Sunday Inquirer Magazine

By Ruel S. De Vera Associate Editor I was always in awe of encyclopedias. As a child, having a set of reference books at home was an advantage for school work and fun whenever we got bored. My parents were helping out an uncle so we had several different kinds of encyclopedias at home; among our favorites were the Lexicon (great photos), the Encyclopedia of Science (great for homework), the Bible Encyclopedia (really unusual) and the Peanuts Encyclopedia (more fun than useful but super fun). We never did get the top of the food chain: the complete Encyclopedia Brittanica. We did have it in school, complete with dog-eared and even missing, torn pages (nothing like taking the reference home). Back then, the photocopier was still a relatively exotic piece of machinery so many students simply tore the pages and ran. My high school library kept my attention even beyond school work. There was an encyclopedia of the Wild West as well as reference books on the Second World War which I constantly referred to. In college, the library was useful for all the research subjects, be it abstracts or APA material. Whenever I got even more bored, I would set over to the bound periodicals where I discovered Sports Illustrated, a habit that remains with me today. Obviously, all this happened before the Internet. Back then, the only way to really do research was actually set foot in the library. We slaved over those books. We understood the value of long hours in the shhh-infused environment of the library. We don't discount the value of today's one-button search for what used to take us weeks. It's more about the loss of wonder and awe about books and what they contained inside. Leg work mattered. Everybody needed to crack open a book or two. Wikipedia wasn't the end all and be all. Today's children have the world at their fingertips with a single visit to Google being all it took. It's an amazing world, but surely one that could be enriched by understanding how the old fogies used to do it. Book and button together; that is a killer combination for research. Find out all about the Internet and our children today in the November 15, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz Exec. Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine FINALLY, after three weeks of hemming, hawing and chest heaving, I summoned enough resolve to dive into this literal cesspool of memories otherwise known as my baul of soaked baby pictures. Not an easy task, this plunge into the sticky detritus that Ondoy had made out of almost three decades’ worth of family celebration, back when Kodak was the revered shrine we worshipped at after every Christmas, birthday, graduation, anniversary and summer outing. Every occasion worth being immortalized on photographic paper went straight into that baul, one of our first conjugal acquisitions. Nothing fancy or heirloom, the humongous chest was an unvarnished wooden box lashed with leather and some metal studs, for which I handed over a week’s household budget after much wheedling and haggling in a second-hand shop. Nope, I didn’t have fine bed linens or a pirate’s haul stored in that chest, but it easily became the subject of my only house rule for the longest time: “In case of fire or threat to property, this baul goes out first, hear?” I badgered hubby and house help repeatedly every time the evening news featured a neighborhood fire, qualified theft or a disputed demolition. Like a shrewd banker carefully lining his safety deposit box with wads of Euros, I was similarly hoarding my only capital at that time: baby pictures! My daughter being the first offspring on both sides, the poor girl couldn’t scratch her nose, wet her diaper or sneeze without a cosseting relative snapping a picture. Soon enough, every friend I had suddenly found reason to cross the street or remembered previous and urgent appointments every time I reached for my accordion wallet of family pictures. I remember how stiff competition among the photo shops at that time reduced developing and printing charges to 60 centavos for each album size, a fortuitous bargain even by my paltry paycheck standard. You’d think we’d have lost all our friends when the second baby came, but ah, my inveterate back-slapper of a hubby soon found more warm bodies on which to foist our latest stack of memories. “Look, look, double dimples!” we’d point out, in case wary onlookers missed our son’s first claim to fame. For some strange reason, probably the strong fumes from all those photo chemicals, onlookers always walked funny and in a daze after these sessions. (Shucks, we should have patented that technique and sold it to those CIA guys. Beats water boarding, I’m sure). Not surprisingly, the baul filled up fast, with the kids’ childhood diligently documented until their grade school years. Thankfully enough, digital cameras were invented by the time they reached high school, and we could snap away without worrying about overloading our bursting baul or hocking my in-laws for developing charges. This time around, we turned to the flash disk or USB to store the thousands of digital photos we were rapidly accumulating—to our friends’ relief. Unless there’s a computer nearby, they know that they’re safe from another Assault of the Kiddie Pictures. Everybody happy. Until Ondoy came, that is, and decided in one fell swoop, to erase our memories like Alzheimer’s pops out every brain cell in an aging mind. It took some time before we realized that underneath that wobbling tower of assorted household goods salvaged from the rampaging floods that was now filling up our second floor, was the beloved baul. I swear my entire life flashed before my eyes through those now-ruined pictures in that one moment of truth. Well, I did manage to save about a third of the shots, telling myself all the while that the memories are hardwired in my head anyway, and that my now grown-up children will probably be embarrassed by their pictures which I’ve always threatened to upload on the Net unless they do my bidding on some chores. When I started putting back the rescued shots in the now spacious baul, I realized where my priorities lie. Instead of putting in the pictures chronologically, I arranged them such that my travel shots were at the bottom, ready to be sacrificed to the floods should such catastrophe strike again. The precious few baby shots and family pictures left were protectively arrayed on top. After all, who cares if I’ve been to all these tourist traps except the kids for whom each trip used to mean some exotic pasalubong or knick knack? Who needs another personalized shot of the Eiffel Tower or the Alps anyway? As my friends would say with a Gallic shrug, “Been there, been that.” Why are pictures so important to us anyway? I wonder what foreigners think of local news from here, where even in the midst of disasters—the collapse of the Payatas dumpsite, the sinking of the Superferry, the crush of Ondoy refugees in evacuation centers—as reporters speak of grim statistics and mounting casualties, clusters of uzis (uziseros or onlookers) are making pa-pogi faces in the background, smiling and waving at televiewers and striking telegenic poses. I can imagine them texting kith and kin afterwards, reminding them to watch the evening news and check out the faces in the background, “kasi andun ako, nasa TV ako! “ Even the hubby, not a stranger to on-cam interviews, is not above staying up all night and switching channels to check how many times they used the item on him. “Ayun, ayun ako!” he’d point gleefully when his face (shoulder, neck, arm, back or leg) hovered into view. It’s probably at shot at immortality, a solid reminder that once upon a time, this person, yes that face in the sepia photograph, occupied space and breathed the same air we’re inhaling now. “What were they thinking?” You’d probably ask, as you scan an ancient class photo or a fading shot of the CWL manangs, their piety as starchy as their skirts. Did that topless Igorot maiden ever dream that someday her image would land in a glossy coffee table book, stoking less than academic thoughts among lowlanders? How many of those pre-war schoolchildren in some musty photograph in your old high school are still around today? They're probably organic fertilizer by now, but for sure, unless the termites and floodwaters get to them first, several more generations are going to gaze up at these pictures, breathing life once more into the stolid faces preserved behind those glassed-in frames. Yup, if you can’t write a book or a poem, plant a tree or sire a child, the easiest way to live forever is to have your photo taken. With Photoshop on the ready, you’re even bound to look better than you can ever hope to be. And with the Net at your fingertips, imagine how many people will realize that “yes, yes, we’re aware that you exist, you camera-hogging fool.” Now if you’ll excuse me while I pack the camera for a family trip this All Souls Day weekend…

By Ruel S. De Vera Associate Editor Heroes are a personal constellation. Every person chooses his or her own celestial bodies to revolve around. There are more public personages and more public allegiances—but even those are marked by personal commitment. Our heroes reflect what we aspire for, what we seek perhaps in ourselves, surely in others. The old heroes were a bit easier to spot. They were usually in front of an army, or in front of a court of some sort, or even in front of death. They were poet warriors and trailblazers, be it by leading a brave last stand at Tirad Pass or by refusing to get up from the seat of a bus in Montgomery, Alabama. In these complicated times, even our heroes get complicated. But everyone should have a personal guide to personal heroes. Here’s mine: Whistleblowers: Definitely the most thankless kind of heroism, simply because it is actually much more difficult to not turn away from wrongdoing. Sometimes, or as recent history shows us, all the time, a whistleblower will wind up raised on charges, living in virtual exile, while those whose malfeasance was uncovered get off scot-free, even with ill-gotten gains intact. Just ask Jun Lozada, or, in a case of justice really miscarried, Acsa Ramirez. Martyrs: This is what happens when we don’t protect our whistleblowers. Yet many martyrs die for causes obscured by routine and duty. The soldiers in the Mindanao conflict never get noticed until they’re returning in flag-covered coffins. And that’s not to forget those who return maimed. A country can be a cause, and if one lived an entire life in the service of a nation, just like Cory did, then they’re martyrs in a very real sense. Inspirations: There are people out there who overcome mighty adversity. Just by their example, we find the strength to go on. They overcome everything from mighty odds to terrible sickness and even mind-boggling tragedy. They don’t have to be famous. They just have to live—and teach us by that living. Voices in the Wilderness: They speak even if people do not want to hear what they have to say. Sometimes, they are unpopular, but they are rarely wrong—and never rash. The Internet has made their voices easier to hear—but it’s also harder to find the true Voices. Gerry Alanguilan continues to treat Filipino comics as something important. Manolo Quezon thinks everything through for us. Conrad de Quiros says it with fire and ice. Mentors: This goes beyond teachers, though they are the perfect example of mentors. Mentors watch over us and direct us without killing our spirit. Quite the contrary, they fill us up with spirit. Sometimes just knowing that there is someone who really does believe in you will be enough. For me, it will always be my freshman English teacher, Doreen Fernandez. She taught me more than how to write. To this very day, I try to live my life based on what Doreen would have done. Who is yours? Read about Efren Penaflorida and other Filipinos who made us proud in the October 26, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Pennie Azarcon Dela Cruz Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine MY first inkling that things could really turn out bad was when the hubby brought out the saw, “for the window grills in case we have to jump into the waters or climb up the roof.” Turning to the two helpers, he asked that the empty gallon flasks of purified water be kept at hand, “handy floaters,” he described them. The floodwaters had breached the ground floor and was now filling up the second floor, lapping at the first of five short steps that led to the bedroom area. After this, the deluge, I thought, thinking of the window grills and the two disabled 90-year olds in their bed. Granted that the grills are sawn off before it’s too late, how does one get to the roof? The ceiling was intact, the rain was pouring, it was pitch dark, and out the window was a 10-foot fall into murky waters. The scenario didn’t inspire much hope. We could die, I thought bleakly. Should I text my kids my final goodbye? But that could alarm them and what if they get stranded should they try to get home from the safety of school and the office? Besides, my pragmatic self asserted, better to conserve my charge should I need it for emergency calls out there on the roof. IF I ever get there. How different things seem just hours ago. We had shrugged off Typhoon Ondoy, noting that Signal No. 1 in the Metro meant nothing more than rains and some gusty winds; at worse, the inconvenience of a brownout. No big deal, we thought. Taga-Malabon yata kami. We’re veterans in the flood business. Floods were nothing new to this densely-packed city squatting on the outer rim of crisscrossing fishponds and rivers that empty into Manila Bay . Sure there are perennial floods—thanks to the ebb and flow of the tides which meant that on certain hours of certain days, Malabon is several meters below sea level. The excess water then flows aggressively into the streets and into homes, no thanks to the flurry of fishponds that have effectively blocked the natural waterways. Because the old folks choose to stay, we’ve learned to live with it, holding on to these giant wall calendars like they were amulets against the forces of nature. A true Malabon native knows better than leave home without consulting this oracle, this almanac that tells us what time the tides are coming in, what time they recede, when it is safe to come home and what time to leave to preempt the onrush of water. Yup, Typhoon Ondoy had nothing on us. Even when the morning news showed the inundated streets and houses in Cainta and Pasig , the hubby could afford to be smug. Not in our neighborhood, he says, tucking into a late breakfast.. We aren’t affected by the Pasig , and besides, it’s low tide. Nothing to worry about. Indeed, at 1 PM that Saturday, the night’s worth of rain had dumped less than a foot of water on our driveway. By 2 PM, the waters started spilling into our house and we started moving stuff on top of tables and narra chairs. But we remained optimistic. Even the worst typhoons in the past meant knee-high waters inside the house and a gigantic clean-up the next morning. Just the same, I started bundling off clothes and books and moving them upstairs. Not too many, the hubby cautioned; let’s play it by ear and move stuff as the need (and the water) arises. “Mahirap magbalik ng mga iyan.” No need to panic, everything’s under control, he said, pointing to the ref that was now resting on a half-meter tall iron platform, with the waters now swirling around our knees. I rushed upstairs to deposit a bundle of clothes. When I got back downstairs, the waters had reached my thighs. Then CRRAAASH! the ref had tumbled on its side. "The TV!!!" the helper screamed, noting that the table on which it rested was now wobbling on its side. Just in time the hubby caught it, otherwise the LCD—my gift to him last Christmas—would have been a goner. After that, everything started tumbling into the waters: the dining table with all my kitchen gadgets, the food and other handy breakables, the narra sofa from Quezon that took four hefty men to drag into our house (now bobbing in the waters like a rudderless ship), and assorted tables on which rested almost 28 years' worth of conjugal acquisitions. Then the heavy mattress from our ground-floor bedroom levitated and slid off into the waters without a splash. And so did everything else, including our smug complacency. At that moment, the lights went off. Working frantically in the half light and humid heat, we started piling stuff wily nily upstairs, our main thought being to get them out of water’s way. By 5 PM, I was shivering as I grabbed stuff handed to me by our assembly-line of helpers and assorted relatives who had rushed to help us out. The water was chest-high and icy cold. By 6, the flood was two feet away from the ground floor ceiling and over my head. At 8, with everything we could rescue piled higgledy-piggledy on our second floor, we suddenly realized that we hadn't had dinner at all. But everything had tumbled into the water: the pot of rice, the breakfast rolls, the sugar, coffee and tea and the kawali of fish escabeche: that had all rested atop the table when it collapsed sideways into the flood. Scrounging around, we managed to find a pack of Sunflower crackers and three bottles of Gatorade and carefully apportioned these among us five hungry adults. Great, I thought. Up on the roof or thrashing in the water-- hungry, unable to swim and shivering with cold. What a miserable way to go. I decided to root among the bundled stuff for my life jacket. Found it and decided to make it my pillow for the night. By 9, we settled to bed or what little space remains of it, what with all the boxes and plastic bundles piled on every available surface. It would turn out to be the longest night of my life, marked by endless prayers, a listless checking of the water's progress up the stairs (we were three steps or about 15 inches away from perdition), and desperate glances into the luminous numbers of the wall clock: God, six more hours before daylight, now five, four....Somehow, jumping into the murky waters in the light of dawn was more comforting than jumping into utter darkness. As soon as it got light, I jumped out of bed. We had survived! The water level appeared to be ebbing, if only by a painful inch, and the whole of our still flooded ground floor appeared like a surreal wavy mirror from the top of the stairs. We had lost two computers, a ref, small kitchen appliances, the piano, two mattresses, two cabinets worth of clothes, half a month's worth of food and groceries (we had just gone to the supermart the Friday before), several swivel chairs, the dining chairs and wooden tables, the electric circuits of the car (fortuitously parked on very high ground), and two bookshelves worth of books (oh no, and I've just done my Christmas shopping at the Bookfai!). And so many pairs of slippers and shoes. As of last count, anyway. But heck, we're alive, the kids are alright as are the oldies, and except for some residual nerves from the trauma, nobody got hurt. As I nervously await what everyone has been texting as Supertyphoon Pepeng, I look back on Saturday night last week and realized that I've learned a few things from it: 1. Assume the worst. No need to panic, though, but no harm either in bundling up stuff in plastic bags early enough so you can just trundle them off to higher ground should the floods start licking your sala. Sure it's quite an effort getting your things back where they belong afterwards (believe me, you'd rather buy stuff you need rather than try to find them among all that bundled mess), but it still beats washing off all that brownish muck from soiled clothes. It can also turn out to be much cheaper: think of all the appliances you could have saved had you put them away before the deluge. 2. Prepare for all eventualities. Candles and matches for the brownouts that inevitably follows. Charge your cellphones. Get out the radio (remember those? You'll need it to keep track of the news). Flashlight and batteries. Rubber boots, alcohol, umbrellas and jackets, life jackets.. Plenty of bottled water. Food you don't need to cook like bread, boiled eggs, bottled sardines, cheese, jam, biscuits or cookies, fruits. 3. Check out an escape route to avoid being trapped in your rapidly sinking home. Are the window grills a possible exit point? Can you still find the key to padlock holding the grills together? Or has rust made the lock inoperable? How do you get to the ceiling? Does it have enough crawl space? Is the roof accessible should the waters force you out of your home? Now's the time to check. 4. Never underestimate the power of prayer. Even if you're not a believer, thinking of the next Glorious or Sorrowful or Joyful Mystery while praying the rosary keeps your mind off all those awful things floating in the waters. It keeps you focused too on a Higher Power who could turn things around. 5. While you still can, pay attention to your Physics class. I could have saved a lot of stuff if I could remember our lesson in Physics about tipping point. Who the hell would think a 300-pound narra chair weighed down by another 300 pounds of assorted goods would flip like a plastic kiddie chair once the flood waters reached a certain height? 6. Learn to cook. Preferably dishes with vinegar. Believe me, surviving is half the battle. What to do, how to keep alive the morning after is just as crucial. With no electricity to keep the ref going, what is one to do with all the food rotting in the freezer? If you can scrounge around for a working stove and some gas after the deluge, think paksiw, adobo, barbecue, pecadillo, tapa, and so on. Get all the protein you can while it's possible. There's always enough time to get.used to canned sardines and instant noodles. 7. Take a deep breath and keep telling yourself, "it's just stuff." Sure we spent half our life saving for a home filled with stuff that tells people something about us (even if it's only that we're rich but have bad taste). But stuff is stuff, utterly replaceable and, believe me, you'll reach a certain age when showing off what you've got doesn't matter that much anymore. It becomes more of who you spend your life with, and how. When I realized that my baul of baby pictures had been sitting on three inches of floodwaters before anybody noticed, I felt a pang of momentary regret. As the credit card commercial says of memories--they're priceless. But what the heck: the babies are now grown up and flourishing, although I can close my eyes anytime and can immediately summon them as cuddly tykes once more in my head. Yup, come hell or high water, nothing can take that away from me.

By Ruel S. De Vera Associate Editor MOVIES are a devotion for some people, and going to the movies is a pilgrimage. Yes, the latest movies can usually be found on DVD and there’s a lot being shown on TV, but going to the movies is an event. The best example I can think of when it comes to turning a trip to the movies into something to look forward to comes from a movie itself: “Annie!” In that movie, Daddy Warbucks and the Little Orphan parade down a line of white-gloved attendants—in the middle of a delightfully over-the-top kickline number called, naturally, “Let’s Go To The Movies”—to watch ____. The movie was beside the point; it was the going that mattered. Today, it takes a herculean effort to get a bunch of people together early and quickly enough to be able to go see a movie together. Texts have been returned and there’s the discussion of which mall to go to and which place to have dinner at before/after… Yep, it’s a big deal. Too bad people don’t dress up to go to the movies anymore—aside from the requisite jacket for the frosty air-conditioning (read: Power Plant Cinema)—would you believe people used to turn out in suits and jewelry to watch a feature? Nowadays, people look like they just returned from a trip to 7-Eleven. But there is an anticipation that lends itself uniquely to a movie night. All that hassle becomes a countdown to having a good time. There are requisites to such a night of course. But there are things that can quickly ruin such a major expedition to the cinema. These are the dreaded don’ts at the theater, but people do, anyway. 1) Unspoiled: Imagine that you’ve stayed off the Net, basically ignored friends who have gone to see the movie before you, and been saying “ABCDEFGHIJKL…” with ears covered up all week just so you won’t find out the big twist at the end of the movie. Then, just as you’re waiting to enter the theater… this loudmouth comes out, stating, “Wow, I can’t believe Dumbledore died!” Now, granted a lot of people do this as a joke, blurting out red herrings, but there are many more people who do this still. Look, if I want to know that she’s a guy, Bruce Willis is a ghost and that dude has a friggin’ twin then I will look it up myself. Thanks for nothing. 2) Foot Forward: I understand you are tired from work or saving the world or something, but there is nothing that allows you to a) put your foot on top of the empty chair in front of you, or b) put your foot against my backrest and start whacking it. But that’s not the worst. To do these things after taking off your shoes and socks, what the hell is wrong with you? Where did I hide that Taser… 3) Food Fight: OK, I can see you got that bucket of butter-substance popcorn, but can you please refrain from playfully flinging it at your friend-squeeze-companion because he or she said something funny? That’s because the popcorn inevitably misses your friend completely and hits the unfortunate person behind—who happens to be me. Here’s a deal: you throw popcorn at me and I can throw hotdogs at you. With the bun and dressing. 4) Commentary: Nuff said. If I wanted a blow-by-blow account, I’d buy the DVD. 5) Dialogue Coach: You’re watching the movie and then in the darkness someone’s cellphone is clearly on. Then you hear the hushed but still very much audible dialogue: “Hello! I’m at a movie. What’s that? Really? I’m in a movie…” and on and on for five minutes! Wait, did you not listen to the Kung Fu Panda at the start of the film? These are a few of my cinema cine-nots, what are yours? Read about the brouhaha over the movies of would-be national artist Carlo J. Caparas in the October 5, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera Associate Editor DEFINED by the spaces we gain consciousness in, we expand horizons but only to the limits of what surrounds us. Filipinos are born into socio-economic classes which are driven home by where we reside. Be it hovels, one-room apartments, old apartments, high-rise studio condos, townhouses which go up and down, charming bungalows, split-level houses and mansions; we are where we live. Once we leave home and graduate from school (itself another form of housing) we branch out in search for a new home, one which we will define, shaped by what we are capable of and ultimately what we earn. This is the sliding scale of adulthood vis a vis a dwelling. We start off staying with our parents or in laws, then move on to a tiny apartment somewhere where we will struggle to be ourselves in an ever crowded universe. Even the structures around us, the structures we pass and enter and exit, they define us as well. The Big Dome is about big events, big games and big concerts. Our schools start out small because we are small and grow, first unto high school, a measure even in the name, all the way to the higher learning that comes with college and beyond. Perhaps the worst thing is to not be able to go home anywhere. We have a semi-humorous term for it, NPA (No Permanent Address), which is just another term for homeless. In that sense, it is an individual exile that is particularly galling because everyone else has a permanent address. It is the kind of loneliness and being alone that is unforgiving and cannot be forgiven. What keeps them going? A dream of a place all their own. That house, the one we finally own, the one we finally planned and built, is the dream. It is the single moment of definition and self-actualization. This house exists in all our heads, and, in a unique melding of planning and lives, duplex dwelling in the minds of married couples. What furniture shall we buy? What color will our walls be? Where does the TV go? And what kind of dog do we get? Imagine all the opportunities that had to have been taken to reach that point, when you are able to conceive of a house, inside and out, and actually bring it into fruition. As Queen once said: “It’s a kind of magic.” It is an idea finally made concrete, a dream made real. Read about the next step in condominium living in the Sept. 27, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera Associate Editor I NEVER quite understood the saying “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” For one thing, I consider teaching on any level to be one of the most difficult disciplines to learn. Those who aren’t up to snuff simply will not last more than a couple of years at the job. The challenge isn’t just about instruction skill—though classroom presence and technique matter immensely—but about compassion. One of the most significant discoveries of teachers who endure is how to care just enough about the students. You need to care enough to want to see each one succeed, not let them get lost in the multitude of faces and students numbers—and yet not fall into the trap of taking each student’s story personally. There is no easier or quicker way to burn out than trying to be everything to all. The vocation of “saving” students is not exactly part of the job description. What should be is to inspire. I honestly believe that the worst students make for the best teachers, because they know what the students are really thinking, and not just the smart and eager ones. The unlikely ones often become the longest-lasting ones. Teachers get their techniques from all kinds of places. I think it’s invaluable to be interesting in the classroom, to be able to hold their attention. I found my style after perusing a lot of standup comedy, of Letterman and Leno, Robin Williams and Mitch Hedberg, and of course, the great Rex Navarette. A good grasp of “Shaider” and “Bioman” helps as well. I always thought the next step would be to learn to make balloon animals, do magic tricks and maybe eat fire. Let’s see the students sleep through that. Seriously though, people often develop their personal grasp on what teachers are and do from the movies they watch. Because of the nature of what teachers do, they are a favorite of movie makers. But the different movies often present different teachers and thus different teaching styles. Here are some examples: 1) “Dead Poets Society”: I put this first because it’s usually what other people mention as their favorite movie about a teacher. Sad to say, I have never seen it in its entirety. Yes, I know, horrible. But what I have seen tells me this Peter Weir opus is about inspiring boys with the possibilities of unfettered imagination and passion. As well as the benefits of standing on tables and reciting “O Captain, My Captain.” 2) “Stand and Deliver”: This 1988 project was the progenitor of the Tough Love style of teacher movies. Edward James Olmos is the curmudgeon Mr. Jaime A. Escalante who will lift the kids—and the young defiant Lou Diamond Phillips as Angel Guzman—by teaching them to stand up to reality. 3) “To Sir With Love”: Teaching the Other; that’s what comes to mind when I think about this 1967 movie directed by novelist James Clavell that features a lot of challenging British accents and the mesmerizing Sidney Poitier as the unforgettable Mark Thackeray. It also reminds us that standing straight, wearing suits and speaking in complete sentences will draw respect from any high schooler. 4) “Dangerous Minds” and “Freedom Writers”: These two movies are basically the same save that Michelle Pfieffer is a Marine and Hilary Swank is not. It’s about getting modern-day kids to trust that the teacher really does care, as well as how liberating learning to write can be for anyone. 5) “Finding Forrester”: This J.D. Salinger-like tale from Gus Van Sant has Sean Connery, basketball, the always excellent F. Murray Abraham doing Sallieri in the classroom and a manual typewriter. I can never think of this movie without hearing Connery’s inimitable brogue. It also has amazing insight into the writing process and a killer song in Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s plaintive take on “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” 6) “Remember The Titans,” “Gridiron Gang,” “Glory Road” and “We are Marshall”: Coaches are teachers in more than one way and these well-made true-to-life sports movies show just how much a difference they can make. 7) “Coach Carter”: Why separate this one from the others? Because the similarly true-to-life “Coach Carter” made a difference not just because of his offense-to-defense ideas, but because he stood up for the idea that grades are particularly important for athletes. Plus Samuel L. Jackson is electric in this. 8 ) “Mila”: The idea of the Teacher as Bleeding Heart isn’t new, but this Maricel Soriano starrer is a cautionary tale about how far we might go to save our wayward students. Soriano is really good in this Joel Lamangan tearjerker and a fine example on how saving others can turn into losing yourself. 9) The Indiana Jones movies, the Robert Langdon movies and “21”: These seemingly surprising addition shows the teacher as adventurer, possessing a truly practical approach to their teaching. Harrison Ford’s Jones is a treasure hunter, Tom Hanks’ Langdon is a symbologist/world saver and Kevin Spacey’s character Micky Rosa masterminds a team of MIT students in counting cards in casinos. 10) “The Sound of Music” and “The King and I”: What is a family-friendly fave from 1965 and Yul Brynner’s 1956 Oscar winner doing on this list? Governesses are teachers in many ways and here they brush up against authority and deal with it by song and affection. Plus the songs are really good. Let’s say you are the only person on the planet not to be charmed by Julie Andrews’ pixie hairdo, surely the magnificent Deborah Kerr will win you over. There are many more, of course, but this is how I would start. What about you? Never forget what “Dead Poets Society’s” John Keating said: I always thought the idea of education was to learn to think for yourself. Read all about some amazing teachers in the Sept. 20, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera  Associate Editor  THEY’RE good for you and can hold surprises. Since childhood, we’ve been counseled to eat fruits, as many as we can. Filipinos are, without a doubt, a fruit-eating population. I think a lot of it has to do with the mangoes.

Yes, the Filipino mango, the most amazing fruit in the world. There is simply no tree-born treat like it. Unsurpassed in its ripe sweetness, the Filipino mango also has a remarkable smoothness that translates even into its transformed forms, such as the legendary dried mangoes balikbayans know so well. That’s not to mention the ripe mango shake found on these shores. Down south, the ripe mango shake is not only delish, it’s also really affordable. My wife has a nephew from California who can literally down a ripe mango shake with every meal whenever he’s here on vacation.

Growing up, we had a mango tree in the yard, a big, leafy tree that has mysterious fruit-bearing tactics. It was almost a hobby just waiting for any sign of developing fruits. Today, there is a mango tree here as well, and it becomes a delicate game of waiting: Does one pick the little, still-green mini mangoes or do we wait until the mangoes are in full form and risk a fruit-napping by those pesky squirrels with a sweet tooth?

Other fruits had their charms as well. I never liked guavas—but many others apparently do—but I do remember we had a slender but remarkably strong guava tree that was rooted in my family’s yard but whose branches stretched out over the wall to our neighbor’s yard. It was practically a ladder next door. We spent many a day crossing back and forth on that sturdy tree with the distinctively peeling bark. I don’t recall ever actually eating fruit from that guava tree but those sun-drenched afternoons are a gift I would never forget.

We somehow had a pretty good supply of star apples (never was a fruit name so accurate) and they came in handy one summer when we declared war on the kids in the house across the street due to the constant tug-of-war over the shared telephone line—what we called the party line back in the 1980s. One day, we collected all the star apples we could and began chucking them at the gate. Oh, the grownups from both houses were unhappy that day, but I have to admit, despite the wastefulness of it, seeing the neighbor’s gate literally covered in star apple bits was satisfying in its own way.

Fruits can be surprising. I only found out fairly recently that the atis is also known, variously, as the custard apple, sugar apple but, most accurately, as the sweetsop. The guyabano is the polar opposite, the soursop. How many grapes (seedless!) are you supposed to eat on new Year’s Eve exactly? And I still can’t get my head wrapped around the idea that the tomato has always been a fruit.

Perhaps the most beguiling experience of a fruit I can remember comes from what I considered the smallest variety I encountered.  Back during those childhood afternoons when we race around trying to squeeze every minute we could from a day that was rapidly being pursued by a sinking sun, we looked around and found every game we could imagine, and made up a few more, surrounded by friends and unconquered by shadow. Those days are immortal and as sweet as the taste in our mouths, bunches of those tiny fruits we gathered by the handful, the aratiles (known otherwise by the rather unevocative tag, muntingia), each globe like a world of remembered flavor bursting alive with every bite.

Read about the latest twists on fruits in the September 6, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera Associate Editor WITH my addiction to the glorious liquid perfection that is Mountain Dew, I basically have caffeine running in my veins, to the point where it really doesn’t have any discernable effect on me—except when I wake up early in the morning. Like many others, I wake up a clean slate, a blank page, a husk of a person until I grab breakfast and my first drink of MD. Then, I feel myself steadily becoming human, like the caffeine is unlocking that part of me that makes me who I am. I like that state of semi-buzz, and I like to be in it the whole day. Because I already imbibe so much caffeine through my MD dosage, I don’t drink coffee. In fact, I never did, but I hold coffee drinkers in affection because they basically go through the same things I do, except their drinks are steaming hot, come in a size called venti and sometimes even have warning labels. Watching someone take their first drink of coffee in the morning is the perfect example of a BEFORE and AFTER ad. It’s like a zombie literally waking to life, complete with the grunts and moaning, the shuffling and the lack of normal human faculty until that first cup. When I was younger, coffee was virtually forbidden for kids. Back then, our coffee was different—it came in Nescafe, Blend 45 and Great Taste varieties only. We would be surprised to find out anyone our age drank coffee. It was something only grownups did. Even in college, few of us drank coffee. Hot Milo or Ovaltine was much the preferred drink in the morning from the vending machine or, if you had the time to get it, that piping hot chocolate from McDonalds. There was nothing the least bit glamorous about coffee. How times have changed. Today, grade school children quaff coffee (in frap form) like it’s water. People nurse their grandes at coffee shops the same way other people nurse a bottle of beer at bars. It is a mark of class to be carrying around that distinctive paper cup while you carry out the day’s duties. Coffee is here to stay and in the process, we see a society changed as well. We are now a 24-hour culture, people by call center employees as well as coffee consumers. Coffee is now taking all times of the day, for waking up, staying up and, well, for any other reason. I’ll stick with my MD. Coffee never agreed with me, but I own up to being one of the coffee generation. We are caffiends, every single one of us, and the world is our cup. Read about the joys of coffee in the August 16, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine “WALANG alam.” The derisive words were part of the voice-over for the political ad that run again and again on television at the height of the 1985 snap elections, with shots of Cory Aquino caught unawares to match.  Former strongman Ferdinand Marcos had seen fit to harp on his opponent’s lack of political experience, her being “a plain housewife who knew nothing,” and was therefore ill-equipped to run the country. But the feisty housewife fought back.  She countered in that flat guileless monotone: “Oo, wala akong alam. Wala akong alam sa pangungurakot, sa pang-aabuso, sa panglalamang ng kapwa.  (Yes, I know nothing—about corruption, abuses and hoodwinking the people).”  Or words to that effect. Then as now, the widow in yellow knew how to turn the tables around, just as the mammoth crowds who turned up for her wake and funeral proved that, contrary to the government’s perception that hers was a spent force, President Cory could still summon hundreds of thousands to the streets, all marching under her banner.. At any rate, in 1985, when she was known mainly as Ninoy’s widow, the women’s groups saw fit to give her some support. The Marcos ad after all insulted not just Cory, it also pricked our then-budding feminist sensibilities.  What’s wrong with being a housewife?  Who said women didn’t know anything? Why should men make all the political decisions in this country?  Women make up half of the state, so why aren’t we being heard on affairs of the state?  we bristled. So off we went, this small collective of women from several NGOs, to the weekly Kapihan sa Manila Hotel, ostensibly to sip coffee and partake of the subsidized breakfast that media people enjoyed while discussing with prominent news sources the issues of the day.  I no longer remember what the issue was at that time, but I recall that at a previously discussed appropriate moment, we dug into our bags and unfurled streamers denouncing Marcos and voicing our support for the plain housewife, while cameras clicked and recorded our faces for the Marcos minions to take note and compile dossiers of. It must have been risky back then, given the countless presidential decrees and subversion laws that the Marcos military regularly plucked out of thin air to stifle dissent.  But all I remember now was the exhilaration, the giddy feeling of relief that we could now raise our fists and voices higher because post-Ninoy assassination, the swell of our collective voices could no longer be drowned out.  Cory had changed the face of dissent. True, there were a lot of rallies as well before Ninoy, mostly from militant workers, farmers, students, sympathetic religious groups, the whole Leftist spectrum that most of us were proud to be members of.  But with the active participation of the so-called Middle Forces—the formerly apathetic (or scared) business sector and complacent middle class—the rallies assumed a more concrete sense of solidarity and validation. We felt invincible.  With virtually all sectors echoing the same sentiments, the feeling was that we could do no wrong and could therefore not be defeated.  The fact that most Cory rallies started out as prayer vigils didn’t hurt either. Call us shallow, but the fun factor helped as well. The intent was protest, but the mood was almost always celebratory: yellow ribbons, rain of yellow confetti, cheeky songs and creative chants, the rich and famous marching with the urban poor and the militants, wacky costumes and varied themes. It was like going to a party all the time.  In fact, food was a recurring theme.  The breakfast forum organized by various colegiala cliques served up coffee and politics, and made sure that the middle forces—here meaning us working stiffs—could still make it to their office on time while digesting the issues of the day.  There were lots of lugawan, fund-raising dinners meant to shore up the funds of the opposition and their beloved candidate.  Fishball stands, nilagang mais on kariton, taho vendors and assorted food hawkers marched along, a conjoined spectacle of commerce and causes. I remember all these when I joined Tindignation’s women’s rally against Con-Ass on July 26, barely a week before Cory headed home to Ninoy..  It was going to be a fun run, the invitation said, although it might as well have read “Tindig, takbo, gapang,”  considering that we middle lifers were not exactly in the best running form.  The run, the invite said, was from 7 a.m. to 12 noon which impressed my boss, a regular New York marathoner, to say, “Wow, that’s a long time and quite a distance.  How many kilometers are you running?” Two-three kilometers, just about, the hubby said, when he learned we were going to walk-jog-run from the Quezon Memorial Circle to Miriam College.  Still, I stayed up half the night checking the provisions from the list my runner-boss so excitedly provided me with:  Water? Check!  Gatorade? Check! Dried fruits and nuts (in lieu of power bars)? Check! Extra shirt? Check! Moist towelettes? Check?  Soon enough, my back sagged from the weight of my pack but I wasn’t complaining. When we took off in a leisurely pace, I knew I wouldn’t have any problem.  Even a septuagenarian grandma could have outpaced us, the way we ambled along, waving our yellow flags and giving out yellow ribbons to passing motorists. It was bracing, never mind that thanks to senior moments, I managed to forget the chant when we got to Miriam. It was something-something, “Con-Ass, Tutulan!”  I do remember what the young women behind us were chanting though: “Con-Ass ni Gloria, No Not Now!”   But some of us missed breakfast and from where we stood trying to still the rumblings in our belly, the last words sounded like, “Donut Now!”   Ahhh, for a cup of coffee! But the fun really started when we got to Miriam.  There were several short speeches from notable protest personalities, and the best I thought was from Ging Deles of the Hyatt 10 group (remember those GMA Cabinet members who resigned in disgust following President Arroyo’s “Hello, Garci” scandal?).  Why were the women protesting the Con-Ass and GMA’s term extension, she asked. Because, she continued, GMA owes us women a lot.  “She stole a lot from us.  She stole the people’s trust in the capacity of women to govern.”  That GMA did. As in most yellow rallies, there was music, this time by Leah Navarro and Pinky Marquez whose voice we don’t hear often enough. The best part of the program though was Juana Change who, on this particular rally, showed up in an Assumptionista uniform and proceeded to do her skit that informed the crowd about what the Con-Ass was all about, before engaging the entire gathering in a cha-cha dance-along session-- complete with a DI showing us the moves.  A conga line of cha-cha dancers, virtually the entire house, danced to the beat and gave themselves cause to sweat at last.   It was fun, it was invigorating, it was informative and definitely effective. You can be sure that joining rallies just became one important entry in those young people’s list of cool things to do in college. Just last weekend, the Concerned Artists of the Philippines proved once more how protest can be creative as well.  This time around, they organized a wake for the National Artists Awards, a protest on GMA bestowing the honor on four dagdag-bawas “artists,” among them Cecile Guidote, Executive Director of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA, the same body along with the Cultural Center that deliberates on the nominees), who should have declined the honors out of delicadeza, and “Panday” creator Carlo J. Caparas who got the award for Visual Arts when he didn’t draw, and for Film, when he is best known for his awful massacre movies. It was a solemn wake, but the mood was hardly funereal.  Outrage rippled through the crowd with every reminder of how GMA’s DNA (Dagdag National Artists for the four people she awarded despite their not being in the original list of contenders) killed whatever prestige, dignity and honors went with the Awards. But the presentation was riveting enough: mourning women in black veils marching up the CCP ramp like your worst nightmare, several respected National Artists burying their NA medallions in protest and Juana Change again performing before the appreciative audience of artists, writers, and assorted culturati. A funeral procession to the NCCA offices in Intramuros followed, with the intent of laying a giant funeral wreath at its doors. What was striking was how fresh and novel the artists’ protests were—from songs to poetry to enacting out the rites of burial. One visual artist poured ash upon himself to symbolize how the NA awards were now entombed, candles were lighted and black roses offered to remember the dead,  participating vehicles pressed their horns to protest this untimely demise, while posters and streamers showed wit and humor. “Huwag babuyin ang National Awards” went one, with the protester putting on the snout of a pig to stress the obvious.  Our favorite:  “Si Carlo Caparas, National Artist na? / Pwes, eto ang listahan ko/   Xerex Xaviera- Literary Arts/ Tita Maggi- Culinary Arts/ Agent X-44- Martial Arts/  Si GMA kasi, tema-arts!” Contrast this to the NCCA. To drown out the voices of protests and the chants (“Artista ng bayan/ ngayon ay lumalaban!), it played a succession of folk songs at full volume because, as its controversial head Cecile Guidote said in an interview, they only wanted people to have fun and to be happy.  Right! Even more distressing was how the NCCA positioned a crippled guy in a wheelchair and two blind men (members of her choir, we heard) before the protesters.  Was this a play for sympathy?  A bid to stop protesters from going into the NCCA office by putting up this disabled barrier?  Didn’t they think that these people could get hurt should any skirmish break out?  Or perhaps that was the idea.  The three men were the shield behind which crouched the NCCA should any skirmish happen. Actually it did, when a shouting match broke out between NA for Literature Bien Lumbera and a stage actress who now works for the NCCA, and who had resorted to that very cliché and unimaginative catchall expression of protest: flipping the bird. Too bad.  Protest is one of the best forms of expression.  And it becomes even better when it’s original, creative and fun. Let’s not let Tita Cory down.