By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

NEVER did I consider myself an animal lover. I had a couple of strange pets growing up, including a rooster named Randy and a fortune lobster. In fact, if you did that Internet quiz on your porn name (name of first pet plus street you grew up on), mine would be awesome: Randy Bonanza.

But I digress. I was pretty much a loner growing up, and pets never figured in the equation. Oh we had animals around us, but I was never the type to spend time with them. What I did like was giving them names. I mean, Brownie, Blackie and Doggie don’t cut it. I like names with a bit of a sense of humor. When my family got a rather sleek, longish dog and promptly named it Hotdog (not me), I took it to the next level and named our next dogs Ketchup and Mayo (that is me). But I never imagined that I would grow to absolutely adore dogs, the way my old boss Alya adored hers (hello Banana!). It’s all my wife’s fault.
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By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

THE man at the Immigration counter stared at his computer, scanned my passport and gave me the eye. Oh no, I thought, it’s happening again. I felt like this guy in the movie “Groundhog Day” who wakes up every day to repeat exactly what transpired the previous day. Déjà vu never felt as scary — and as inevitable.

I knew exactly what the problem was: my name, my unbelievably pedestrian, overwhelmingly common, disgustingly anonymous name. For all I know, I must have had at least a dozen namesakes on the Immigration bureau’s hold departure list that particular night and the BID agent was just being careful.

Sigh. I probably share my last name with about 30 million Pinoys, 40 million if you count the two variant spellings of Dela (De La) Cruz. Out of curiosity, I once checked the phone directory to see how many Dela Cruzes there are, and was amazed at how prolific our common ancestors must have been. As sure as there’s a Filipino in every global disaster, there’s bound to be several Dela Cruzes in every barangay. Fortunately, we no longer have these medieval wars of attrition that saw legit heirs to the throne systemically decimated by their scheming enemies; can you imagine all those pretenders to the throne coming out of the woodwork and the endless wars of succession that we’d have to put up with?

Technically speaking, I am not a Dela Cruz. But I married one, never imagining the drastic changes that this little act of commitment would rain on my life. The first time I applied to renew my passport under my married name, I had to line up for hours for my NBI clearance. No problem, I thought; after all, my biggest crime was probably entertaining impure thoughts, and they certainly don’t have police records on those. To my horror, the NBI clerk beckoned me to a window and gave me a long list of crimes and misdemeanors that would be enough to put me on the national police’s order of battle. What the…? I muttered, scanning the all-points bulletin that listed estafa, concubinage, illegal recruitment, adultery, fraud, grave scandal and other crimes attributed to this “Josefina Dela Cruz.” A one-woman crime wave, imagine that.
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By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

IF you welcome the rains, you’re either a farmer in a parched field, a student reprieved from classes, or a resident of anywhere but the cursed coastal cities of Navotas and Malabon.

Believe me, the tiniest gray cloud, a spit of rain or a low rumble in late afternoons immediately presage panic. Especially if you’re nowhere near home. You stare at your office computer thinking, did I remember to put my stash of magazines on top of the dresser? Have I put up my shoes? Are all the electric plugs safely stowed away?

Many many years before, we’d drive into the sunset along Malabon’s main road which was then rimmed on both sides by fishponds. One of our favorite dating places was The Fish Fun, a motley cluster of adjoining huts jutting out into the waters where one can spy sprightly bangus swimming in blissful ignorance of their impending doom. A plate of grilled fish plucked straight from the waters and served with an assortment of dips and achara (pickles) cost less than P20 at that time. But that wasn’t the biggest bargain. What made people flock to this place was the sense of serenity that the stretch of waters on both sides suggested, and the feeling of contentment as one literally walked over a brimming food bin. Could life get any better, we’d think with a hearty burp after the satisfying meal.
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By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

BECAUSE Filipinos only experience two seasons, we invariably attach much meaning and sentiment to both. Summer–the dry season–becomes an idyll of beaches, sunshine, freedom and long days. The other season, the wet or rainy season, becomes a poignant period of showers, cool afternoons and dreaming.

Most Filipino school children longed for summer, longed to be released squealing from their restrictive classrooms into the seemingly endless–but altogether too short–months of April and May. But I always preferred the rainy season, the raindrops of June and July, together with the pitter patter of rain as you dropped off to sleep at night.

June and July also came with its requisite typhoons of course and everyone became a radio listener as we begged for a day off from school even as the floods rose and the winds howled.

But as I grew older, I learned to appreciate the rainy season even more. Rain, you see, compresses time. There’s no telling what hour it is in the middle of a rainstorm. It’s like time literally stops to matter. All you have is the rain and you. It’s an unforgettable sensation, like kissing a girl in the gentle drizzle, or the barest hint of sunlight passing through the fragments of cloud and coldness. And people flee indoors. Some people liked to cuddle up with a book. Others cuddle up with someone they cherish. Rain translates our moods for us. If lonely, rain weeps. If happy, rain consoles. I always liked to sit by a window and just look out the window for hours, just listening to the individual raindrops dance on whatever surface they could encounter as I dreamt of poetry and better times.