FRUITS OF MY LIFE

A friend of mine sent me a quote from For I Have Tasted the Fruit.  A poem?  An essay?  What was it from?   The line captivated me so I decided to write taking off from that line.

They were small.   When they were just ripening they were crisp, sweet, almost cloying.  It was a joy to jump and try to pick them from our neighbor's wild tree. I don't know if they were ratiles or aratiles, the signature fruit of my childhood, reminding me of the fights between the neighbor's children and me, making faces, sticking out tongues at each other for no reason in particular except ordinary childish hatred, which we haven't gotten over till now.  It’s a strong childhood memory.

Down the road two houses away lived my grandmother's youngest sister and her tall dapper husband.   They were my alternative parents – a complete set.  He made up for my father, who was killed by the Japanese. She made up for my mother, who was always working or teaching.  They had no children so I became their little girl.   I loved them so much and they loved me without question.  To this day when I think about dying I think I would like to be buried in the niche with them so we can be close forever.

They had a tall starapple tree with the sweetest fruit.   Under their big trees they had chili plants, which I played with once when I was small. I got the sap into my eyes and cried and cried until my tears washed the hot painful sap away. Starapples and ratiles – those were the fruits of my childhood.

Then I remember luscious plums and pears and marrons glaces, sugar-coated chestnuts, my favorite candied fruit in Switzerland, where I went for a brief time before I came home to roost. I wanted to go to the United States for college but my mother would look blankly at me. One night I overheard her tell a friend she did not want to send me to a proper college because I was smart and she knew that if I did then I would never marry. Oh so, she wants me to marry, I thought. I promptly got married at 18.

When I think about marriage, I think it is a strange cluster of fruits. In the beginning they are delicious, then slowly as the husband takes you for granted they become tasteless, and finally bitter. We get married because we think it's the right thing to do.   Everyone tells us that.  Then immediately we have children, whose wonderful baby days encourage us to have more, until we realize that our husband treats us like furniture and our children, as they grow, put us through some terribly difficult times. I did not enjoy being married.   I often think about the whole marriage business and realize that I enjoyed most falling in love and being desired.   Be a mistress, one of my gay friends advises, amidst a lot of laughter.  I think he might be right.  A mistress is desired longer than a wife.  But anyway all the falling in love and romance end so why bother to think about it?

Motherhood is the most difficult thing I have done.  I adored my children when they were babies, took care of them myself.  But when they hit puberty, at least one of them drove me up the wall.  She still does.  I am afraid she might do so forever.  However, in the end I enjoy my children and their children I enjoy even more.  If it were a fruit, what would motherhood be to me?  Atis, I think, sweet and thick sop but with just as many seeds.  I love eating atis and put up with the inconvenience of the seeds.

My children have grown up.  Their children are grown up too.  I am alone at last but more than being alone, I am free at last. I am no longer forced to eat this fruit or that, no longer compelled to swallow what I do not like. I am free to be me, to do what I like and enjoy it.  To me my writing classes are Atlanta’s peaches.  I love those fruits, their velvety peel.  You bite when they are just about to turn overripe and the juice runs down your chin. This is the joy I get whenever I conduct a writing class, where I share my knowledge and watch my students turn into better writers as they learn to add creativity to their craft.

Another fruit I love is the makopa so deliciously crisp and fresh, like making costume jewelry. I enjoy making those.  They fill up my time, no more emptiness in my days.

I guess you could represent my life as a basket full of fruit made up of my wide assortment of friends – my classmates from the days of yore, my friends from my writing classes, my more recent masteral classmates, my friends who worked with me.  Included in the basket are my cousins from both sides.  My children, of course, my classmates from jewelry class.  My Sunday breakfast group, the most recent – and most intellectual -- group I’ve joined.  And my two closest friends who don’t know each other, Emily, and Lisa, who lives in San Francisco but comes home often to visit.

The basket is tied with a bright red ribbon that doesn’t fade and never disappears.  That is the ribbon of laughter that ties us all together, that characterizes our friendship and our joy in each other’s company.  I hope it lasts forever but I know it won’t.  We are growing old.  We will stay together until it’s time to say good-bye, happy that together we have tasted the fruits and enjoyed them all as best as we could.

A WOMAN'S AFFLICTION

 Maybe two weeks ago I ran into one of my bosom buddies. She and I are really close friends. Eons ago I helped her elope and later helped with the disengagement so we are tied together in knots. We decided to have lunch and before I knew it she was taking me to her doctor that weekend.

Actually I asked her to take me to her doctor who is one of these new medical doctors who have turned alternative or homeopathic. She does not prescribe chemical drugs and she is younger than I so (I hope) I can tell her what to do. First she attaches me to a computer and there we visit my flawed heart, which beats irregularly most of the time. It's inherited from my father's family. She says the front of my heart is good, but the back is not so good. That doesn't bother me. Since my stroke I've had enough time to adjust to that fact: I have a bad heart.

Then we go to that part that's been giving me a problem lately. She examines me and notices that I have quite a few red moles. “Those mean you have hormonal imbalance. You must get an ultrasound” she says.

I plan to ultrasound on Thursday but my cousin Didit invites me to go to a bazaar, lunch then jewelry class. That's sounds like fun. So finally on Friday, without make-up and looking like a limp rag, I go to Makati Medical Center and head for Information. I hand the girl my doctor's slip. “To The Breast Clinic, ma'am. Turn left, take the escalator, then turn right. . .”

I don't want to go to The Breast Clinic, I find myself telling me. So I head for the shop that sells magazines. I see an attractive magazine titled Psychologies. It is a British magazine with an article on ageing. That's how they spell it there. In America they spell it aging. How interesting. I buy it. P750, the young lady says and I gasp. It is expensive but I pay for it anyway, a treat. I carry it upstairs holding it close to my breast.

I enter The Breast Clinic. It is pretty. There is a counter on your left with three young ladies behind. There are plastic seats, similar to airport seats, against the wall. Behind the three young ladies there's a TV set showing chefs and later Kris Aquino. I have to fill up a sheet and even indicate where I have a lump. There I've said it. I have a lump in my breast. Like so many women but I have been in denial for a long time. Maybe I have had it for six months to a year. I don't know but this ultrasound required is driving me up the wall.

I sit and look around. The clinic is really pretty. There are a lot of natural-looking fake flowers. There is something like a plugged-in aromatherapy thing scenting the air. I read my expensive magazine but don't understand anything. I look at the article on ageing/aging and realize it stops at 50. What happens when you're 60? You just disappear from this world? You just die?

Finally they call my name. I am escorted to a small dressing room and given instructions on how to don the ultrasound coat. Then I am told to wait in another waiting room with more fake flowers, aromatherapy and a TV set until I am summoned for my ultrasound.

First there is a verification of my identity. Are you Barbara Cruz Gonzalez with two z's? Yes. Born on August 8, 1944? Yes. I have to put hot ointment on you. Occasionally I gasp – Ouch! Aray! Then she tells me to get dressed and wait at the inside waiting room.

The med tech approaches followed by a doctor. “Are you the friend of Gon and Beang?” The doctor asks.

“Yes,” I say, with trepidation.

“I recognized your name, they are my friends too.” Then she disappears. I am told I can pick up the results on October 5. Okay, I shrug, grasping at indifference but I am not the least indifferent. I am superbly anxious.

On October 3, my friend Emily and I get together. I tell her about my ultrasound. The next day, she texts me. She is at a meeting and meets this doctor who is Gon and Beang's friend. Later that same day the doctor texts me, requests me to return because there are things in my ultrasound she wants to clarify. My anxiety goes up.

I return the next day, this time fully made up and glam. I ask to see her and don't have to wait long. I go through the whole ritual again. Finally in the ultrasound room she comes in and looks again at my lump. “The next step is a biopsy,” she says. “You can either have that surgically or through a needle.” I don't think she realizes the panic that rises in me. “Then you can go to a doctor who will do the surgery if required.” I just look at her. I don't want surgery.

Finally the report is done. I read it but don't understand a thing. I pass by Floating Island and look at the cakes on display. Oh, they have butter cake. I love butter cake. I walk away five steps then turn around. May I have a slice of butter cake? May I eat it now? I go down the stairs, down the escalator eating a slice of butter cake, thinking, I should have bought the whole darn cake. I have a huge lunch followed by about six, no eight, oh well I finished what was left of the oatmeal crisps.

I wondered – should I write about this? Women always find lumps in their breasts and men always have prostate problems. I guess we all have problems with the organs we have two of. Anyway, is that tamarind candy I see? I love tamarind candy... please. . . no surgery.

SUCH SWEET SORROW

Tuesday was stormy and dark in my flat. All I wanted to do was sit and knit but the TV had no channels. My eyes wandered to my CD tower, standing there, ignored for years. Why don't I listen to music, I thought. Suddenly the CD Camelot jumped at me. Memories came rushing. My friends Carmen, Linda and I would sit on my bed watching the Betamax tape of that movie. We wept rivers of tears, blew our noses on glaciers of tissue. We wept over loves mishandled and lost that we could never really cry over. We wept over stress at work. We wept over everything that ever hurt us. We needed to cry and Camelot was the film that set our tears flowing.

As the music played the movie danced in my mind. Richard Harris played King Arthur walking restlessly over his approaching wedding. He runs into Guenevere, played by Vanessa Redgrave, his future bride, feeling the same anxiety. They fall tenderly in love. He sings, “Don't let it be forgot that once there was a spot for happy ever-aftering that's known as Camelot.” Theirs was a pre-arranged marriage. They were royalty after all.

So they get married and lived happily ever after but realistically only for a while. King Arthur begins to assemble his Knights of the Round Table. In rides Sir Lancelot of France. There seems to be an attraction between him and Guenevere but they spin into denial first. She begins to miss the simple joys of maidenhood. I think she approaches her mid-life crisis. A woman in her 30s tends to go into a tailspin over her life. She begins to flirt with the other Knights and he turns around and goes on knighthood missions. He disappears for around two years.

Guenevere stays with King Arthur. I suspect she gets bored. The marriage has settled both of them. She yearns for what most women want forever – more attention, more affection, actually more romance – but that seems impossible since they have been married more than seven years now. Finally Lancelot returns and when they see each othe, they fall passionately in love. I think they were both in the throes of a super mid-life crisis. He sings If Ever I Would Leave You to her. That song always takes my breath away.

At around the same time Mordred, a grown-up love son of King Arthur from a youthful involvement, shows up and begins to weave intrigue within, affecting the Knights of the Round Table. Lancelot and Guenevere have their first tryst. Mordred walks in on them and all hell breaks loose. Guenevere is accused of treason and according to King Arthur's laws she must be burned at the stake. Arthur returns from a night he has strayed into a forest searching for Merlin and finds himself forced to order Guenevere's burning, even if he doesn't want to do it. He prays that Lancelot come and pick her up.

Lancelot does come and successfully picks her up but King Arthur, being king, is forced to declare war on Lancelot. In the early hours of the morning before the war starts Arthur, looking stressed and dishevelled, is approached by a boy who has come to Camelot aspiring to be one of the Knights of the Round Table. King Arthur takes him aside and sings to him, “Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.” And there this beautiful movie ends.

As the wind roars and lashes at the leaves outside I want to weep once again. Carmen has been dead twenty years, burned in a fire with her whole family. I miss her still. When she died a friend who worked with me said I had desolate eyes. That's how sorry I was over her death. Now I believe I will see her again. Somewhere she stands waiting to welcome me with open arms. Linda has migrated and I miss her too. We had good times together.

I remember I used to tell them I liked the song that Arthur and Guenevere sang when they were trying to solve their problems. What Do the Simple Folk Do? Guenevere sang as she wondered what other people did when they were blue. Arthur tried to cheer her up by saying sometimes they whistle or sing or dance. The two of them try each but fail to lift their spirits. Finally he says, they wonder what the royals do. There was for me much sorrow in that song. It reminded me of times when my relationships were floundering and we were looking for solutions to our unhappiness and failing. Yes, we failed.

I guess that's the story of love. It begins with so much innocent attraction, then beauty, then madness. So much sweet connection, so much ripping sorrow until you have no choice but to accept the pain caused by the tearing and somehow learn how to mend and finally just to remember. Then it occurs to me. There is so much similarity between love and parting. Parting is such sweet sorrow, was it Shakespeare who said that? And loving is such sweet remembered sorrow as well.

ENVIOUS OF CARING

 Let me have them step out of tarot cards and call them The Lovers because that's what they are literally. Last night I went out to dinner with my friends, The Lovers. We had a pleasant evening reminiscing about the days when we were young, when we would go out to a bar in Ermita, where some of us would drink and others would sing. I particularly loved Omar Khayyam on M. H. del Pilar. It was a simple bar. On one wall was painted a portion of a verse, which ended with “a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou.” Across it was a bar with stools. Below it tables and chairs.

We liked going there. Gon would collect from each of us – five pesos but on paydays twenty. Ordinary days we would just have beer and peanuts. On payday we would have dinner – pork chops and potatoes.

Freddie would pick us up in his rickety VW Beetle whose front passenger door was wired together because sometimes it would close and other times it would not. We were a whole bunch of people who piled into that car – Carmen, Jean, Gon, EG, Freddie and I. At Omar we would meet with others. There was no romance in that group, only friendship and laughter. We would sit drinking beer, chatting, laughing. We would stay until I don't know what time then we would cross over to the Luneta and eat balut before heading for home.

We were in our 20s then. Young. Brimming with laughter. Refusing to think of the hard times that lurked in the shadows waiting to pounce on us soon. We just wanted to have fun. I remember sitting at Omar Khayyam waiting for a familiar figure, an old famous doctor, to walk in. I think he was over 60 then, maybe he was my age now. He was short, always dressed in starched whites, always alone sitting at the bar drinking and staring blankly ahead of him. I think he drank scotch, interminable scotch. He would arrive later than we and, I suppose, he would leave long after we left. I think now that if I had the energy to walk to a bar I would be like him, drinking alone, drinking to death. That's worth a thought.

     Anyway, this morning I had to go to Fairview where we have a kiosk and check on it. I decided to sit on a bench nearby and watch the people who passed to give me a feel of the market we were trying to serve. There were a few pregnant women who walked by alone. There were a few older couples. They walked together like they did not know each other, each one staring forward obviously involved in his and her own thoughts. Then she turned to ask a question. He responded without looking. Those moments told me they were together. Otherwise they seemed covered with indifference. Long married, I thought. Bored. No longer excited in each other's company.

     Then there were the college students who walked by in small mixed crowds. Always there was a couple holding hands or exchanging touches, like they could not keep their hands off each other. They were the ones really interested in life. There was a bouyancy about them, a sparkle in their eyes, a lilt in their voices as they passed. There was a young couple who walked past, arms sort of sliding against each other. Then they held hands. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and they walked on talking.

     That moved me. All my life I wanted to walk with my man that way, with his arm flung over my shoulders, both of us talking and laughing. My husband was tall enough but not affectionate enough. My tall boyfriends were never affectionate enough and my short boyfriends were not tall enough to do it. Suddenly I felt sad. I will probably die without experiencing that sweetness ever.

     But wait. Was it really part of youth? I thought about The Lovers. They were sweet too. She in her 60s, he in his 70s. They could not keep their hands off each other too. I am envious of them, the trust they have in each other, the way they care about each other. You can feel all that just being with them. And when finally I am just with one of them, I sense the caring and longing for the other to call or text good-night. So it isn't youth that I'm envious of. I am envious of the caring.

     But what the heck, I say, as I turn the key to my dark apartment and head for my bed. It's out of my control. You either have love or you don't. You either find it or you won't. You had two beers and some wine. That was pretty good. Now go directly to sleep.

TEACHING MEN TO WRITE

What is it, this tension I feel?  Is it because I'm seeing my oldest grandson, Powie, for lunch?  No, I am genuinely excited about that, Have even figured out the menu that I will have my driver buy.  Just two big sticks of delicious barbecue and the eggplant relish sold down the street.  Good old-fashioned Filipino food to alleviate his years in San Francisco.  What am I talking about?  They have delicious Filipino food available there.  Well, I throw myself in for comfort.  No, that's not the tension I feel.

What is it? It hovers between tension, anxiety, eagerness, a tightening of the chest so breathing is somewhat constricted, though not too seriously.  It's just a feeling that this old body is slowing down but pleasantly.  I think I am genuinely looking forward to something, to an event that will happen probably soon.  I just wish I knew exactly what it will be.

So no, it is not tension after all.  It's looking forward.  I think I am looking forward to teaching writing again.  This all began over lunch with my second grandson, Nicc.  He asked me to teach him how to write and that moved me.  Okay, I said, I will open a class for you but this time it will be for men only.  Why?  Because in my previous classes I noticed a minority of men and they were often cowed by the women.  Women have easier access to their right brains.  Men are stronger in the left brain.  I have to learn how to open up their right brains so they can flow with my process and become better writers.  This very thought excites me.

Lat night I took down the book I use for my writing classes and began to study again.  That is what adds a buoyancy to my life these days, the new thing I will be doing in a few weeks.  I will be teaching men how to write.

That is immensely exciting for me.

What'll I Do?

What'll I do when you are far away and I feel blue, what'll I do?
What'll I do when I am wond'ring who is kissing you, what'll I do?
What'll I do with just a photograph to tell my troubles to?
When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what'll I do?


Those are the words of one of my most favorite songs that later on became the theme song of the film The Great Gatsby.  I love that song.  It reminds me of my life, which, come to think of it, was full of heartbreak. Some hearts, I broke.  Others broke mine.  We left a path cluttered with broken hearts so until one day I said, That's it!  No more heartbreak for me.  I am done with all that.

Then I decided to set up this blogspot and what do I see?  The scandals of my life, inaccurately written about, in the internet directory.   I wonder who wrote them.  I think they are probably young gays who love to gossip and don't care at all about accuracy.

So let me write about my own life then to straighten out the facts in the gossip.  In 1963, 48 years ago, I got married to Ramon Nakpil Tapales, Jr.  Then he was 28 years old and I was only 18.  I was a very young bride.  That marriage is dotted with three beautiful children, all girls, nicknamed Risa, Sarri and Panjee.  Six-and-a-half years later, in June 1969,  I left Ramon Tapales and found a job at Avellana & Associates, an advertising agency.  I took all my three daughters with me.

Let me tell you that it hurts to break your marriage.  It rocks you even if you know you cannot continue anymore.  You don't know how to deal with your pain.  You feel lost.  Your old friends shun you when they see you as a single but then the husband calls you later and asks you out on a date and you are shaken.  Why?  You wonder.  What does he think?

Soon after I ran into Roman Cruz, Jr., who told me he was unhappy with his wife.  Also he was very intelligent and our minds matched.  My marriage was already broken. I started to date him.  First error -- I dated a married man.  We dated for around two years.  Then I found myself pregnant with his child.   In June 1971 we decided to live together.  We had one son, Gino.

During this time Ramon Tapales, Jr. was dating Cory Quirino.  He got a Dominican Republic divorce from me and married her in Hongkong.  On December 15, 1977, Roman Cruz Jr. and I separated.  Now I realize we both underwent major mid-life crises. He turned 40, I turned 33 and we messed up our relationship royally so we separated.

Many years passed.  Did you read that?  MANY YEARS PASSED.  Maybe two or three years.  Then one day a close lady friend called me at the office and asked me if I had heard who Jun Cruz's new girlfriend was.  I said no and I also said I wasn't really interested.  She said I would definitely be interested.  It was Cory Quirino.

I thought that was a bad script.  I thought if one of my writers had given me that script I would have scolded her for being so tacky.  But it was real life.  What can one do?

Then the rumors began to fly again.  People said Ramon was Roman's woman-taster.  All sorts of tasteless things like that.  I am surprised however that this story is still on the net.  I think Jun and Cory got together in the 1980s and stayed together until the EDSA 1 revolution.  If that is the last important date then that happened 25 years ago.  That's how old this gossip is.  It is at least 25 years old.  Why is it still there?

These days I have reached the ending of the song.  I am 67 years old.  Roman A. Cruz. Jr. is dead.  Ramon Tapales, Jr. is 77 years old and happily married.  The principals in this play are all old.  The play has become definitely uninteresting.  The important thing to remember is that was life 25 years ago.

Searching for my blog site I came across a question addressed to a younger girl apparently nicknamed Tweetums also.  Why Tweetums?  someone asked and she had no real answer to give.  I have one.

My father read the book Seventeen, written by Booth Tarkington.  It is a genuinely silly book.  The main star is a young 17-year-old boy who meets this silly 15-year-old girl with whom he falls in love.  She talks baby talk.  She sees a cute sweet little dog and she says What a tootums tweetums wittle dog.  Well, my father fell in love with the word tweetums and gave it to me as my nickname.  My father died when I was six months old.  So my mother kept calling me Tweetums until I turned into a grandmother and shortened it to Twee.  So. . .

What'll I do with just a photograph to tell me troubles to?  I have my blogspot now.  Maybe I'll tell it to you.

When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what will I do?


Sigh!  These days I will just sigh.

FREAK OUT FRIDAY

It is ten in the morning and I am finally more settled at my desk.  I will have lunch with my 21-year-old grandson, Nicc, whom I adore, and I cannot wait.  I am also feeling a bit uncomfortable because I know that fairly soon I will have to scold some sales ladies we employ.  They are very stubborn about how to handle their store displays.

I am in charge of Yzabelle in Kultura, Shoemart's store.  We cannot agree on how the goods will be displayed.  Everytime I go there I get driven up the wall by the way the single stand is fixed.  Everything is shown so nothing rises to the surface.  The shelves are crowded so nothing stands out.  We have a Pinoy line, I cannot find it.  We have a Rizal line, I cannot find it either.  Everything is so goddamn crowded.  They fix it in front of me then after I leave they return it according to their standards.

Here's where the difficulty is:  their standards.  They shop wherever they shop, maybe at the market near their homes where all the goods are laid out the way they lay it out in Kultura.  So they bring that mentality to work.  I have to tell them that the shoppers in Kultura are different.  That style of displaying is for people of their class.  The shoppers in Kultura belong to a higher class.  How do you teach them that?

First, I hate talking about class.  It's not right in a country that pretends to be a democracy but actually has a caste system and each level has different tastes.  How can I teach them to set aside the class thing and to focus on the store's class instead of their own.  So here's another thing I hate to do but I have to do.  It's moments like this that make me want to quit my job and just go home and have a quiet life.  But then I know that that kind of life would bore me too and this is probably the best life I can have right now.

Haaay naku.  I hate what I have to do.

Who I am today

Note:  The blue marks come from The Philippine Star where this column first appeared.  Don't worry one day very soon I will really blog.

It was 1966, a few weeks after Holy Week. My grandmother was dying of cancer. I decided to go to confession and communion. I was only 22 years old. So I went to church and headed for the confessional. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eight months since my last confession. You did not do your Easter duty! How could you wait that long without going to confession? The old white priest shouted. I got up and left and never went to confession again. That was 45 years ago. That was when I began to lose my Catholic faith.


Nevertheless…It was 1974 and we were in Rome. We decided to go see the Pope in his auditorium. Our guide got us the cheapest tickets saying he could have us moved up once we got there. I saw him discreetly slip some money into one of the Swiss guards’ hands and we were allowed to move up. Then I still believed — or better yet, I did not question — the infallibility or the greatness of the Pope. I waited patiently studying the audience. Quite a few nuns and little children, tourists and pilgrims. We were told to hold up our rosaries for the Pope’s blessings. Someone behind me said that would increase the price of the rosary.

Then the Pope entered, carried in by Swiss guards. He sat on a gilt chair and was carried on the shoulders of men. The nuns began to scream and applaud. This jolted me. I expected some reverence. This was not a Mick Jagger (the rock star then, today Justin Beiber) concert. This was Pope Paul VI, one of the forgettable ones. I would have screamed that way if I saw Elvis Presley gyrate a meter in front of me. But, please, this is the Pope. The nuns, rapture written all over their faces, some of them with tears streaming down their cheeks, continued to scream. Viva il Papa. Viva Il Papa. The only thing that popped into my mind was a quote: “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”

They set the dais that bore the small Pope near the papal chair at the center of the stage. They helped the Pope out of his carried chair into his stage-center chair. He sat down and lifted his feet. They carried the dais off the stage but the Pope still had his feet sort of lifted in the air. Then a boy came with a red velvet cushion. He set in down at the Pope’s feet. The Pope put his feet down on the cushion. There on the right side, lower than the cushion — my faith crashed and broke into pieces. Jesus Christ, who to me the Pope represented, walked the desert sands either in sandals or barefoot. What is the point of the Pope wearing embroidered shoes and refusing to set down his feet on the red carpet? Why did he need a red cushion? To me, there was no point and it even bordered on — for lack of a better word — something almost sacrilegious.

But never mind. I returned to Manila, still went to Sunday Mass but I was going as a matter of form. I was not ready to admit it, but my heart was not with me. Only my body was at Mass. At some point I had to see one of the monsignors usually in the news now because I was trying to get my marriage annulled. All I remember is he asked for my consent to an appeal to annul the marriage for some apostolic reason. I cannot now remember what he said and it doesn’t matter. What matters is I did not get the annulment so as far as the church is concerned I am still married to my husband who has converted to another faith and married somebody else with my full consent.

Once again, never mind. I was confined in the hospital undergoing a major checkup because I was quite sick. My significant other then, who has since passed away, called to say he was sending over an ecclesiastical lawyer from Rome whom his associate had recommended. This lawyer had gotten her annulment done for her. Please see him, the significant other said, and tell me what you think. Having no other choice, I did see him. He arrived in the middle of the afternoon.

In short he offered to get me a Roman marriage annulment for US$15,000 or about P300,000. This was in 1977. That was a lot of money then. Would I spend that much to buy a church annulment? Thank you, I said, I will call you. I did not call him. That afternoon, watching his back disappear through my hospital room’s doors I wondered —what kind of a church sells its annulments? Whatever the answer, I don’t want to belong to it. It feels as corrupt as the government.

But I have been most respectful. I have relatives who belong to the Catholic Church, I did not tell them that I considered myself out of it. I still believe in a power greater than me. The entity I call God I think is a spirit who lives in me and with me, who keeps me company, fills my home with his presence. He has two rules. He tells me to love myself and to love others, to do good for them.

And that’s the way I live.

Furthermore, I realized late in my life that the Catholic Church in the Philippines ordered Jose Rizal executed and never once apologized for it. I think they should apologize for their cruel misdeed. But they never have. Anyway, to me, all religions are man-made, a way for man to discipline himself without taking responsibility, actually an escape from responsibility. I think I am now, if I have to be anything at all, what other people call a free thinker. I think therefore I am and I take full responsibility for myself.
That’s who I am today.

MAKING AN OMELET

How do I make an omelet? First I open my refrigerator and bring out the eggs, either how many I have leftover or how many I think I need if I am making an omelet for guests. All depends on the circumstances.

Then I open the vegetable drawer and take out the overripe tomatoes, the wilting leeks, whatever other green, yellow and red stuff I might have that are on the verge of death. Chop them and set them aside. Now I search for the leftover cheese – queso de bola, a little manchego that gets harder by the day, ordinary cheddar – then grate and set aside.

Then I rummage throught the fridge searching for leftovers, some tomato-based, others soy-based, others forgotten-based and I take them out, mix them up and set them aside. All of these will become part of my omelet.

Now I take my whisk and beat the eggs until they are light yellow and fluffy. I take my non-stick frying pan and melt enough butter in it. Salted butter. I always love salted butter. Then I pour in half of the eggs, all the chopped vegetables, all the grated cheese, all the leftovers. Then I pour over the other half of the eggs. Depending on my mood I may add other spices but no more salt because the butter has it, the leftovers too and there's enough cheese.

While that omelet is cooking I take another non-stick frying pan and melt a small amount of salted butter on it. When it looks like it's the right time, meaning the egg at the bottom of the first frying pan is cooked, I cover it with the new pan and very quickly, with conviction, turn the two pans over transferring the omelet from the old pan to the new one. Sometimes it will work, other times it won't but whether or not the omelet comes out looking perfect it is still going to taste delicious and I know it will never be repeated because I never have the same leftovers twice.

That is the way I make an omelet and that is also the way a democracy works. The eggs are the decent intelligent people who are educated, well-read, who think and form opinions that are well considered. The rest of the folk – well, there you are. They are opinionated like the overripe tomatoes and other vegetables. Some, while witless, are quite sharp with their use of language, they represent the cheese that I grate. Then there are others who have still other diverse shades of opinion represented in the omelet by my mixed-up little leftovers. They all come out at times maybe when we are hungry for news or excitement because life is generally unexciting until there is a crisis.

This happened recently at the CCP regarding their controversial art show, which, in my opinion should not have closed early. The solution was simple. Media had carried the story so people already knew beforehand if they would like it or not. If you knew you would not like it, then you know you shouldn't go. Like if you know you do not like what I write, then don't read me. That's better than going or reading then assaulting and demonstrating and using foul language. But no matter what one says, there are always crazies who will assault and demonstrate and use foul language. Or a Senate that will call for a hearing. It's inevitable. That is what's supposed to happen in a democracy.

So to be able to adjust to the madness of things I sometimes think it's like an omelet full of things that may be acceptable to some people, not acceptable to others, but exist side-by-side without anybody demanding the removal of one or the other. This system of forcing people not to understand necessarily but to tolerate manners of thinking or interpretation that do not agree with theirs is a way for democracy to teach character to people, to force them (we cannot change a democracy unless we revolt and it looks like as a country we are too lazy to do that) to accept that the notion of liberty is to allow the freedom of expression of everyone. One person wants to express his or her rage at me accusing me of being an ilustrada, which he or she hates, I let him. I text back. Then don't read me, I say.

I think the lesson we have to learn in a democracy is patience. I will say from my own experience it is hard to be patient sometimes. But I know it's a lesson I must continue to learn better because others are entitled to their opinions and there are about as many opinions as there are people in this world.

What is the tolerant palliative to patience or the lack of it? The ability to laugh. I often laugh alone because I live alone so I don't have to worry about offending others with my laughter. But I laugh when I feel people are being silly or stupid or extraordinarily inane. I laugh and remind myself they are only parts of the omelet, little insignificant bursts of flavor that would be meaningless unless bound together by the eggs. That's what a democracy is. It is a delicious omelet. As inconvenient as it sometimes feels, we might as well eat it and enjoy it.

Apology for Noli Me Tangere

Ninoy Aquino was not shot in 1986.  That was the year of People Power 1.  Sorry, senior moment.

Locsin's 'Noli Me Tangere'

I have just finished reading Jose Rizal’s novel, Noli Me Tangere, translated by Soledad Lacson-Locsin, the late, great mother of one of my late, great friends, Raul Locsin, once publisher of the newspaper Business World. Doña Soledad was a dignified, well-educated lady who grew up speaking beautiful Spanish and therefore translated the novel masterfully. On the first page of her Notes or the book’s glossary, it reads: The title, Noli Me Tangere, is Latin for “Touch Me Not,” and comes from the Gospel of St. John, XX: 17, where Jesus says to Mary Magdalene: “Touch me not, for I am not yet ascended to my Father...” The author relates this to a social cancer “of a breed so malignant that the least contact exacerbates it and stirs in it the sharpest of pains” in his dedication: “To My Motherland (A mi patria). On March 5, 1887, Rizal wrote to the painter Resurreccion Hidalgo: “The book (Noli) has matters which no one among ourselves has spoken of until now — so delicate that they cannot be touched by anybody…”
I have had this book for many years but never read it. It was not very easy to read, not because of the content but because of the book’s size and weight, being thick and hardbound, difficult to read in bed where I do most of my reading. I know I have read parts of the Noli before, in English, when I was much younger, but no translation is as good as this one. I know I also read a few chapters in Pilipino — even acted them out for my eldest daughter so she would understand and pass her school year — but nothing was as beautiful or comprehensible as this translation. It is also obvious to me that Doña Soledad Locsin respected the writer and sought to translate exactly what it is he wanted to say.
Rizal wrote each chapter as a piece of a large puzzle, randomly handed to the reader so that in the end we would see not quite the whole picture. In the end we know what happened to everyone, from Capitan Tiago to Padre Damaso, Doña Victorina to Linares, who became Maria Clara’s jilted fiancé. We even know that Maria Clara became a somewhat crazy nun. But we do not know what happened to Crisostomo Ibarra, except that he was lying at the bottom of a banca that floated away, while the pursuing Spanish police called the Guardia Civil shot at Elias as he jumped out of the banca that he had shared with Ibarra to distract the guards.
If you are over 60, I recommend you read this translation of Noli Me Tangere. You will see fully what life was like when we were under the friars. How petty they were! You will question: what happened to our country? You will see how little has changed or that whatever has changed is very superficial. Filipinos stepped into the shoes of their colonizers and now act exactly the same way as the friars. And you will want to weep like Rizal did. He was executed at Bagumbayan, now the Luneta, in 1896, 115 years ago. Ninoy Aquino was shot at the airport in 1986, just a scrambling of the very same numbers. That was 25 years ago. Two executions. Two heroes. Each one followed by its own brand of uprising and still nothing much has changed.
Last Friday, Aug. 5, I was at the Little Theater watching the musical of Noli Me Tangere, tickets compliments of the National Historical Commission, who gave them to Rizal descendants. I would give the Noli production an “A” for effort. The libretto, if you could understand the words — because the orchestrated minus one was too loud so you couldn’t understand what they were singing — was written by National Artist Bien Lumbera, who was there. The performance, I thought, was too level. I am not sure I can explain it well. Usually you can draw a stage performance in waves, there are high, medium and low points, which shadow the plot. In this case it was like a straight line. Many of the descendants fell asleep. A few developed crushes on Gian Magdangal, who made a very good-looking Crisostomo Ibarra.
Ryan Cayabyab composed the music but there was no real standout piece. I thought that Sisa’s song, as she was singing it, was the best but I could not even attempt to hum it afterwards, meaning the melody was not compelling enough to stick in the audience’s mind. I was just glad that I was still reading the Noli when I watched the show because, I guess, I understood it more. While the cast and crew deserve congratulations for their work — an A for effort, as I said — it still needs a lot of polishing to make the audience truly understand the Noli. I think that is the point of a stage performance — to enlighten an audience. You perform to make the audience understand the story. That night nobody understood what was going on except that Crisostomo Ibarra and Maria Clara were in love and had to say goodbye because Padre Salvi was in love with her. But that was not all of the Noli.
I finished the book last night before going to sleep. I shut the book, put it on the floor beside my bed, and said aloud to no one in particular, “That was beautiful.” It really and truly was.

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