GIGI GOES GAGA

EULOGY FOR MY FATHER

My father passed away a little before 10 am on Wednesday, January 29. I'll post more about that next; for now, I'd like to share the eulogy I gave at his state funeral on Sunday. I had written a draft the evening prior -- but decided to throw it out and just start writing what came from my heart to my head. I couldn't stop typing, and it was all done in just a little more than an hour. I can write about dad for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn't be enough.

 

There's a man I've recently just met, but whom I've known my entire life. For the past three days I've heard stories about this man, about all the friends he made and all the lives he changed. He was so many things to so many people: a teacher, a mentor, a colleague, an architect, an artist, a friend. These people say how much he did for them. And yet, despite all he accomplished he managed to be home at 6 in the afternoon on workdays and all day on Sundays.

I know quite well the man who came home. that man was the one my sisters and I knew as our father -- the man I'm here to tell you a little about this morning.

I'm here to tell you about the father who was so highly protective of his daughters that he feared the thought of us moving out and about outside the home he built. How worried he was that we would be harmed or hurt by those with bad intentions or careless actions. And yet, despite those fears, how he encouraged each of us to move across the other side of the world so that we would learn how to find ourselves, explore our passions, and learn to be best at whatever we chose to be so that we could each make a living, but more importantly, a life.

Our father was a man who once chased after a bus through the city and stopped it mid-traffic, only so he could come onboard and present his lady love with a bouquet of flowers that he didn't get to give her before she left town for the weekend. My mother passed away eight months ago, and my father chased after her as an old man as he once did in his youth, and finally caught up with her just this Wednesday morning.

I've always been convinced my father could communicate with all the creatures of the earth. Dad found nothing unusual about playing with the fire ants that reside in the tree outside his bedroom. He would let the potentially lethal insects crawl up and down his arm, and then back to the tree where they lived when they were done playing with him. My father not only was unable to harm a mouse, he even fed the few that visited his room with the snacks he always kept at his bedside.

Just outside the kitchen, dad created a safe haven for all cats that sought refuge. He once berated a veterinarian who thought it wasn't worth saving the life of a stray whom my dad found half-dead on our street. "What kind of an animal doctor are you, to choose which animals to save?" he demanded. And despite being warned that doing all of the above would backfire on him somehow, I can attest that the ants never hurt him, the mice never bit him, and all the cats treated our home as theirs.

Once, not long ago, I asked dad why we had so many fake flowers and plants in our house when he was a landscape architect. Shouldn't we have real ones, instead? He just smiled and then tried to convince me that they brightened up the place. When I complained about the plastic foliage again, our family driver, who assisted my dad every Saturday when he visited the local tiangge, explained to me privately that dad bought the "plants" and other seemingly useless things to help out his sukis there. These small things made him happy because they reminded him that he had made other people happy, too.

It really is no wonder then why, the first time dad met his eldest granddaughter, who was about two years old at the time and just starting to speak, she climbed on the couch beside him, looked at him in the face -- and then and there decided to call him only "Magic."

These past few weeks, my sisters and I have seen and heard all kinds of people from all walks of life express their love for our father. There was a tiangge vendor who said that dad taught her the scientific names of the plants she sold so that she would appear as an authority to her customers, which would help her sales. There was a young sculptor who almost gave up his art, but who was instead encouraged by dad to keep going and has never stopped since. We've heard so many people say they wouldn't be what they were if dad had never been around. I'd like to think that wherever dad was he sprinkled a bit of magic in the air.

I have no doubt that at this very moment, I.P. is whispering into God's ear how heaven can use a little more green space.

On behalf of my sisters, we thank all of you who have comforted us these past few days with your kind words of sympathy. We thank all who have shared your personal stories about life with I.P. Our dad lives on inside of us not only as we remember him, but as we continue to get to know him as only you did. On behalf of my father, thank you for all the love and honor you bestow upon him today.

 

25 OF 30: HOME

I woke up feeling thoroughly unhinged today; for a while there I wasn't sure if I'd just had a dream because it still felt so real to me. All I can remember now is that I'd found myself sitting inside an auditorium beside a man who I could only assume was my date, like I'd just been instantaneously transported there through space and time without any apparent disruption. It was 1987 and I was in downtown Los Angeles all over again.

The details are fuzzy now, but I know that once I'd figured out where I was I felt a twinge of almost unbearable excitement. That year, you see, was not a very good one for me (okay, it was awful) and I realized I now had a chance at a do-over -- and better yet, this time I had not only my youth but also experience, and especially wisdom, on my side. Soon, however, joy turned into confusion. I realized I didn't know where my home was and how I was supposed to get there. I moved around so much during the second half of the 1980s that if you named a month and year I couldn't tell you where I lived then.

Most of my recurring nightmares have to do with feeling unmoored or being lost. I suppose it's because for nearly three decades the concept of home has been an unfettered one for me. When I lived in Los Angeles I thought of Manila as my home -- and the reverse was true, too. And now that I'm Seattle-based I feel like I have two other homes waiting for me. I may never set roots in Southern California again but practically everything I own still remains in storage over there. In this place where I now live -- without my furniture, household goods, even clothing -- I don't feel quite settled, yet.

Wherever I am something seems to be missing. Here in the States I regularly get homesick for the Philippines, yet when I'm there I miss it here, too. And even if I absolutely love it here in Seattle, I miss my friends and ol' stomping grounds in both Los Angeles and Manila. At times it feels I have too many homes and yet none at all.

They say that home is where the heart is, and that might be the reason I feel this way: I've left a huge chunk of myself in every place I've ever lived and loved in. Yet I know that change is not only inevitable but constant, and that what I remember about each place often transforms or disappears the moment I get up and leave. It's why I often feel sad when a favorite restaurant shuts down or a familiar building is demolished. One more touchstone, gone.

But I never feel trapped anywhere. If I don't like it somewhere, I can always move -- as I've done many times before. My world can't completely fall apart if there's always a space elsewhere I can find refuge in, somewhere that still feels familiar even if it's not quite the same as I remember it to be.

I suspect I'll always have these dreams of being somewhere I once was and feeling lost. The good news, however, is that when I wake up I'll be home. Wherever that might be in the world.

DRESS YOU DOWN

I knew this gal who used to come to work looking like she had dressed herself with nothing more than Ace bandages wrapped around her torso; on certain days you thought that if she had arrived draped in a bath towel instead she would have been more fully clothed. She worked in Accounting -- not exactly the bastion of fearless self-expression in the workplace -- so it's not surprising she attracted disapproving looks and talk among her co-workers.

Perhaps because I went to fashion school and worked in the apparel industry for years, there's not much that raises my eyebrows, sartorially speaking. It didn't annoy me then that she chose to wear what she did; she didn't deal with clients and vendors and she did her job capably. And yet even if I had her gym-honed body I wouldn't have made the same fashion choices. I know that although we're all told from childhood that we're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, the real world has taught me that people inevitably do.

How we look -- all our outward characteristics whether or not we were born that way -- including how we dress, how we smell, how we carry ourselves -- influence how people perceive us, even if it may not seem fair. Maybe that's why only the youth use their looks to rebel against the establishment; once they become part of it they quickly learn that image can negatively impact their earning power and status.

Perception matters; perhaps that's why companies institute dress codes, although more attention is paid to the way women look. From the time we're in school, we are subjected to these rules more often and much more thoroughly than our male counterparts are. Our body parts are scrutinized: shoulders, cleavage, midriffs, thighs, and legs. Even at my workplace now, a store that joyfully celebrates women's sexuality, we're not allowed to reveal bare shoulders or wear skirts shorter than 4 inches above the knee. We can't wear leggings unless they're worn under a tunic top or dress. We're instructed that we can't wear "excessively tight, short or revealing clothing." Even the length of our fingernails is prescribed.

I've never violated a work dress code because I tend to be more covered up in general (although I don't understand how exposed upper arms interfere with productivity unless it's a safety issue). Even in my personal space I don't show a lot of skin, not because I'm afraid of what people may say or think but because I don't like to fidget with my clothing to make sure I'm not accidentally exposing my lady bits. I believe in dressing and adorning myself to look -- and thus, feel -- attractive, and I'm afraid that showing off my thighs and knees would only achieve the opposite goal. Once in a while, though, I will rock a low neckline and expose deep cleavage at night simply because I still can, and especially because it detracts the beholder's eye from other parts I'm not as proud of, such as my slackened jaw line and gentle muffin top.

And when I do, I'm offended if anyone would declare me as immoral and thus undeserving of basic decency and respect, and worse, claim that I'm "asking for it." There's no excuse for anyone to believe that a woman deserves to be disrespected or should expect to be violated or assaulted simply because of what she's wearing. There's no reason for that kind of behavior -- period. If a man sees a woman at a bar displaying all her goods, he's not a cad for getting turned on. He becomes one, however, if he treats her like a whore.

I read something recently on Inquirer.net, the online portal of a major daily Philippine newspaper. What drew my eye to it was the headline announcing the country as a potential fashion capital in the world, and that it was written by an esteemed economist and business leader. I realized quickly, to my horror, that his article had little to do with the state of the fashion industry in the Philippines; instead, it was a call for women to dress more modestly so as not to commit or encourage sin. He states:

Oftentimes, women who dress immodestly have no bad intentions of arousing males to think of them as sex objects. These women, however, can be accused of ignorance and naiveté. They fail to realize that there is a great difference between the psycho-sexual makeup of males and females. Women are ordinarily not attracted to the sexual characteristics of the opposite sex. What appeal to them are such features as gentleness, affection and a caring attitude. Men are quite different. The physical attributes of the female body are quick to arouse them. Women who dress immodestly should, therefore, realize that they are occasions of sin for the males who look at them. For those who have the Christian faith, they should always remember what Christ said: He who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery.

Therefore, he says, strict dress codes should be implemented in universities and in Church, and also for specific events and ceremonies, including one's own wedding day:

It is ridiculous to see brides and their bridesmaids looking like they were going to the beach with their backs totally bare and breasts unnecessarily exposed. In fact, the concern for the modesty of the bride should be first and foremost a duty of the parents and, not to mention, the bridegroom who should be ashamed that his future wife is showing too much of what he alone has the right to see in the intimacy of the bedroom.

Men like this writer often profess to hold these views in order to protect women, when reality is that they are intimidated of our power and seek to control us. His phrase, "of what [the bridegroom] alone has the right to see in the intimacy of the bedroom" renders us as property of our husbands, instead of independent human beings with our own mind, body, and soul. It subjugates women by asking us to be the weaker sex and capitulate to the whims and weaknesses of men. By saying that we are not "attracted to the sexual characteristics of the opposite sex," he declares us to be asexual creatures, not requiring physical intimacy, of being damaged when we have sexual urges.

His message is also a potentially dangerous one because it insinuates that we are responsible for what sins might occur because of what we choose to wear. For him, men are inherently weak creatures and if we arouse them and they act accordingly -- whether we wish it or not -- then it's our fault completely. Not the men who couldn't take control of their own decisions and actions. Ours. This is the worst kind of misogyny, one that disguises itself under the benevolent cloak of concern and protection.

There's a difference between questioning a woman's common sense in wearing a skimpy outfit to work and declaring that she is immoral and sinful because she does. We know that whenever we squeeze into a snug miniskirt we are attracting attention, favorable or otherwise, from both men and women. What we should never be expected to assume, however, is that when we do it's okay for others to announce open season against us. Even when we may appear practically naked, our bodies are sacred and belong to us alone unless we choose to share it. Anyone who disagrees is the real danger to society -- not the one who decided how she wanted to dress before going out. Even when the size of our clothing is small, we are infinitely better than the one with the small mind.

 

 

JUST BREATHE

It used to be so easy getting up. Literally and figuratively, I mean. Although I'm not yet feeling the pain of arthritis scraping away at my joints, there's already a bit of the ol' dreaded creaking that happens when I have to reposition my body these days. Maybe that's why so many women my age are headed for yoga studios; I really should, too.

But worse than physical inertia is the one that can't be easily felt or seen: the kind that happens within, the one of emotional and mental resistance. It creeps up on you much more insidiously. One day you've convinced yourself that you're fearless because of all the risks you've taken in your life, then the next you find yourself asking more questions before you do, or even giving into your fears.

I think this happens naturally as we get older. After falling down and getting up, and doing that over and over again, it's like arthritis develops and suddenly it hurts doing both. Sometimes we find ourselves holding onto a stable surface much more tightly until our knuckles turn white; other times we're down and find it easier to just sit there for a while longer and catch our breath.

Earlier this year I quit my job to go home, to Manila, and spend time with my parents whom I've been so far away from for more than 25 years. It was like one day I woke up and they were old and much more fragile than I remembered them to be. Both walk with a cane now and often need to hold on to something or someone to keep their balance. Their voices sound weaker, more shaky.

For the past couple of years I've noticed that I've been writing out more and more messages of sympathy to friends and relatives, and I dread the day I start receiving them in return. As my mother emailed me recently, "I want to go out and spend more time with friends but most of them are dead now." None of my friends can imagine being away from their children for even a few weeks or months and -- I don't know why I'd never thought of this before -- maybe it hurt my parents even just a bit that I'd already been away from them for a lifetime.

The reason I was able to just up and leave after all these years is because I'd practically lost everything else in my life. There wasn't much to hold on to so I had to find a way to stay up. In a way I was mourning, deeply. I needed to go home and start again.

For the four months I was home I got to rest and think -- a lot. I decided I needed to come back here and get back on track so I could be self-sufficient and independent, to fight my demons, and to find myself. It was just like why I came here the first time, 26 years ago. I felt like I was going home with my tail between my legs, and it just didn't feel right. I was made of stronger stuff than that.

So now I'm back here, but I've chosen to start again in a brand-new place. It feels right, you know. There's nothing here to remind me of the past; no memories associated with any of the sights, smells, and sounds around me. But at the same time it hurts to be away from my friends and family, and it's scary whenever I realize that I don't know my way around here. I feel completely lost.

Scary is a word I've been saying a lot lately. Try finding a job during a recession, with the unemployment rate averaging about 10 percent. Now try to find one at my age, too. I have to remind myself that I'm still as smart, capable, and resourceful as I ever was -- probably even more so. The past few years, and especially the beating that I've taken, have changed me in ways that I can't possibly describe because I'm still in the thick of things. But I know what's important now, and I'm thankful for what I do have. But, yes, it hurts and I get scared.

So I decided I was going to do whatever scares me, that I wasn't going to let fear be the reason that I walk away. I realize this sounds almost counterintuitive; one would think that I'd be seeking tender shelter instead. But the only way that I can stop being so frightened is to face fear directly and keep pushing it out of the way every time it stares me down. Eventually, I figure, I'll find myself in the clear; I'll look and see that I can stop fighting so hard now, that I can finally exhale.

The other day an acquaintance of mine, a magazine editor, asked if I could help her. She had interviewed a businessman for an article but had run out of time to write it and her deadline was in less than two days. She could send me the audio file, a brief press release his office had issued, and a link to another article recently written about him -- but other than that, I was on my own. Oh, and please make that 1200 words, thanks.

"Are you kidding?" I stared at my computer screen. "There's no way I could do this." Sure, I can type up a blog post in less time than I can make breakfast, but I'd never met the fellow and I'd have to transcribe her interview and do a bit of online research myself. Did I have enough time to commit to the task without panicking and failing?

Sure you do, a voice whispered from some forgotten recess of my brain, you've done this before. And I had, many times in fact, when I was with the Philippine News way back when. I juggled college and full-time newspaper work simultaneously, and I had to find a way to get all my articles in somehow, no excuses. And this was during a time when there was no internet, when I had to find phone numbers in an actual phone book, go to the library if I needed background research, and bang out my story on a typewriter. Yes, I could do this.

And so I did. I submitted my article in less than 24 hours, way before deadline. It felt good, I could still pull something like this off, I still had it within me, and I was no longer scared. Then I exhaled, and took another deep breath.

Now where's that nearest yoga class? Maybe a bit more twisting in unnatural positions will be good for me after all.

CONNECT THE DOTS

Last night I was talking to a friend of mine, whose current project involves Filipino celebrities he's never heard of. See, while he moves around and regularly deals with Filipino-American entertainers and actors (as he does with many other American celebrities), he was born and raised here and hasn't been back to the Philippines since he was in high school -- when his mom took him back to see where she was born and raised, and where he drank the water and then suffered from severe diarrhea for the rest of his trip.

But I digress.

So anyway he phoned me and quickly rattled off about a dozen or more highly recognizable names (well, you would know them if you lived in the Philippines or, like me, tend to keep up with what's going on over there). He wanted to find out who they were and why exactly they were famous. And he wanted the information FAST because he was meeting with a few of them in a couple of hours. But I gave him much more than what he needed: I actually connected the dots between each and every one. Like how X is fighting with Y, who used to be married to Z, whose son used to date A, who was the ex of B, who is the brother of C, a very good friend of D -- who carried on an affair with very-much married X.

Shit, I'm so ma-showbiz pala. This is much more useless information than anyone should ever know.

A GOOD PROVIDER IS ONE WHO LEAVES

Every time I'm at an airport -- say in Tokyo or Hong Kong -- restlessly waiting for my next flight to take me home to Manila where half of my family still lives, I sit (and pace) among many other Filipinos doing the same. I often find myself intently watching and listening, trying to figure out how long they've been away, imagining the families they've left behind, and wondering if they think their sacrifices have been well worth the gains.

Some stories are happier or sadder than others, although I'm willing to bet they all involve a great deal of struggle and pain. And loneliness for sure. It's never easy being away from home, especially if or when you finally do go back and find the world you've missed forever changed -- or at least not the same as the one in your head, the one that comforted you when you tried to remember just what it was you were working for. Then at point of discovery you realize that you've become a perpetual stranger.

I receive the Sunday edition of The New York Times every week, and when I pulled out its magazine insert tonight, I saw on the cover a photograph of a Filipina in nurse's scrubs standing barefoot on some beach who-knows-where, looking -- depending on your interpretation -- wistful, confused, troubled, or lost. The cover story is entitled A Good Provider Is One Who Leaves by Jason Deparle and it's worth a read, no matter what you may think about the O.F.W (Overseas Filipino Worker) phenomenon, where approximately one in seven Filipino workers is abroad.

For those of you who will only get to read this article online, here's the back story:

Jason DeParle was a reporter covering poverty in New Orleans in 1987 when he won a fellowship from the Henry Luce Foundation and set off for the Philippines to try to make sense of life in the slums of Manila. "I would see these pictures of packed hovels there, and I would wonder: How do these people survive?" he told us last week. To answer his question, DeParle -- who has written extensively about poverty for The Times Magazine -- soon moved in with the Comodas family in the Manila slums. The father of the family, Emmet, was in Saudi Arabia, where he would work on and off for years. One answer to DeParle's question about how Manila's poor survived turned out to be a system of sending men and women abroad to work. Now, a generation later, the Comodases' daughter Rosalie, a nurse, is working overseas -- and figures prominently in DeParle's cover article this week. "By the unjust logic of global poverty," DeParle suggested, "the story of 'poor Rosalie' is actually one of unusual success."

DON'T GIVE UP ON US

A friend of mine now lives in Paris with her British husband and their two children. No one gave her any grief or guilt about her decision to move away; in fact I suspect she's heard more people tell her how fortunate she is to be residing right smack dab in the center of the City of Lights. Her choice to leave was not a statement against the United States nor was it meant to demonstrate the superiority of France. She moved simply for personal reasons. And that was good enough.

Unfortunately for us Filipinos who now live outside the Philippines, it's never that simple a reason. No matter why we left, there's always that cloud of perception hanging over us that we abandoned our country in its time of need. It's rather confusing, you know, to be hailed by the government as heroes because of the dollar remittances we send back home -- and then practically denounced as traitors by many of our fellow Filipinos (sometimes even by the same government officials) for using our talents and skills for the benefit of another nation and not our own instead.

I do understand the complexity of the issues surrounding this apparent mass exodus; for instance, about how many (note: I did NOT say all or even most -- just many) of the "best and the brightest" are leaving the Philippines and thus exacerbating the so-called brain drain (or as one official referred to it recently, a brain hemorrhage) afflicting the country today. I know about the shortage of doctors and nurses back home, especially in the provinces where they are needed most, because they are finding work for much more pay here in the U.S. and elsewhere in the world. I've read the same thing about our teachers, architects and engineers, and even our artists and entertainers.

A recent report shed light on the scope of this phenomenon:

MANILA — More than a million Filipino workers – from domestic helpers to doctors through to engineers and pilots – joined the growing army of Filipinos employed overseas last year, according to official data.

The Philippine Overseas Employment Administration (POEA) says more than eight million Filipinos, about a tenth of the country’s population of 86 million, were working overseas last year.

I'm not going to defend our reasons for going off to distant shores in search of -- well, whatever it is we each were looking for when we left. There are many who have already written about this topic far more eloquently and intelligently than I ever could. Besides, our reasons are varied, complex and -- well -- personal. Although many leave to secure financial security for themselves and their families, there are those trying to find or challenge themselves by facing the unknown, while others seek to reinvent themselves where no one else remembers them as they were.

Instead, what I'd like to address are the barbs (whether explicitly stated or insinuated) being thrown at us of how we simply gave up because we chose to leave. When people give up, you can assume they've decided to choose the easy route rather than the hard, or maybe they've even stopped trying completely. Let me tell you, we who comprise the Filipino diaspora haven't remotely given up. There is nothing easy about starting over, especially in a place where practically everything and everyone is different from anything and anyone you've ever known.

SO REAL IT'S SURREAL

I'm back -- and what a week I just had!

In case you didn't already know, I flew to Manila last week to attend events at Malacañang Palace and the Cultural Center of the Philippines held last Friday, June 9th, in connection with the proclamation of this year's seven National Artists. I was there to cheer on my father (the fourth National Artist proclaimed for Architecture, but the first ever in the field of Landscape Architecture), who took home a hefty gold medallion and an impressive framed citation.

I found myself -- unexpectedly -- starstruck. I had been dying to meet BenCab, Bienvenido Lumbera, and Ramon Obusan; I had several opportunities to do so, as I found myself in the same private receptions with these legends several times. Heck, all I had to do was stand beside dad as he spoke with them throughout the day. But no, all I could do was stare at these men in deep admiration. The only explanation I have is that it was just too, too surreal, the whole day was quite a blur.

And life went right back to normal the following day. In the morning, dad went to the swap meet as usual, watched television and napped the entire afternoon, and sat at the dining table in his plaid shorts and tee at night, sharing photographs he took of the previous day's events with our family, which was complete for the first time in more than a decade. I think he was even happy.

I have lots of stories to tell, but now I have to try to sleep and beat jet lag.

*Photograph by Willy Perez, which appeared in the July 10, 2006 issue of The Philippine Star. Dad's the guy on the left shaking President Arroyo's hand.

A PORTRAIT OF THE FILIPINO ARTIST AS A FATHER

I heard the news from my friend John yesterday afternoon: my father has been might be named national artist for architecture (hours later the announcement was retracted, and then clarification issued that the list is not being reduced but added to). Truth is I'd been hearing rumors for a few weeks, but didn't want to assume anything until I saw the news in print. Which I did. And then didn't.

UPDATED May 24, 2006: It's official.

But I called my dad long-distance from work to congratulate him yesterday anyway; he and I spent a good part of our five-minute call laughing (I'd use the term "giggling" but the image of a 75-year-old man doing that might seem strange to anyone else but dad and me). He seems thrilled, especially since he's been receiving innumerable congratulatory phone calls from relatives and friends, colleagues, former students, and just about everyone else who knows him and has already seen or heard the news. Or the non-news, for that matter.

There was a quick moment during the conversation when I spotted the differences in our priorities arising from our stages in life. For instance, I was excited by the medical and hospitalization benefits he'd he may be receiving; dad said he was looking forward to the state funeral. Yet there were similarities, too: our delight over the cash prize, for instance (I told him not to go and spend it at the tiangge; I'm sure if I were receiving it instead he'd tell me not to blow it all on shoes).

It's obvious, I would think, of how proud I am of my father. Although this is how I feel about him, regardless of whether or not he's a national artist, I'm intoxicated with pure, unadulterated joy that he is being recognized for his dedication to the pursuit of excellence and ethics of his profession, his devotion to his work and in training future generations of landscape architects and, yes, for his love for his country.

It wasn't that long ago, after all, when folks would ask me what my father did for a living and after I'd tell them, they'd then reply,"So basically he's a gardener?" I remember answering once, "Well if an architect is the same thing as a carpenter, then I suppose he is." Just to clarify: I do have the highest regard for gardeners (and carpenters) and in fact, my dad is also a gardener in the sense that he has a profound, expert knowledge of plants and can make just about anything grow (in soil, water, and air at that). But gardening is not his profession and neither is it what he has taught his students all these years.

I asked dad yesterday how he felt about the announcement. He said he was still the same guy he was before he was told, and he was trying not to make a big deal out of it. So I suppose I've decided to whoop it up a bit for good ol' dad instead; after all, the realist (or cynic, depending on how you see it) in me knows that with FPJ being declared national artist for cinema as well, my dad's achievement will be buried somewhere in the middle of any news story hitting print, the airwaves, and the internet, his contributions receiving no more than maybe one line of description or two. But that's just the way it is -- celebrity and controversy always attract more attention and fanfare, and judging from the (woeful) state and fate of our parks and green spaces, I wouldn't bet on my father receiving much hype at all.

Which is just as well; dad's always been an understated kind of guy in public anyway (except for that one time during a neighborhood affair a few years ago, when in the spirit of competition he displayed a glimpse of the top of his red briefs to the entire assembly. The revelation of an old man with his shock of brilliant white hair and wooden cane wearing such flashy, hip underwear caused our normally calm monsignor to convulse and fall over in laughter, as well as scandalize a group of stodgy, proper church ladies. But hey, my dad's an artist after all -- unpredictable, eccentric, and idiosyncratic, among other wonderful things.). So he's not seeking a ticker-tape parade or anything of the sort.

And forgive me if I post this despite the non-announcement. You have to understand: I took up gardening as my personal way of honoring my father for the rest of my life. I suppose it's understandable if I write a few paragraphs about him in a blog post that will eventually be buried in my site archives. Daddy, I was always proud that what you did for a living added (much-needed) life to this world. Congratulations -- despite whatever announcement is eventually issued within the next few weeks -- and I love you.

WILL WORK FOR MONEY

There's a moment in my life I've never forgotten: I'm lying on my black twin-sized futon in my tiny studio apartment, completely still and silent, incapable of movement or even speech. I remember staring at the ceiling, crying, thinking I was like the proverbial candle whose flame had finally been extinguished, wick all burnt, and with no more wax left for fuel. I had been a full-time student and committed student leader with a full-time job and two part-time jobs. I don't remember sleeping much during those days; I subsisted on 20-minute catnaps anywhere I could catch them -- inside my car, on top of a lab table, in the student lounge or library, or in my office. My rent was $550 a month, excluding utilities, groceries, and pocket money, and I did what I had to do to pay my bills. Still, I considered myself lucky because all the money I earned from my minimum-wage jobs was all mine.

Lucky, indeed, if you compare my tough ol' days with the more recent struggles of my friend, whom I will call May. She had been in the country for a little over a year, and was already in over her head. She had a full-time job and three part-time jobs; she worked literally all day every day. When I met her, she was homeless because the cousin she had been living with upped and moved to another state practically overnight -- and May didn't have time to look for a room to rent. After finishing up her part-time retail job at about 11:00 pm or even later, she would drive to wherever she could crash for the night. Sometimes she drove about 50 miles in her rotten lemon of a car just to be able to sleep for a few hours, so she could do the same thing over again the next day. You would think with all the hours she was working, it would have been easy for her to find a decent apartment and trade in her car for something at least reliable and functional. But May had no money to take care of her needs, because she was sending a huge bulk of her income to her relatives in the Philippines. As a devout Catholic, she believed that being charitable was more important than her being able to eat or sleep well. And she did this also because she considered herself more fortunate.

She was more fortunate, she believed, because she was single and had no children to care for. And surprisingly she may have been right, if you compare her to other Filipino immigrants I've met who came here in search of a better life and found themselves not having much of a life at all. I've heard different versions of essentially the same story so many times : parents working multiple jobs in order to make ends meet, leaving latchkey kids to raise themselves with no supervision and who then often choose to join gangs for protection and survival or get into all kinds of trouble.

May and I have at least one thing in common, that we are proud alumnae of the same school where the current President of the Philippines graduated from. The same President who is asking us to part with more of our hard-earned money in order to fix the country's economic problems which she and her cohorts are apparently incapable of fixing.

I was horrified and outraged to read the following news item in today's Inquirer.

BURLINGAME, California (via PLDT)--President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo appealed to more than seven million Filipinos abroad to increase their remittances to their relatives in the Philippines by $20 a month to keep the economy afloat and shore up gross international reserves.
Speaking during a cocktail reception hosted by the Bay Area Filipino community at the Hyatt Hotel here Wednesday night, Arroyo said their regular remittances played a major role in keeping the domestic economy from sliding down.
"This is a big contribution not only to your families but also for every Filipino. Can you just imagine what an additional $20 a month remittance can do to further uplift our nation?" the President asked. She said the additional small amount from the seven million Filipinos abroad would result in $140 million in additional remittance to the Philippines each year.

Twenty dollars may seem trifle to the Philippine President, but to my friend May, the same amount can make a big difference in whether or not she can make this month's rent. Currently, she sends almost half of her earnings to relatives who call or write her with their sob stories, not realizing her misfortunes are actually worse than their own.

In light of all the recent news about the gross corruption in the Philippine government and military, I may have a better idea of how the President can come up with the additional $140 million she says  is needed to "uplift" the Philippines.

Why don't you ask just 70 of the many current and past government officials and military leaders who have been found to have helped themselves to the people's money, to return just $2 million each to the Philippine treasury? That's just a couple mil -- the cost of perhaps one high-rise condo in Manhattan that they own, out of the many properties they possess -- just pittance for these folks. In return for their generosity, they can be pardoned for their crimes. Nothing's being done about them anyway since all the other thieves in the administration are covering up for their ilk. So everyone's happy, and you can leave us alone.

Do your job, President Arroyo -- and stop relying on ours. It's time for you and all the country's leaders to do a little uplifting of your own, instead of lifting what you don't own. You may find the solution is in your hands -- if only you'd stop using them to beg. After all, we all work for money, and all you so-called leaders should too.