August 2008 Archives

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. My wife Joysie, you see, is impossibly good with dogs. It's like she can read their minds. Even before we got married, she would tell me about time spent with dogs and I would start to find the whole idea cute. It was non-negotiable that dogs would be part of our lives once we got married. And the dog of our affections is the largest shih tzu known to man. His name is Mito (short for Mamito) and my wife brought him from the states. When she visited the kennel, she chose the biggest puppy. Who knew he was going to keep growing? But our wonderful mutant dog (he is pure shih tzu -- no Lhasa Apso in him Whatsoever -- he's just gigantic) just turned two and (I'm sure all dog lovers say this) is the smartest, cutest, most loyal dog ever. Once he got to the Philippines, he went quickly to work at Joysie's house to establish himself as the Alpha Dog. Along the day, he has learned how to open screen doors (put his paw in and then push with paw and nose) and has developed the habit of sitting up in dining room chairs like a human. I actually believe he thinks he's human now. At night, I can hear him barking quietly, sleepily. My wife says it's because he's dreaming. Sometimes, when I am up late and so is he, I sit with him on the parquet floor and, with him on my lap, stroke his fur as he lays still. My wife just told me that if I scratch him under the chin, he'll go straight to sleep. I did this last night for the first time and, I kid you not, within minutes, Mito was fast asleep--and snoring. And in the morning, when it's time for him to go out (the bizarrely early hour of six on the dot) he climbs up on the bed and pats me with his paws until I wake up. If I take my time waking up, he ups the ante by increasingly the frequency and intensity of the paw patting or -- the final resort -- starts licking me. That is sure to wake anybody up. It stuns me sometimes to think that, with how much affection and knowledge I have regarding Mito, my wife cares and knows infinitely more about him than I do. In a way, learning to love Mito is one of the greatest things I learned from my wife (and there's a lot). I waited all my life to meet Mito and now, I'm happy that I have all that saved up love to give.

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. Sounds petty now, but at that time and this was still the martial law era, I quaked in my boots at the thought that I could have been arrested, detained or “disappeared” while “resisting arrest” if I so much as protested that it was all a case of mistaken identity. My husband faces the same dilemma and undergoes the same dread at every Immigration counter. In fact, he has taken to bringing an affidavit to prove that he is not his namesake, who happens to be a felon in uniform. Believe it or not, my kids have started to hoard their share of identity crisis stories. The eldest for instance, was once summoned to the principal’s office and asked to bring her “delinquent” parents to school which, in this matriarchal country, often means the mother. We had been remiss in paying the tuition, the Registrar said with a self-righteous snort when I showed up looking very annoyed at the inconvenience. Did I know that the school could refuse to let our daughter take her quarterly exams unless we settled our overdue accounts? Looking even more pissed off, I fished out the official receipt from my bag and whipped it out with a flourish. And what do you call this? I countered, brandishing the OR that clearly indicated how we had paid the tuition in full. The Registrar peered at the receipt, examined the name, compared it with the list on the computer screen and immediately broke into a wheedling smile. It turns out my daughter had a namesake in the same grade. The very same name, added the woman, except for the middle initial. Unfortunately, the clerk must have been half-asleep and omitted that all-important letter, and that’s where all this confusion commenced.. This was exactly the scenario we had wanted to avoid when we decided to give our offspring two Christian names, and insisted that they use both in all their schoolwork. Well, didn’t work. We should have named the girl Iphegenia Clytemnestra Praxideles Dela Cruz, and our son Thermopylae Euclid Papanopoulous Dela Cruz. We’ve since used this ruse to keep the kids in line. Hey, we’d say when they proved particularly recalcitrant, the documents are all in and next month, they’re scheduling a court hearing on the name change. Want to come? No thanks to our parenting skills, we have two very well-behaved children on our hands. My grief with my name resurfaced anew last week, when we got a new artist in the office. The guy’s talented and shows up early at work, a real gem. But thanks to his name, I’ve had to deny fierce rumors that I’m building my very own dynasty in the Magazine. With the copy editor sharing the same name, we now have three J. Dela Cruzes in our small work team of seven. Hmm, let’s see: just where do you get these forms so you can file for a name change? Hey, I really want to know! Family values. Family feud. Family ties. Family curse. What’s the latest on the Filipino family? Check it out in the August 24 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

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. Nope; in fact, life could get worse and did. As the years brought more migrants from nearby provinces (I believe “informal settlers” is the politically correct word), the fishponds were filled up and reclaimed, with buildings and colonies of shanties spreading like algae on the once-pristine waters. Soon enough, the waterways were effectively blocked by the detritus of urban blight. Trapped by burgeoning construction, the rising tides sought alternate escape routes and found them on low-lying streets and homes. We had become, as Malabon native Nonoy Marcelo once described in his Bubwit komiks series, Mala-Venice. Were that we were as picturesque and prosperous! Living under the mercy of the tides meant developing survival skills worthy of Noah. Like most Filipinos, we initially tried to make light of it, shrugging it off as another chapter in a hoary hometown legend of how Malabon has been under some sort of curse from a siyukoy (merman), that someone had trapped during the olden times. “Pakawalan na ang siyukoy!” the hubby, another Malabon native, would yell out as soon as the murky floods started creeping into our driveway. Then we decided to make a meal of it, turning net bags from the grocery into handy fish traps and scooping out tilapia and bangus from nearby fishponds that had spilled their banks. This unexpected bounty had people rushing into the floodwaters for their share of the loot, and then turning around to sell the fish to more timid neighbors for as low as P10 a kilo. You can be sure we’d all have healthy protein for several days after. The floods also produced a fetish for wall calendars among us Malabon dwellers. Months before the New Year, we’d pass out word that we’re on the lookout for these humongous calendars where every single day is encased in a big square box replete with the time when low and high tides are expected, and a corresponding notation in meters of how high or low the waters would be. Long-time residents know better than leave their homes without first consulting the all-knowing calendar, much like the Trojans approached the Delphi oracle before they went to war. Good planning means knowing exactly when to leave the city before the tide rushes in, and coming home when it’s low tide. The perennial floods have dictated the look of our home and interiors as well. Over the years, we’ve gone from leather to mohair to narra furniture, our curtains have risen from floor length to just-below the sill, while our electrical outlets have migrated higher up the walls. We’ve also fashioned a uniquely dry and wet season look, with guests subtly advised to time their visits during the summer months. Otherwise, they’d have to scrounge around for comfortable seats: all the dining room chairs, the narra sofa, the side tables and cabinets are bound to be stacked ceiling-high with assorted stuff rescued from the rampaging floods; even the ref is suddenly up there, on a knee-high table fashioned out of spare lumber and old wood. All my dreams of turning my home into an approximation of a House & Garden model look sank into depths of dismay when I realized how the floods rule life and routine in these parts. And forget about getting a good night sleep when there’s a squall outside. You sit on your bed, ear to the latest storm update from Pag-asa and eyes on the floor for the tell-tale dampness that would herald another round of evacuation. If the floods reach a certain notch, you haul off another layer of stuff upstairs, knowing that in the jumble of clothes, books, shoes, picture frames and assorted things hurriedly packed off, you’re bound to forget where you put your keys, your eyeglasses, your arsenal of make-up—all the critical ammunition you need before you walk out into the world to commence another workday. Let’s see, lest you think I’m getting, err, carried away, I do have a few kind words about the floods: * What with sleepless nights and an enforced diet for fear of having to go to the bathroom too often when the drains aren’t working, you’re bound to be a few pounds lighter after the ordeal. Okey, irritable and grumpy as well, but those are the breaks. * Floodwaters spare nothing and inexorably find their way into the tiniest opening and the darkest recesses of home and hearth—where most lost things are. Suddenly, you rediscover that missing half of your favorite slippers, the Lego pieces you had written off as inadvertent fiber in your infant son’s diet, a Tupperware’s lost lid, the cellphone case you thought you had left in a cab. Of course being flushed out the way they were, these stuff are probably useless by now, but at least you’ve managed to solve a few puzzles in this lifetime. * There’s no shortcut to getting rid of the disgusting gamey smell that comes with floodwaters except a vigorous scrubbing with strong detergent and hard bristles. Since you have to go back to work as soon as the waters recede, the task falls on your househelp who probably hasn’t washed the floor in ages. This time, there’s no excuse. * With the entire household a mess, you now have enough reason to turn away unwelcome guests and potential hosting chores. Besides, who’d want to be stranded in this Waterworld? you’d tell them. Of course the kids used precisely this line to sleep over in a friend’s house, or so they told us. Okey, I don’t want to know. * Not being a particularly spiritual person, I know how the floods of Malabon can become an extremely religious experience. It’s true: there are no atheists in a foxhole, or rather, in a rising tide. As our 8-year old AUV negotiates the swirling waters, I’d suddenly find myself praying to God and all the saints, promising countless novenas and acts of charity and denial, but please God, don’t let the car conk out, just let us make it to higher ground, pleaassse! * And oh yes, we do get a lot of media mileage. On any given rainy day, Malabon is up there in the headlines, the city that churning waves built. Who knows, one of these days, I might even be on TV—giving an interview on life in the flooded lane. Glub, glub…

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.