Red Letter Days

I chanced upon my old red box when I was busy looking for something else. I haven't seen it for the longest time and have no idea what was in it so I opened it anyway. I carefully lifted its cover and out came a flood of memories of those days between 1988 and 1993.



There were cards, notes and letters from friends from everywhere: some from my cousin and childhood bff Ron whose family migrated to Canada in the late 80's; a lot from my a.w.e.s.o.m.e. barkada in U.P., particularly Jeorgia who would keep touch even during Christmas and sem breaks; a thick bundle from Reg, also an a.w.e.s.o.m.e. friend, who would tirelessly write to me while she was away in Canada after graduation; a few from my MassComm friend Peach; another major bundle from my high school best friend Josette who moved to the US after college; some from my Chicago-based friends Mabette and Rambo; and many others from many other friends.


I furiously read one letter after another until I finished reading almost all of them. I was laughing so hard my eyes turned misty. It was like a big re-acquaintance party with old friends I haven't seen or heard from since God-knows-when. There was a myriad of long-forgotten stories; I couldn't help but be a trifle sentimental.


I remember at one point in time, the letters stopped coming in and I didn't even notice. It is sad to think now that I haven't received a single letter or card from the mail in more than 10 years. And I realize I have written no letters nor mailed any cards maybe since the early 90's. Letter writing seems to belong to another age nowadays. The world wide web is slowly but surely snuffing the life out of this old-fashioned but beautiful form of exchange between friends, and ironically, it is also this same web that has salvaged whatever is left of ties we have somehow failed to keep—thanks to Facebook, Multiply and so on. Those days of writing and mailing are over and I sure hope the same is not true about the friendships.

Forgetting About Ninoy

Every year in August we pause for a national holiday commemorating the death of Sen. Benigno Aquino, Jr. Every year we try hard to remember Ninoy. And each year, our collective memory seems to fail us. For in our efforts to remind ourselves that there was once a man shot dead in an airport now bearing his name, we forget the very essence of this man's martyrdom.

Around the same time last year, a young school boy was interviewed in the evening news and was asked if he knew Ninoy. "Yes, the father of Kris Aquino," was the proud reply. I turned over in my seat. The fallen senator must have done the same in his grave. Didn't they tell the boy at home that Ninoy was a lot more than just a father to a showbiz character? Didn't they teach him in school about Ninoy the hero, our hero?

Still, there are some degenerates who maintain otherwise, insisting that had Ninoy been alive today, he would have been but another one of those tiresome trapos. What totally escapes them is that Ninoy chose not to be alive today. He chose to come home from exile and die, believing that the ultimate sacrifice was the only way to further his cause.

Sadly, this sacrifice is forever proving to be fruitless. Save for a brief shining moment in history in that episode we call EDSA Revolution, we have not done much to change anything. We are still the same poor country, the same divided nation, the same miserable race moving soullessly toward an uncertain future.


More than two decades since that fateful day, the tragedy forced upon Ninoy and his family remains an injustice. But the bigger injustice is not the inability of the judicial system to bring the perpetrators down; it is our incessant incapacity to rise above ourselves and heed the call of the man who gave up his life. In a sense, we are no better than his murderers. Yes, they are the ones who pulled the trigger. But we are the ones who killed all hope born of his heroism. And we are guilty beyond reasonable doubt.

The Filipino is worth dying for. Who is willing to die next?

The End of a Smoker’s Life

Quitting smoking was my biggest achievement in the exercise of self-control. I got hooked on it at age 13 and by the time I stopped, I had been smoking myself to death for a good 21 years. It was my father who unwittingly introduced me to the habit and, the irony of it all, he was also the reason why I abandoned it. He was the alpha and the omega of my own Marlboro story.


It all began 25 years ago when my father would have me light his cigarettes if he was caught up doing more important things. I did not have to learn how to smoke the proper adult way. All the inhaling and exhaling that came with it I did with a coolness and naturalness that surprised me. Those childish coughing spells that other kids had to go through while trying their first few sticks did not happen to me. There were born dancers, born actors and so on and so forth. I was a born smoker.


I was crazy about smoking and everything about it—to suck in my breath for a major nicotine rush, hold it for as long as I could then release it for that much anticipated high. How I loved to watch the smoke coming from my mouth. And when I closed my eyes, I forgot about the rest of the world. There was just me and my Marlboro and nothing could come between us.


By age 14, my gums had turned from an innocent red into an ugly brownish color while my voice had that raspy quality uncommon for my age. By college, my gums were already a vile dirty brown and I had developed what my friends called my bedroom voice.
It was also during that time of new found freedom that I became a heavy smoker. I carefully budgeted my allowance so that a pack could be accommodated on a daily basis. I smoked anywhere in campus whenever I could. I was the proverbial yosi girl, always with a cigarette in hand, blowing smoke in every direction.

From what started out as a teen addiction was born a life of dependency. Getting out of bed was a drag without my nicotine fix. A headline at work was impossible to write without a puff or two. Lunch was hard to enjoy without the assurance of a leisurely smoke afterwards. Nights out were incomplete without my regular two packs. Sleep was elusive without my bedtime dose of Winston Lights (I changed brands when I worked in an ad agency that had Fortune Tobacco as its key account). Hell, I couldn't even move my bowels without a stupid stick.
In short, I couldn't function as a normal human being without something as inane as a roll of tobacco wrapped in white paper with a useless filter at the end.


Nothing changed for many years. Until the day my father was diagnosed with lung cancer. I was devastated. And while moving heaven and earth to have him cured, I knew I had to let go of the vice that caused the illness that was threatening to kill my father. But I couldn't, not just yet. For how could I have survived that low moment in my family life without my dear old Winston Lights? When the tragedy appeared to pass, I knew it was time.


I decided to do it slowly, painfully. From 20 sticks on day 1, I cut down to 15, to 12, to 10, to 7, to 5, to 3, to 1 and finally down to 0 on the thirtieth day.

I was free.

oooOooo

I gave birth to my first and only daughter 9 months after. My father succumbed to cancer 2 years later.

Cordillera High

A trip to U.P. never fails to give me my fill of little pleasures. There are college memories to go back to all the time and, on some occasions, a few surprises along the way, surprises that mean more reasons to come back again and again.

Yesterday, that surprise was Cordillera Coffee, a laid back al fresco cafe by the side of Vargas, shielded from the afternoon sun by the museum's walls and pleasantly cooled by tall age-old trees standing close by. The backdrop of greens was picture perfect. But where was my camera? My three-year old daughter Indie posed and posed anyway. My Nokia was no different from my Nikon as far as she was concerned. The staff was clearly amused.

I must admit we grown-ups got carried away as well. The pictures had the feel of Baguio so what the heck! Like Indie, we smiled and smiled at the camera or my phone rather for more than 10 minutes. The desserts could wait. We just had Fruits in Ice Cream from a stall in SC (that's Shopping Center) after all.

Then it was time to order. Everything on display looked tempting and promising. I had the feeling the taste would live up to the presentation so I just had to have some, diet or no diet. My husband Nubs and I took no time choosing. It was the unusual but interesting Orange Poppy Seed Cake for us.

It was soft and the fluff was just right. The orange flavor was distinct, sweet with a mild delicious hint of citrus-ness. Eating the candied orange slice on top was hands down the best part, the icing on the cake I'd say. I loved it! So did Nubs. So much so that by the time my sister Gert and her friend Inah, who both had a hard time deciding what to try, came back to our table our cake was gone save for a few bits.

The girls got the Blackout Cake for themselves which was actually dark chocolate cake. The appearance was typical of its kind so I assumed it would be just as mediocre in the mouth. And was I wrong!

It was rich but not intoxicatingly so. Its sweetness was tempered by the slightly bitter flavor of dark chocolate. There are chocolate cakes that are so decadent one has to take quick gulps of coffee after every bite or simply set it side because one couldn't take too much in one go. These, believe me, won't happen with Blackout.

The girls had coffee with their desserts. Gert found it okay, not so bad, not so good. But hey, that was "coffee for a cause" so what could be better than helping extend a hand to the farmers who grew the beans? I thought it was cool and grand at the same time. Too bad my neurocirculatory asthenia wouldn't even allow me a single cup.

Nubs read the papers between sips of tea. The two girlfriends exchanged chikas. Indie and I took a walk. The air was lovely. The afterrnoon slipped by without us noticing. Time seemed to have stopped for a while there and we all forgot about the things that we all had to do. It was like being transported to another place where the steady hum of the city felt remote and far away, where the minutes and the hours seemed to linger, oblivious to the day's passing.

Cordillera proved true to its name.