a hoodlum. In the same breath you may hail from the slums yet be the noblest of human beings. Ultimately – it is not about the school or where you come from; rather YOU who will make something of yourself. In the end, it is you who will define your character.

 

            Other than that -- “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet…”

THANK YOU FOR BUYING PILOT PEN

 By Allan Roi Roño

 

            Words these days have become so cheap. Indelible ink on paper shows a willful act of commitment. That’s why we think people who use PILOT pen are men and women of character. Unlike pencil pushers who on the one hand are not afraid of making mistakes; make a million of them nevertheless! Pencil users are people always want to be on the safe side of things, the very quality that Simon Cowell despises. That is why pencil users will never win American Idol.

 

            When people who use PILOT pen make mistakes, they are not afraid to show the world that they have somehow faltered as a result of some deep-seated human frailty borne from a collective unconscious that Carl Jung believes we all have. They openly declare the mistake by crossing it out with a singular line, or an X, or by enclosing in parentheses, or by almost obsessively, repeatedly scratching the pen across the word thus darkening and further highlighting the minor error. Yes, some PILOT pen users may be crazy, but they are committed to being crazy.

 

            Disclaimer: It’s not the type of crazy like morons who use PILOT permanent markers on whiteboards! Whether by accident or otherwise, these people are simply inattentive to detail or just plain stupid. SO PLEASE, use only whiteboard markers with erasable ink on whiteboards. Janitors know how difficult it is to erase permanent markers from whiteboards! God forbid that you write SHIT or FUCK on teh board! That is why the aromatic organic sulfonate anionic dyeblocker was developed FOR CRYING OUT LOUD… so it can be erased from whiteboards!

 

            PILOT pens, not just for writing, it’s also perfect for the twiddler and the compulsive chewer.

TUNGKOL SA BULA

By Allan Roi Roño

(bow)

 

            Ang tunay na bisa ng sabon ay nasa basic ingredients nito, ang LYE at OIL na pinagsanib sa pamamagitan ng chemical bonding (aaah, high tech noh!). Ang resulta, SABON!

 

            Hindi totoong kailangan mabula, maraming bula o malakas bumula ang sabon para ito makalinis. Pero okay lang din kung mabula ang inyong sabong panlaba. Ang problema sa bula, hindi mo makita yung ilalim ng planggana. Kaya madalas magkulang ang mga pares ng medyas ni mister kasi napapatapon ito kasama ng tubig na pingalabahan. Tapos babara ito sa drainage. Iisipin mo tuloy may dagang nalunod at na-stuck sa tubo. Hay problema ito.

 

            Pero bakit TIDE ang dapat mo bilhin? Kasi matagal nang gamit ito ng Lola mo. Yung tunay mong Lola ha; hindi yung “lola” na boss mong walang kwenta, o yung maarteng bading na manicurista sa iyong suking parlor, o isang ka-opisina na ayaw mong sabihin yung pangalan kasi pinagtsi-tsismisan ninyo.

 

            Opo, ang TIDE ay matagal nang pinagkakatiwalaan ng inyong mga ninuno.  Kaya ikaw rin, TIDE ang laging gamitin. Bukod sa tunay na mahusay, ito ay may taglay na bangong nagpapaalala sa iyo nung araw na hindi pa ikaw ang naglalaba. Pero mamaya ka na umiyak at mag-drama diyan. Baka pagtawanan ka ng mga kapit-bahay.

 

            Itaga mo yan sa bilbil ng biyenan mo. Mahusay ang TIDE. Sabihin mo din sa mga anak mo na TIDE ang laging gamitin, para patuloy na mamayagpag ang Procter and Gamble. Sa inyong pagtangkilik sa aming abang kompanya ay tinutulungan ninyo kaming tumulong sa ating bayan sa pamamagitan ng aming charitable activities bilang tugon sa aming Corporate Social Responsibilty… O HA!

 

            Ang karagdagang kaalamang ito ay hatid sa inyo ng Breeze. Breastmilk is still best for babies up to old age.

 

 

MY PROPOSAL COPY FOR LABELS ON LUCKY ME INSTANT MAMI

By Allan Roi Roño

 

                                

           

            Welcome to the world of the recently separated and being single without parents! Unfortunately you’re hungry and you need to eat. And damn, nobody told you that freedom and independence has sucky moments like lunch and dinner. Notice we omitted breakfast because we think you’d just go to McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin on the way to work. That or you have a hangover and would just sleep the whole morning away. But before you venture off into this pseudo-culinary adventure of genetically modified, artificially flavored, monosodium glutamate laden instant food for the kitchen clueless, please make sure to read and understand the instructions below.

 

            Prepare the following items:

 

1.      a small pot (not for flowers… idiot!)

2.      water (unless you like your noodles seared)

3.      a cup to measure water (yes a coffee cup will do)

4.      a stove (if you have to start a bonfire, forget it)

 

            Finally, you make the soup:

 

1.      Boil 3 cups of water (how hard can that be; by the way, turn on the stove)

2.      Open the packet, separate the noodles from the flavor sachets

3.      Put noodles in the pot, wait 2 to 3 minutes (no! the pot with the boiling water… idiot)

4.      Set the stove on low heat because the soup tends to boil over and overflow when you add the flavoring on high heat (go ahead try it)

5.      Stir a little bit then turn off the stove

6.      If you’re a lazy bastard or bitch, get a spoon and eat right out of the pot or you can pour the soup into a nice bowl

7.      Let it cool for a couple of minutes unless you want a first degree burn in your mouth

8.      For fun, get your stash of weed or shrooms, add liberally for that herbal, earthy flavor.

9.      Make sure your doors are locked

10.  ENJOY! Pretty much nothing matters after this

 

           

 

P.S. If you fuck this up, go to Luke 15:11-32 (the Bible! Not an episode of Star Wars… idiot!)

My Balikbayan List

by Allan Roi Roño

 

            It all began in a drinking session, with my former co-teachers, after a tiring day at work. Yes, teachers drink too and get drunk -- sans the rowdiness of drunken stupor of course. We do have to maintain an air of dignity, somehow.

 

            I guess my usual procrastination to write paid off this time because I recently had two unexpected opportunities to enrich this article further. The first came in the form of this movie “The Bucket List” starring the equally enigmatic Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. Although not necessarily an avid fan, I’ve been watching movies of these two actors since I was a young boy. I mean I’ve been watching Mr. Freeman since his days as Easy Reader and Mr. Twister Master of the Ridiculous in the Electric Company. And Mr. Nicholson’s brash quality hasn’t faded since “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” That should give the sharp ones an idea of my age and how I should be starting my own Bucket List. The second inspiration came from two productive conferences I had recently attended; the Council of Hotel and Restaurant Educators of the Philippines and the Ateneo-Harvard PAIR conferences where guest presenters spoke at length about Pinoy culture.

 

            So where does the Balikbayan List come in? Let’s go back to my earlier story. As the bottles of San Miguel beer poured, so did the wild tales of adventures, misadventures, and crazy ideas of my friends. In a rare moment of silence, one of my co-teachers Lem Tolentino quipped, “Pare, isipin mo kung pa’no mo malalagay sa lata yung amoy ng balikbayan box, palagay ko kikita tayo.” (Guys, if you can think of how we can put the smell of a balikbayan box in a can, I think we can earn from that.)

 

            We all burst into laughter.

 

            As we managed to calm down (with more beer), we began thinking about it. Indeed, I have not known anyone who didn’t like the imported smell of a shirt freshly pulled out of a balikbayan box --even if the shirt was a hand-me-down, or any item emerging from the depths of the quintessential cube. We had a loopy discussion as to what that smell was but could not seem to reach an agreement.

 

            We then proceeded to make a list of things commonly sent by family and friends from the U.S. surmising that one or a combination of them composed the said aroma. It must be all the soap and toothpaste that caused it. But some packages don’t contain any toiletries of any sort and they smell the same. It’s definitely not any of the chocolates and assorted candies. It’s not the smell of groceries. Is it the new clothes? I asked friends if shirts newly bought in U.S. stores smelled like that and they said no. Toys? Medicine and vitamins? Greenbacks tucked away in some obscure cranny? Small appliances? How about just the box itself? Definitely not. What about the packaging tape used to keep the bulging cardboard container together? Still no, because people use different kinds of tape. Then it must be the airline which carries the cargo… but most balikbayan boxes get here by boat. The cause of the scent remains elusive. I could go on for pages listing items but would just come upon a rebuttal negating what I thought the origin was. It smells like the States some people say. But a good German friend and co-teacher of mine quipped, “What if the balikbayan box came from Germany?” Yes I thought, what if it came from somewhere else besides the U.S. Is it the air out there? Perhaps it could be merely psychological. We will probably never really agree what the smell really is.

 

            Perhaps.

 

            Perhaps, it may not be the items or any of the things I mentioned at all. Perhaps it is simply the scent of thoughtfulness of the people abroad missing the ones they had left back home. Maybe it smells like the care they put into packing a neat box so the chocolates wouldn’t get squished or so the canned goods wouldn’t get deformed. It could also be the smell of hard-earned savings just to be able to grant a loved one’s wish. It is the Pinoy custom of pasalubong (goodies you bring home) even if they can’t be there. I know it’s definitely the excitement my sister and I feel when the box finally arrives at her doorstep.

 

            That’s it! It is love in a box. That’s what it smells like. The smell of a balikbayan box is the experience of love in the absence of loved ones. That is why, I thought no matter where it comes from, it will smell the same.

 

                                    My Balikbayan List:

 

1.      Hug my parents when I see them

2.      Lift my niece Anita up in the air the way I do her cousin Maggie

3.      Have a beer with my brother

4.      Celebrate the family reunion over a home cooked meal of steamed alimango and guinataang hipon.

 

            All this over a movie entitled “The Bucket List” and two pleasantly productive conferences. Go see the movie. It’s a bit of a talkie but it’s not rocket science. The bit of action compliments the banter between Nicholson and Freeman. Why didn’t I dwell on reviewing the movie? Well I think it’s not the type that one reviews. It’s a film that should be reflected upon by the viewer, after which you are challenged to make your own bucket list, or balikbayan list for that matter.

 

            Then if by any chance you find a lecture on Pinoy culture, go attend and listen just as you would pay attention to a movie. You’d be surprised at how progressively the Pinoy thinks nowadays. Dr. Pedro of the Lamoiyan Group of Companies, here’s a business proposition for you. To use your words, Sir it’s been over 30 years that I’ve been receiving balikbayan boxes. It’s about time that this Filipino experience be shared. I wonder if your team of top chemists can break down that wonderful smell and put it in can? We can talk about royalties later, hahaha.

     A long time ago when I was small, nine-year old boy (yes I was once small), I chanced upon some alone time. So like any normal little boy possessing above average I.Q., I took it upon myself to sit and reflect on what my short life had come to (in some circles this is known as an intellectual joke, so laugh hahaha ). It was early January, many solstices past that I wondered why my parents never threw a birthday party for me, while my brother and sister had quite a share of theirs. I remember opening my baby album where there were a few pictures of my first birthday. And that was it. Those pictures were my only mementos of some semblance of a celebration of the day I was brought into this world. FYI, it was not my choice okay; nobody told me that I was going to be born.

     It was then with firm resolve that I bravely came up to my mom and asked if I could have a birthday party. She gave me a funny look as if I posed a moral dilemma. Joy of joys, she agreed. She began preparation for this joyous occasion and with equal glee I prepared a short list of cousins, classmates, and friends.

     I hated clowns and I could deconstruct magic tricks so we didn’t have any of that crap. We had plenty of balloons so all the kids could inhale the helium and talk like Donald Duck. There was cake from Goldilocks and ice cream cake from Magnolia House (my contemporaries and maybe some others would remember this icon), sweet spaghetti, barbecue, hotdogs with marshmallows and pineapple, and fruit salad – I guess children’s party menus haven’t changed much.

     PARTY DAY!!! No one came save a few of my cousins, titos, and titas. With true grit, I stifled each tear and sob. I drowned my sorrowful birthday with all the food that I could stuff down every god-given internal organ of my homo sapien anatomy.

     Traumatized, I then reserved the 16^th day in the month of Janus solely for myself and myself alone. Can I get any more redundant? But I got over it. However it was only a handful of summers ago that I once again found myself alone, reflecting on what my life had amounted to. It was truly an Archimedean moment!!! (Good thing I didn’t have a bathtub and neither was I taking a bath, so I had no chance to run out into the streets naked.) I made a realization that has since brightened my life and gave me a positive outlook on everything that comes my way – okay, okay not everything, I’m exaggerating; most lang okay. I realized why nobody came on that fateful day I was supposed to have a party.

     EXAMS godammit!!! All those years, I never gave it any thought. Perhaps I had blocked it off. Most likely it was because I became a teacher and I would always get caught in a paperchase of exams to check. My birthday always fell on exam days, or midterms or what not. That’s why nobody came. They were at home studying for exams!!! I wasn’t unpopular or repulsive, hooray! It wasn’t me! It was them! I was smart, I didn’t need to study. They were dumb and had to burn their eyebrows, to borrow a tagalog idiom. They missed all that food and fun just to prove to their teachers that they had rote learning. (another joke)

     That is why I disappear on my birthday, to revel in my existence, to celebrate and commemorate that day, that day the fates made a mistake; that happy day. HAHAHAHA.

     But now I have all of you. I wish I brought balloons or at least a tank of helium that we may all talk like Donald Duck and laugh together because I was born. So cheers, and here’s to all of us, to those two great days in our lives: The Day that we were born, and the Day that we find out why… For me, it is to teach.

     Thank you everyone. Thank you Resto101 and Kitchen Staff. It was a truly good day.

Wait for my posting with that title above. For all those who were ever my students, it's going to be another one of those phenomenologies...

This was posted in an egroup that I belong to:

"Hail, Hail, Hail

Nov 23, '07 2:39 AM

This post is dedicated to my friends and beloved relatives.

Quite a big deal was made of the UK's Times Higher Education Supplement (THES) 2006  World University Rankings by my friends from Taft Avenue.

During the UAAP playoff games between the Archers and the Eagles, gigantic banners with these numbers were unfurled:

DE LA SALLE #392
ATENEO #488

Well, the 2007 THES rankings have been released, and only two Philippine universities made it to the TOP 500:

UNIVERSITY OF THE PHILIPPINES #398
ATENEO #451

Ateneo went up the list and De La Salle apparently dropped off the Top 500 altogether because this year, the "Peer Review" criteria (a.k.a. voting for yourself) was dropped; it used to be 40% of the total score.

FYI lang."

Thank you for a great year. See you for an even better Season 71. -ARR 

by Patrick Gil

 

Tour Leader: Here we have several places of interest on cam­pus: Colayco Hall — for student activities, Rizal library — for term paper research and catnaps. Over there where those guys are “perched” is the ASSOC table. Yes, those people study here in this school. No, they don’t bite...

A likely scene from past Orsems. Most undergraduates today who know of the ASSOC form some sort of an idea as to the nature of this predominantly male group that chooses to Inhabit the corner of the library walk and Kostka Hall. Generally, this impression is less than wholesome—the group has a “campus bad boys” stigma. Upon closer examination, however, the Ateneo Social Services Organization for the Community is not the mad menagerie of students that most take it for. It is actually a diverse group of about 50 that serves the community, has a large impact on the student body, and through its colorful history, leaves a legacy for the annals of the Ateneo. According to Hubert Guevarra (IV BSLM), ASSOC can trace its origins four years ago, when nine freshmen from the Ateneo high, drifting aimlessly through the college halls, were seeking out a tambayan.” They were inexplic­ably drawn to a certain table behind the present day TA board and soon, their number mush­roomed to sixty-eight. Gonzaga classes and chapel services were not

appreciative of ASSOC impromptu “choral recitations” and football games so the group was moved to the center of the quadrangle.

Apparently, continued merriment In the new location aroused the ire not only of Gonzaga teachers but also of professors in Berchmans and Kostka. The ASSOC, once more toting their table, unceremoniously migrated to the library walk — occupying a space halfway between their present corner and the side en­trance to the library.

Consequently, the human corri­dor created by ASSOC bodies allowed entrance to only two persons side by side at any given time. Girls needing to go to the library often took the long way around to the main entrance, fearful of passing through a veritable “rating gauntlet” replete with critical young wolves, sharp in both eye and tongue. Accused of “harassing female students,” the ASSOC was deprived of the privilege of using the table it had grown quite at­tached to. The table was taken to the Admi where it was pegged to the floor. Negotiations with the Dean of Students to recover the table immediately followed.

At that time, ASSOC was responsible for the beautification of the library walk during Christmas through the Hang-a-Parol project. This was used as leverage for the settlement. The basic argument, said Guevarra, was “walang table, walang ASSOC. Walang ASSOC, walang Hang-a-Parol.” The table was recovered and was placed where it is today, with the unusual condition that it should not touch the concrete walk.

With its bizarre history and its members’ present state of constant jesting, it is surprising to note that the ASSOC has important roles in the University. The Hang-a-Parol project not only provides the covered walk with a degree of Yule­tide spirit, it also has as its benefi­ciaries: the Old Balara Scholars. ASSOC stalwart Blue Festin says that all profits from the parol pro­ject go to the scholarship fund, the group retaining only its capital.

In relation to the Council of Activities, Guevarra has this to say about the ASSOC: “It is a member not in writing but rather in impact.” This becomes evident when we consider that most ASSOC members figure prominent­ly in org activities as leaders. The group is represented in the Judicial Council and the Central Board. ASSOC also has as members, officers In AMA, AEA, the GUID­ON, PsycheSoc, LAKAS, and the PLO. The Blue Babble is predomin­antly ASSOC, and so are facilitators of Days with the Lord. The recent­ly concluded “Pakitang Agilas” had a production committee of which more than half were ASSOC men. ASSOC, therefore, as summed up by Mario Rustia (IV BSBM) is “not a typical group of idle ‘tambays’.”

Those who misunderstand the ASSOC may fear that an underlying ideology/philosophy may permeate the university through org/student body leadership. Members reassur­ingly say this is impossible because of the great diversity in the ASSOC.

This thought brings us to another point — the abundance of misconceptions about the ASSOC. For one thing, its members would like to see their “anti-sosyal” image fade away because of its negative connotations. There Is a bIg problem when, as Richmond Tan (IV BSLM) says, “the group is too stereotyped.” The extreme diversity in ASSOC ranks invariably allows for the acceptance of all types of people, “sosyal” in appear­ance or not. The diversity is visible: from the hulking mass of flesh with the Bondying haircut, the Whitney Tyson smile, and the generally sweet disposition, to the cigarette­-stuck-to-the-lip, guitar-strumming minstrels, to the showboating “comics forever” with a gag in the hat. Membership, says Rustia, has as prerequisites only “being your­self” and “possessing a sense of humor.” Even members of the opposite sex are more than wel­come although a permanent female fixture on the ASSOC bench is yet to be seen.

Corollary to the above is the myth that ASSOC is a counter­culture, developed as a reaction against the supposedly high-brow “admi-kids.” Also fictitious are stories about ASSOC firecrackers going off intermittently In. the, quadrangle during class hours and of ASSOC ‘underwear raids’ culminating in the draping of Kostka with all kinds of intimate apparel.

What is true is that members of the ASSOC are most of the time laughing and generally weathering the stormy waters of college through humor. It is true that part of their notoriety is deserved — ­stemming from an annual “con­gress/convention” at the end of the first semester that has as its name­sake a “restaurant/theatre” on Quezon boulevard. It Is also true that the camaraderie developed among members is so strong that ASSOC men, no longer with the Ateneo, come back to the table most so often to reminisce. And it is true that the “corner person” most write off as a “goon sidelin­ing as a clown” has a measure of social/community responsibility, is probably a student leader or an athlete, and is part of a tradition that will pass on even when the first ASSOC batch graduates. Think about that the next time you pass the ASSOC table. . . and bear In mind, they don’t bite.

ON A CUP OF CAPUCCINO

by Allan Roi Roño

 

It's strange for me now

being sleepless this way

I don't know how, I don't know why

It's the caffeine they say

I quite savour the feeling of

my mind reeling

Things enter my thoughts,

things like:       solo dialogues

pens that suck ink from paper

liquid thoughts in my head during full moon

sweet chilli ice cream

chocolate coated chicken lolipops

banana rabbits playing a kazoo

happy shrimps riding square bicycles

and basketballs in my orange juice

Have you ever thought

what pretty ugly means?

Do hamsters make noise?

What would a rubber spoon be like

if plastic was never invented?

We'd have a less polluted world don't you think. . .

but with rubber flavored food

What is a mental note?

Would it be like banging your head on a piano?

What does a tuffet look like?

And what spider goes up a water spout

 

How would I know

and why should I care

Don't mind me

I'm just chock full of cappuccino

           Simplify, simplify, that is the key to happiness.

 

           We have become a society so utterly bound by gadgets and material possessions that consumerism is no longer just an idea but a way of life. Maybe not all, but certainly there are people have to have the latest cellular phone, music or game gadget, computer or laptop, or what not that’s available in the market. Following this logic, no one will ever be happy. At the rate technological obsolescence is running, people will only be happy for a maximum of six months, even less.

 

            I think life back then was much simpler. It was easier to please friends with little gift ideas. There were times when I actually cultured my own little bonsai plants to give away. Nowadays, appreciation for such niceties has waned. There were times when people communicated with each other by writing beautifully composed letters reminiscent of Robert and Elizabeth Browning; sent through a brother of a friend of a classmate or some other sordid connection. The simplicity of it all was bliss.

 

            We needn’t look too far. I mean, where were we before the mass proliferation of email, online chatting, cell phones, and text. That was only about ten or fifteen years ago. A bit before that, there were pagers which of course were not as practical, nor fashionable. I remember when all we had were landlines and pay phones. All you needed to do was to make sure that you had coins in your pocket if you needed to make a call at some point of the day. When we had plans, my friends and I would call each other via phone brigade and agree on a date, time, and place. We only called each other once to plan things, and a second call to confirm. AND WE ALL SHOWED UP. Communication was a lot more personal. Cell phones I believe, paved the way for making last minute excuses so convenient. Back then, one phone call, make a commitment, and keep it. Now we have to have a slew of text messages in the most horrendous abbreviations flying through the microwave before an agreement could be made, only to be misinterpreted by one party. I recall the first time we had a reunion when everyone came toting a cell phone. We initially exchanged high fives and hellos, but the usually rambunctious gathering fell quiet. Each cocooned into his own world silently twiddling with a cell phone. We put a stop to it immediately. Now we have an unwritten rule, no phones in our get-togethers. Anyone who touches his cell phone will pay for everything that we consume for that night!

 

Computers were just business machines of big companies back then. Before that there were just typewriters. Remember those clunky old things? Okay, this point is debatable. Even I will attest to the ease that computers have provided in these modern times. But has it ever happened that you were working on a computer and it crashes on you, or the power fails or something, remember what a happy feeling that was, losing your data and all? Of course now there are failsafe systems that prevent these, however I like looking at the typewriter as the only crash-free word processor in the world. Yes we may be happier with the computer but how many times have we cursed slow internet? How many angry emails have we regretted clicking the send button to? Do you know the anguish of lost data, a corrupted file, or a virus gone mad in the CPU? Back then, you make a mistake, you either live with it and change the entire paper or use correction fluid or correction tape. It made you really think before you start typing or writing away words and ideas. Snail mail made you think before acting. You could actually read the emotion from the penmanship of the sender. It was so strange one time when I sent an ALL CAPS text message to a friend. I wondered why it took her some time to reply. When she finally did, she was asking if I was angry at her. Duh, stupid me, my phone’s default setting was all caps. I didn’t know that big letters meant I was angry. What’s with all these emoticons? Technology has to provide such inanely varied smileys to try and lend feeling to email or text.

 

I guess even the camera has fallen into the technology trap. Film until now is expensive and so is having them developed, so camera enthusiasts really put thought behind their pictures. Now what do you have; “cam-whores!” Those who proudly declare themselves as such in their web pages probably do not realize the connotation of that bastardized word. I have seen many indiscriminate photos in various websites, ill-composed and even worse poses of the subjects. All such photos are like this: everyone is scrunched into a tight frame, usually an extreme close-up, there’s always a wacky face, a tongue extended, pouting lips, sultry eyes, or a peace sign, with someone’s arm extended to hold the camera or the camera phone for that matter. Some see the convenience of the combination. I see a muddling of function. I’m happy with my simple cell phone and my simple digital camera; each complete and distinct from the other, each thing with its clear, unitary purpose. In these times, multi-tasking is almost a need. But then again, how much more are you really able to achieve with all the multi-tasking gadgets going around. I still say, one thing, one at a time, that’s commitment to quality.

 

So is there merit in wanting to go back to the days when we were techno-idiots? Can we ever leave home without a cell phone and not feel naked? Are students really learning more and doing better now when they have virtually all the information that they need at the click of a mouse? Or are they less attentive? With the speed of technology, are we also advancing as a society or have we merely managed to encase ourselves in the form of binary data? Are we getting things done faster or are we undoing what we’ve learned. Are we happier in this modern and advanced state of living? Or do we constantly find ourselves wanting more, looking for the latest innovation, always keeping up with the market trend and the Jones’? Is it possible to be happy with what we have?

 

I’d like to think that we are capable of happiness sans technology. Cell phones and computers have allowed us to be in touch with friends otherwise incommunicado. When we get together with them, set aside cell phones and really be with them. It's time we purposively do things again. When you walk; just walk for crying out loud. Don't walk and text, trip all over a stone, and suddenly turn around looking for someone to blame. Happiness is a decision in life, not a condition of being determined by materialism and consumerism.

 

In the old TV series Star Trek, Capt. James T. Kirk (William Shatner) said, “The more complex the mind, the greater the need for the simplicity of play.” Remember those days when life was easy and mellow, when there was predictable traffic on the roads, when toys actually allowed kids to play together, when games were called by its barest essentials patintero, taguan, habulan, tumbang preso and the like. The non-presence of the internet and virtual, online, computer games taught us to interact and adjust to social situations. We need to go back to the simple pleasures. There we often find happiness, or at least we say. Whether we really do find happiness or not, at least we realize that simplicity is bliss

 

Simplify, simplify.

Happiness Is Having a Mother Who Understands Your Limited Cooking Skills

By Allan Roi Roño

 

            How I long for my mom’s home-cooked food. I haven’t had such since they migrated to the U.S. many years ago. Even the food at family gatherings are different without my mom’s usual potluck contribution of either sotanghon or sweet peas with quail eggs. I remember clearly those last few days before my parents left for New York. My dad was in charge of packing all the stuff that they needed to bring while my mom was cooking at an almost frantic pace. No they weren’t bringing baon, rather my mom was leaving food for me and my brother. By the end of that week, the whole refrigerator was filled to capacity with all our favorite food, conveniently packed in meal-sized plastic containers, all labeled, ready to heat and serve.

 

We had bistek tagalog, mechado, lechong karahay (kawali to some), menudo, adobo (both pork and chicken variants), pakbet, arroz a la cubana, pochero, humba, a pot of tinola, a pot of bulalo, ginataang hipon, and some other viands my mom used to prepare at home. It looked like something you would see in a bomb shelter. My mom even quizzed me on how to cook rice on the stove and the rice cooker just to make sure that we were all set for independence. Then she said “O ayan ha, siguro naman tatagal na ng isang buwan ‘yan.”

 

            Yeah right, it took us only two weeks to sack and pillage the refrigerator while the plates, pots and pans, spoons and forks piled up in the sink. Before long, all that we had in the ref was water and beer. The canned goods in the pantry didn’t last long either. In fact an observant garbage collector would have been able to tell the evolution of our diet and food supply. First it was plastic containers with table scraps. Then it was cans, and finally, pizza boxes and burger wrappers.

 

 

Imagine the dismay when I opened the refrigerator and found only one last plastic container of food. Barely a month after they had left, they called to see how we were doing at home. And my mom being her usual self immediately asked about our food situation. And to make a long story short she found a way to email me a few recipes which I guess she thought was easy enough for me to follow. I thought that this was a giant step into the unknown knowing how techno-phobic my parents were. My mom must have thought we were dying of hunger to have overcome her fear of the computer. Now before your tears begin welling up at her seeming heroism, read the recipes first.

 

1.        pork and beans stew:

 

boil pork until a little tender. buy pork loin from our suki. introduce yourself so that she'll give you a good price. do not put salt while boiling. salt makes the meat tough. while boiling, prepare onion sliced. if you like your sauce thick use more beans and just enough pork broth. saute the onions with a little oil. add your cubed pork then the beans and salt to taste then add enough broth. boil then add the cabbage last.

 

            I post this here unedited. Seriously this is what my mom actually wrote. Believe it or not, I actually understood the recipe. I mean, never mind the logic or the sequence of instructions; it just gives you a feel of a mother talking to a son who’s clueless in the kitchen and the palengke. It’s worth examining a bit: She tells me to boil the pork… AND THEN go to our suki in the market. The beans she was talking about is canned pork and beans. The interjectory instructions like, “salt makes the meat tough” gives you a feel of someone passing on a secret to the next generation. One thing I can say is that I know she was confident enough to leave me with instructions as sparse as these. She knows I’ve seen her work in the kitchen and that I had probably been observant enough to understand what to do and what she meant; a sort of secret language between my mom and I.

 

            The two other recipes she gave me are for my all time favorite seafood, shrimp. Guniataang hipon is shrimp in coconut milk. The other is simply halabos, using Royal Tru Orange as flavoring! I had always wondered how my mom got the shrimp to taste that fresh and sweet. Now before you gastronomes and other disciples of Epicurus raise your eyebrows, try it first.

 

2.     guinatang hipon:

 

cut the pointed portion of the shrimp including the balbas. wash the shrimp and drain very well. saute the shrimp in sliced onion until almost all the shrimps are reddish in color. add salt to taste. add gata and sili. boil for a few minutes. do not over cook as this will make the balat stick. in cooking always lower the flame when boiling starts

 

3.        shrimp with orange:

 

prepare shrimps as above. cook without water. add salt. when almost half cooked add orange and boil. do not put too much orange para hindi too watery or instead of orange you can just use salt and sugar.

 

I can only approximate what my mom used to prepare for us during mealtime at home. After all it was the first time I was cooking by myself. In fact the first few feeble attempts that I dared, ended up with me convincing myself that it’s just the way mom used to make; which was a nice way of saying that I felt too guilty about throwing away an entire pot of food that I had botched up. I’m no culinary master; if I had a chef’s hat, it would only have four folds in it. I mean, I had picked up some cooking know-how from my mom and my lola. I wasn’t completely helpless in the kitchen. I remember as a child, my lola would wake me at three in the morning to start grinding malagkit rice to make galapong for palitao and bilo-bilo using a sixth generation gilingang bato (a round granite mill). When my mom baked cakes or pastries for Christmas or what not, I’d be there mixing batter away. And since my Mom actually had a problem with her taste buds, I was always the taste tester. In one way or another, I had managed to pick up something  by helping out or even just observing in the kitchen.

 

Sige nga, look for our suki, I challenge you and see if you can get a price better than what I’m given. Only a mother talking to a son that she knows well will be confident enough to pass on a recipe as coded as these. And only a son who knew what his mother meant would keep the recipes and actually follow them. Or could it have been that mom was talking to a child, thus the simplification of the language. I like to think the former. Yes I had watched my mom patiently prepare the food that we had at home many and many a time. Somehow a little of that rubbed off on me. One look at the recipes and I knew what to do. My brother was pleasantly surprised one night when he came home to a table set with food that “mom made.” I cooked the guintaang hipon. He was so surprised when he said, “Marunong ka pala magluto?” I could only smugly beam at him, pleased at my new-found talent.

Revenir en Mémoire

By Allan Roi Roño

 

My dear seniors batch 2005,

 

            I begin this farewell not by saying goodbye, but by setting a theme… remember and hope…

 

            Let me start by quoting a song from the Dulaang Sibol play “Sinta” by the Ateneo stalwart, thespian, Dr. Onofre Pagsanghan:

 

                                                ALALAHANIN, GUNITAIN

(Mula sa Sinta. Titik at himig ni Onofre Pagsanghan)

 

Alalahanin, guinitain. Kahapon nati’y sariwain.

Nang kay lumanay agos ng buhay.

Alalahanin, gunitain.

 

Nang puso nati’y wala pang galos.

Pangarap nati’y wala pang gapos.

Alalahanin, guinitain. Kahapon nati’y sariwain.

 

Pagsapit sa’tin ng tag-ulan,

Taglay ma’y dusa’t kabiguan,

Ang gunita ng ating tag-araw

Sa kadilima’y siyang tatanglaw.

 

Nang batis lamang ang tumatangis

At ang pag-ibig ano’ng tamis.

Alalahanin, gunitain. Kahapon nati’y sariwain.

 

            Click the refresh icon in your mind; of how mellow things were back then. Life seemed so light and easy; when our hearts were yet unwounded, and our dreams yet unbound; when we became friends and served as each others guiding light, and a hand to hold in our dark moments; bring to mind all these and all that was St. Scho. Stop for a moment and remember. Let us recall all those years that had been; all those days of laughter and fun; all those years spent growing up, all the times of tears, of joy and of sadness; all those years which we now bundle up into a memory, in a souvenir called St. Scho.

 

            I began writing this letter to your batch with a sense of desperation. I had spent the last few weeks before your batch reco, sleepless and almost hopeless. I wracked my brain and dug into the deepest recesses of my heart trying to find something to say to you at the end of this journey you have known as high school. I ended up staring at a blank computer monitor for hours on end. I thought to myself, “Is this it? Is this all that batch 2005 is to me? Have I reached the end of my own journey?” I certainly felt that I had learned all that I needed to know and that it was time for me to move on from here. But I refused. And so began my search for the meaning of Batch 2005. Yet I found myself unable to start. So I turned to my other religion; Zen, and just let the thoughts come pouring in, being the self-proclaimed Zen-Catholic that I am (I’m probably the only one).☺

            Sometime early January, I rummaged through my collection of photographs that I had taken over the years. I needed old pictures for the institutional recognition rites. I came across one particular photo of nine little girls in their Rhythmizettes uniform. They were Nowie Borromeo, Sab Salinda, Elena Alejandro, Rosh Menghranjani, Pia Inoturan, Reg Panlilio and some others who are no longer with your batch. That was during the barrio fiesta of the 10^th World Youth Day held here in St. Scho. Little did I know that they were from your batch. I remember saying to myself, “Syet, ‘pag itong mga ‘to inabutan ko sa high school, magpapakamatay na ‘ko…” Buti na lang I finished the year without realizing that indeed we had already crossed each others paths in high school. And what joy ride it has been starting with my half of the junior speech classes last year 3 Service, 3 Community, 3 Humility, and of course ang mga walanghiyang 3 Loyalty (kidding☺). I ended your junior year with high hopes seeing what kind of debaters would take on the legacy that my own set of students and Deltans alike had left. It was worth waiting for, I thought to myself. And ladies, let me tell you did not disappoint. Well some of you did. But those times that I was dismayed by your debates and defenses, somehow you and I managed to turn into a laughing matter. Truly, I enjoyed laughing out loud with you. You were at your best when we were all laughing. But I knew as well that you were more than just all that boisterous, teenage exuberance contained in white, ruffled, tetoron blouses and blue jumpers made of curtain material. You were much, much more…

 

            More than the laughter, you gave me hope. These past few years had been personally turbulent. I went through crisis upon crisis probably with no one having any idea. I guess that’s partly who I am; a catcher in the rye of sorts. I protected you from my problems by not showing you any sign of weakness, although I know sometimes it showed and some of you would receive the bad end of my personality. And to my hot head; with all the temerity of youth, or just innocent defiance your simple reaction would just be hala (with the distinct upward inflection). Just goes to show, your teachers and I are just human. Like you, we too laugh and cry, we get tired, get harassed; become hectic as you put it. In a way, our lives have become so unequivocally yet subtly intertwined that we can so easily take each others efforts for granted. Today, is about all those things we did take for granted, the things we left on the way side, the words we left unsaid, the things we left undone. Let me take this precious moment for those things and those words.

 

Remember the first few days of school when you were so filled with anticipation of senior year. How quickly the surge of erudition turned to dread when the initial difficulties and tediousness of debate, math, physics, and all your other subjects loomed over you. The days must have seemed endless. Those days slowly became weeks, the weeks into months, the months into a quagmire of papers, projects, points of information, panitikan, price determinants, Pythagorean theorem, projectile motion, phenomenology and what not. Remember all that you have learned, more than the lessons, hold on to the bond that you have formed in your group undertakings. Treasure the moments you had with us and with each other, for the times that really matter are the times when you and I were real to each other; teachers and students, but more than all, persons on a journey together.

 

Remember how your teachers shoved knowledge and ideas down your throat hoping for even a scintilla of intelligence, a glimmer of insight… something… whatever… just not blank, glassy stares.☺ It was most difficult speaking to you in English for fear of not being understood.☺ I found less and less people to talk to as the year wore on because nobody wanted to speak to me and translate from Filipino at the same time.☺ I can sum up an entire conversation in this way:

 

            Student: “Sir!”

            ARR: Talk to me in english.

            Student: “Sir never mind…”

 

            But seriously, ladies, it’s high time for a St. Scho renaissance. My lit classes 4Accountability, 4Righteousness, and 4Integrity are sick of this. I seriously believe that you, batch 2005, have started it, and like the rennaissance, it’s a long, slow process. Let that be your legacy to the incoming seniors and the future batches. Perpetuate it by going out into the world and making a difference. Show them what the Scholastican is made of. You, more than a bundle of joy and misery rolled into one, are women of substance. That’s what we have tried to imbibe in you. That despite the rash of things to do and life’s daily travails, you can persevere and achieve, that God may be glorified.

 

            Let me tell you a story. You know my penchant for telling stories. This is about Communist China. I saw this feature in National Geographic, a most neglected channel among teenagers.☺ It was about that time when the Yang Tze river flooded into the nearby villages. The young soldiers of the Chinese army were called in to help fix the collapsed dikes protecting the villages. More striking than the flood itself was that every time they managed to put up a section of the wall, they also raised the red flag of China as a sign of achievement, as a sort of badge of courage. A particularly touching moment was when an old man walked the ranks of soldiers handing them a small cup of wine. He was thanking them for all their efforts saying, “Thank you for saving my village and my home. Please accept this wine as a token of my appreciation. I have very little to offer, but it is my best.”

 

            This has been a year of achievements great and small, glorified and unobtrusive, achievements just the same. You deserve a flag and I put one up for you in my heart and in my memory. Towards the end of this year I had very little left of myself to give you, but I assure you, I gave you my best.

 

            Batch 2005 is very significant to me because you are the first batch in a long, long time that I handled as a whole. My literature classes were especially fun and challenging. Nowhere else perhaps is there a male teacher imparting feminist literary theories to female students. Only in St. Scho can there be so much excitement in forming groups for projects. Only here can it be a cause for celebration not getting number one in the bunutan. Only in this school can an afternoon at the stones turn into a concatenation of jokes and stories. I will especially miss chatting with you ladies over Lotsapizza, footlong hotdogs, or queck queck and caragel. How can I ever find a girlfriend when I have you? I have a secret. I love your batch. But you must all promise to keep it a secret, okay. Baka magselos yung ibang batch. Somehow you have managed to process your way into my being. But my love for you is like salt. You don’t really taste the salt in food but it still enhances the flavor, right. You may have never felt my fondness and affection but it was still there.

 

            Let me end with one last story; a story of hope. I borrow this from Fr. Bien Nebres, S.J., president of my alma mater. He takes the story from one of Neil Gaiman’s graphic novels. He reads:

Some of you here may be fans of Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" comics series. It is the story of Morpheus, Sandman, the Lord of Dreams. At the beginning of the story, Sandman or Morpheus is summoned by a human mystic, and caged. Seventy years later, when he escapes from his prison, he finds his kingdom in ruins, and must return to himself the symbolic garments of his reign to rebuild it. Among these symbols is his helmet, stolen from him and sold to a demon called Choronzon. Sandman has to travel down to hell to get it back. He walks down a phalanx of demons and finds that Choronzon will not give back the helmet without a fight. The contest will be a game, like chess, but with words, ideas. It is the oldest of games. Each side will choose a form of existence, the other in turn tries to find something to counter and overcome. The game begins, the audience is hell's demon populace.

 

"I am a dire wolf, prey-stalking, lethal prowler," Choronzon says, starting the contest.

 

"I am a hunter, horse-mounted, wolf-stabbing," counters Morpheus, surviving the first round by

killing Choronzon's dire wolf.

 

"I am a horsefly, horse-stinging, hunter-throwing,"Choronzon says.

 

"I am a spider, fly-consuming, eightlegged," Morpheus counters, capturing the horsefly in a web.

 

Choronzon then becomes a snake, spider-devouring, Morpheus in turn an ox, snake-crushing.

 

The game shifts, becomes cosmic: Choronzon says, "I am an anthrax, butcher-bacterium,

devouring all warm life."

 

MORPHEUS expands, "I am a world, space-floating, life nurturing".
CHORONZON: I am a nova, all-exploding... planet-cremating.
MORPHEUS: I am the Universe -- all things encompassing, all life embracing.
CHORONZON then deals a death-blow: I am Anti-Life, the Beast of Judgement. I am the dark at

the end of everything. The end of universes, gods, worlds... of everything.

 

The demons close in. What could possibly defeat the darkness of the end? Choronzon sneers and

turns to Morpheus: "And what will you be then, Dreamlord?"

MORPHEUS slowly raises his head: "I am hope."

Surprised, Choronzon loses the contest, the helmet is returned to Morpheus, the demons part and

he walks out of hell.

 

Hope, seemingly fragile spirit, trumps even the darkness at the end of everything.

 

This has been the ancient wisdom. In the Greek myth of the first mortals, Epimetheus and

Pandora, evil comes into the world because of the opening of Pandora's box. When it was opened, all the diseases, vices, sorrows, and crimes that afflict poor humanity, flew out in the guise of horrid winged creatures. We all know this story of Pandora's box. Sometimes we forget that this is not the end. For another voice came out of the box, " Open, open, and I will heal your wounds! Please let me out! " it pleaded. She opens the box and finds that the gods, in compassion, had concealed among the evil spirits one kindly creature, Hope, whose mission was to heal the wounds inflicted by her fellow prisoners. Thus, according to the ancients, evil entered into the world, bringing untold misery; but Hope followed closely in its footsteps, to aid struggling humanity, and point to a happier future.

 

Hope in the face of tragedy and pain, light in the face of darkness. (Bienvenido F. Nebres, S.J., HOMILY, SIMBANG GABI, CHURCH OF THE GESU, DECEMBER 23, 2004)

 

            We bequeath to you a world in shambles. But it is our hope that you will all go out there and make this a better place to live in. But before that happens, come let us celebrate your graduation. Sad as parting may be, let us pay tribute to this school “that sheltered us all, gave us comfort, and nurtured our young and fragile minds and hearts... Back when we were in the process of knowing ourselves... Back when we had nothing but dreams… Back when we treasured nothing but real friendships. And the only silent witness was she...” Come back. Come home. Don’t worry, I’ll tell the guards to let you in.☺

            Congratulations Batch 2005!

 

 

 

                                                                                                Always, always,

 

                                                                                                ARR

Sige, total, balengtimes season na nga ulit, Let us put forth our thoughts on this ethereal human issue.

According to physiology, the "love" that you "feel" is but a set of conditioned responses brought about by certain, almost specific stimuli that triggers the secretion of "feel good" hormones such as endorphins, serotonin, and the like. The "butterflies" that we feel inside our body and the rapid heart rate are merely reactions to that secretion of hormones. We don't actually feel anything in our heart. Psychologists would say that the feeling actually emanates from the primitive part of the brain called the limbic system.

So tama ba sabihin I love you with all my lymbic system? Pucha ampanget naman noh... parang bastos pa nga pakinggan eh, kung bastos man ang iniisip ninyo... hehehe.

People say I love you with all my heart even if the feeling doesn't come from the heart because that is the part of the body where they detect some sort of sensation... because we are human; we need some physical manifestation of things verily intangible and utterly incomprehensible to the mind. Because we cannot explain love we tend to act and react in ways that may outnumber the infinitesimal grains of sand in Boracay alone.

Pascal once said (French teachers please pardon my French) "Le coeur se raison que raison nais connais pas meme" The heart has reasons that reason itself cannot understand. Maganda lalo sa ating wika... Ang puso ay may mga dahilang di lubos matanto ng kadahilanan mismo...

Paano na tayo?

So what is love? The heart is the strongest muscle in the human body. It starts beating as early as the embryonic stage of development. It functions 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year from the time you are born... until the day you fall in love. Good if it is reciprocal; otherwise crap. Two things I consider hell on earth, rush hour traffic in the metro, and love to a point of insentience. Rochefoucauld takes it to an extreme when he says that we are nearer loving those who hate us than those who love us more than we wish.

Perhaps the bible can answer our query. "Love is patient; love is kind. Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way: it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrong doing, but rejoices in truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things..." and so on and so forth. But if you think about it, these are virtues, perhaps not exactly love. Try this: replace the word love with your name and it becomes fecal matter of the bovine persuasion.

In this primary reflection, I find that the whole concept of love remains afloat; its definition elusive. We then review the concept of concept; and there a scintilla of hope, a modicum of meaning. I posit one reason why love is indefinite is because it is precisely that... a concept, an idea, a notion, something intangible, non-concrete.

As my and Jess' favorite Philo teacher says, "Sa daigdig ng purong konsepto, ako ang hari." Thus I turn to the world of pure concept. Since love is a concept then the approximation of a definition must also be a concept. What is love and why do we sometimes go crazy about, over, with, and in it? The reason I can only surmise is that in love we lose ourselves whether it be partially or in a big way. The whole notion of being with someone is more than just physical. It is a commitment. Examining the Latin root sheds light... committere meaning to send or give over. Love is a commitment, a giving of oneself. That's why it gets crazy 'no? YOU give and no one receives, the self is left hanging. Someone gives and you don't want to receive, same banana cue. And then we find ourselves right where we began. I guess it just lends truth to the adage, love makes the world go round.

I guess the beauty of childhood is that there is nothing wrong with the way they view things like life and love. How I pine for love when love was plain and pure. The solution lies within love itself and there is no way out. Love, just love.

Dear Batch 2004,

 

            Once again I reach this crossroad which I traverse every year. It has become a rite of passage, a ritual of sorts for me, a catharsis. If I do not say goodbye to the seniors, then my year would be left unfinished, incomplete. I would be left hanging like a child waiting for an ice cream cone only to have the ice cream knocked off the cone after just one lick. This year is a bit different. This year I requested that this be a private farewell session between your batch and me. This year we get to finish the ice cream cone. So come take this last walk with me. Imagine holding a cone of your most favorite flavor, and let us savor this one last sweet and poignant moment before we all exchange loose promises of texting each other to keep in touch.

 

            Where do I begin? That is the question I confront myself with at the end of each school year. How do I sum up in just a few pages the concatenation of stories, jokes, laughter and tears, and all of the year’s life experiences, all that has been, and all that has come to pass. Where do I begin to tell the story of batch 2004? How do I put closure to this one ultra-hectic, stress-filled year?

 

            If anything at all, your batch was an enigma. You fit no definition. For every time I manage to contain you in a descriptive abstract, something strangely wonderful happens that allows you to escape that verbal confinement. An enigma is just that, something difficult to explain or define, much less understand. The beauty of phenomenology as I tried to impart to you complements this apparent conceptual barrier. All I really had to do in order to transcend this seeming difficulty was to completely immerse myself into the life of the batch. So I unobtrusively walked along with you in your journey of senior year in St. Scho. And what ride it was.

 

            The year started with a bang. Only you would be capable of winning the ire of so many teachers, ON THE FIRST DAY OF CLASS!!! Remember that orientation day in Kuni? Mga walanghiya talaga kayo. J Mrs. Ferrer had just stepped out of the hall after scolding you about your noise, and there you were almost instantaneously rousing up the place with your incessant chatter. You know how I describe your noise? It’s like the crunchy din in your head while eating chicharon during a nice, quiet movie. But like eating chicharon, (in English, porky pops) it just wouldn’t be the same if it wasn’t crispy and noisy to eat. Batch 2004 just wouldn’t be the same without the constant laughter and screaming. It is a noise that I have come to love and will miss when the quieter batches take over… if ever there will be a quiet batch of Kulasas.

 

            I wanted to see how tough you were. But I was wrong in expecting that. You were not tough at all. It didn’t take long for me to find out how sweet and loving you really were. Even the angas and astig ones who try to keep a straight face when I’m being funny in class (yung mga halos ma-utot na sa pagpigil ng tawa.) Yes, I couldn’t stay angry at you for long. All it took was that first window of opportunity and we were readily able to establish an understanding. The reason for the noise, I soon learned was just simply that you were so effervescent with life. You had such a deep wellspring of laughter. That’s why everything was just so funny. You people have the loudest smiles and rowdiest handshakes in the entirety of God’s creation. This is the only place I know where people get scolded for giving each other the sign of peace. And then it takes a couple of stanzas of Kordero ng Diyos to settle you all down. For crying out loud, I’m sure if Jesus had predicted how rambunctious you can make the sign of peace, I’m pretty sure he would have omitted that from the Last Supper.☺ This is the only school I know where merely assigning group numbers for debate can be so exciting. Much more, this is the only school I know where not being pitted against a group of smart debaters is a cause for celebration. That’s who and what you were; living, breathing, laughing, screaming, and shrieking little women of the new millennium. Life to you IS a celebration. I must have already heard at least a half dozen extended Kulasa remix versions of the Happy Birthday song. To you, ghost stories were more important than lectures. To you, everything is funny; which is a good way of looking at the world and the life that we all know. So go ahead, laugh at life, laugh at the world. Show them that no matter how serious things get, batch 2004 will be there doing things in their own unique, funny kind of a way.

 

            Ladies now I tell you, never let go of that laughter for you will need much more of it when you go out into this very unfunny world. We bequeath to you a world that we are not proud of. We send you off to another reality and a new set of experiences. You will face a world where environmental degradation comes as a result of economic progress. Where corruption has become customary and where the nation’s leaders only find shrewder ways of hiding it. You go out armed only with the things you know and more importantly the values that you have imbibed in your stay here in St. Scho. More than just Debate, you have been armed with a sharp tongue, a keen mind, and will of steel. Take a firm, unequivocal stand and be brave with the truth behind you. Defy what is wrong and defend with educated reason what is right and good. Challenge the status quo. And always, always honor the spoken word. If anything characterizes these recent decades it’s that very few people still have word of honor. Remember you do not have to be a rebel. In these times it is more important to be strong follower. As a follower, push real hard. If your leader is weak, that person will fall. Then take over by doing better. In the political system that we will release you into, you can no longer change the quality and morals of our leaders. Do not try change the leaders, rather change the voters. That is what leadership is. It’s not about being in front; it’s about doing what is right. You are that ticket towards the long and arduous journey of change. Bottom line is that it all begins with you.

 

In a homily a priest once said, "The change that you dream about will not happen through your leaders.  You have to make it happen by starting with yourselves." (Fr. Pablo “Ambo” S. David, S.J.) This testament of an old man:

When I was much younger, I wanted to change the world.
Then I got older and I wanted to change my country.
Then I got even older and I wanted to change my family.
Now I am much older, and all I want is really to change myself.

Perhaps if I had started with myself, then I would have managed to change…

a little bit of my family, my country, and the world.

 

            You stand at an event horizon. To you that means college. To me this is goodbye. I make sure to say goodbye because it's almost a reassurance of you coming back. “Goodbyes are necessary in order for two people to meet again. And to meet again is certain for those who are friends.” (Richard Bach) That is why we come back here to the altar to celebrate mass, because this is where Jesus Christ said goodbye to us. That is why in your homecoming, you come back to the place where you each bid farewell to each other. Each time you come back here, each time we come home, we remind ourselves of who we are, and recover an identity that can make us whole again, and maybe, just maybe, give us new energy. Homecoming is a chance to recover our perspective, our focus, our vision.

            Come next week, this place will fall into a deep silence. Then I can once again hear the birds chirping and sense things that didn’t seem to be there. The shadows and echoes become anticipated memories and a longing for your presence. The final gavel is banged and the window of opportunity is now closed. Keep in mind all that has been and all that is Scholastican in you, for it is what will carry you through the new realities and realizations you are about to face.

Goodbye Sports Club. Always keep in your heart the athelete’s prayer that I taught you, “If I should win, then let it by the code, with dignity and honor held high. And if I should lose let me be humble in my defeat, to stand by the road and cheer as the winner goes by.” Ladies always remember, there is no “I” in the word TEAM. It has been an honor to have fought with you in the battlefield of sports.

 

Goodbye 4S and 4C. Although we very rarely met in Troika, I want you to know that the very few chances I was in your class were great because I didn’t have to be the terrible Mr. Roño that everybody else knew. With you I could just simply be Allan.

 

Goodbye 4H. I will always tell stories about the angriest debaters ever, and they all came from your class.

 

Goodbye 4O. Ssshhh, keep quiet!!! Seriously, behind the noise, I was confident that you had really smart people in your class. Be good. Be quiet.

 

Goodbye 4L. You have destroyed the stigma of section L as 4 hell. You were always enjoyable to teach. Besides, I already told you my secret during the last day of exams… di ba (in English, “isn’t it”)

 

Goodbye 4A. Remember all the windows, now it will be your turn to open it for yourselves. Don’t miss the opportunities because they will never come again.

 

Goodbye 4R. You were the ones who laughed out loudest at my jokes. If I charged you for all the times we were laughing in class, I would be the richest teacher alive.

 

And finally goodbye 4I. You got me, you really got me. And I am fulfilled.

 

To batch 2004, if you had never been then I would also not be. I am a better man because you had touched my life. If we never crossed paths then life would have been less noisy, less angry, less fun. Life would simply have been less. I’m glad you happened to me.

 

                                                                     always,

                                                                     ARR

     like i said before, i may have predicted my own departure...                                                                                           

                                                                                         

 

                                                                                                 Batch Recollection 2003

 

My Dearest Batch 2003,

 

            Let me share with you the forgotten art of letter writing. May this find you well and in good spirits. It is my hope that your days to come only be better than today.

 

            I write you on this day in order that I may bid you farewell and thank you for this one great year. As in all thank yous and goodbyes, this one is of mixed emotions. I have promised myself many a time not to be overwhelmed by my feelings but I am still likely to shed a tear or so. I guess I really have shallow tear ducts. It’s so funny I think that while you are here, many of us wish that the year ends quickly that you may go. But as the summer draws near, we also almost regret that the time had just passed us by too fast. And at each year end, I find myself fighting to hold back the tears. A seasoned teacher once told me many graduations ago that I will eventually get used to the idea of my students leaving and that it will just be another uneventful ritual. I ask still, when? When will I learn not to cry when the loved ones move on with their lives. How will I contain the sentiment that has moved me all this time?

 

            Let me share with you something I read some time ago. It moved me so much that it became my driving force. With this I hope to make you understand how I feel:

 

Nothing is more practical than falling in love, that is, than falling in love in a quite absolute final way.

What you are in love with,

What seizes your imagination,

Will affect everything.

It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning,

What you will do with your evenings,

How you spend your weekends,

What you read, what you know that breaks your heart,

And what amazes you with joy and gratitude.

Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.

 

                                                                                                Pedro Arrupe, S.J.

 

            More than ten years ago, I fell in love with teaching the Scholastican. And that has determined all those past years including especially this one. It has affected the way I am and it will probably define what I will be later on. This year had been an especially wonderful adventure. Never ever did I not want to get up in the morning knowing that I had a big day ahead of me in Troika. Yes, I am sick of debate, but being in Troika is not just about debate for me. It meant that I had another opportunity to even just make one of you smile or laugh. It meant that I had one more day to get to know you and even possibly reveal another aspect of myself in a window of opportunity. My day would be sad without having laughed out loud with at least one of you. My day would be incomplete if I had not patted one of you on the forehead. A day would just be hanging if I had not sat down at the stones or the tables during a lazy afternoon. If not for my heel injury, I had even begun looking forward to funny basketball games in the afternoon. How I wished I had more time to sing Days songs with you. How I wish someone would tell me why they keep shouting, “Sir, si Karen…” The books I read are the very ones you trudge through for research paper. My weekends were no different. I either spent them here in school for some activity that we were having, or I spent them watching the games of the volleyball team. The other times I would be with the Glee Club still keeping my title as number one fan. What breaks my heart is not seeing the rest of you there with me cheering Trixie and Barbin on. It breaks my heart that I have seen more glee club concerts than any of you put together. Having you there would have completed my circle of life. And that is precisely why I have stayed in St. Scho all this time; to complete my circle.

 

            A friend of mine computed my market value and he said that I should be worth at least fifty thousand pesos a month. But I asked him, does that include stories and love problems at the stones? Does that come with pork cutlet and calamansi shake? Does that come with Days songs or action songs during morning praise? Does that include boisterous laughter and noisy hallways and so many other things that define St. Scho? He said no. And I said, well thanks but no thanks, you can have the fifty thousand a month. For nothing is worth more to me than my students.

 

            I believe that life is not measured with time but with memories. And with all the memories that you bring to me, I’d have lived out a hundred lifetimes. These halls and classrooms are just that, walkways and enclosures; a more or less ordered set of materials to compose what we know as a school. But it is much more than that. Each secret these walls know, the noisy clatter of feet these floors have endured, the screams and laughter that echoed these hallways, and my God the stories the trees can tell, and much more the lives this place has nurtured, and the school that these lives have called home; these things put together make up a fond memory called St. Scho.

 

            This is what I take with me each day as I go home. These are the things that keep bringing me back. And these are the things that I will take along when I leave. You could very well be one of my last few batches to teach. My years in St. Scho are coming to an end. That’s what makes you special. Remember what I told you in debate class. The last thing that is said is the first thing that is remembered. Same with life I guess, the last person ever to touch your life is what will determine how you live out the rest of your days. Goodbye Batch 2003 and thank you for everything. You have touched my life, and you will forever be in my heart.

 

 

always always,

 

ARR