Game of thorns

 

The soon-to-be law is anti-woman because it places squarely upon her shoulders the burden of birth control, with all the attendant physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual side effects. Husbands, fathers and sexual partners are mere spectators in this game of thorns – and the louder they doth proclaim to uphold women’s reproductive wellbeing, the farther they stay away from the encumbrances of responsible parenthood.

 

 

'An experience of well over forty years, says a physician writing in the British Medical Review, convinces me that the artificial limitation of the family causes damage to a woman's nervous system, and in generally poor health.'

'More good would come to our country through tongue control rather than birth control.' - Dr. Charles H. Mayo

And in this country, everyone speaks in strange tongues. Controlling the body’s strongest muscle entails sacrifice – which is a hard thing to do – and only a few are inclined to exercise restraint and abstinence.

So, now – after all is said and done, after all the discordant hue and cry about limiting human reproduction, after the last nail on the coffin is struck – I am going out on a limb to say that the RH Bill is ANTI-WOMAN. No shades of grey about it – fifty, sixty or a hundred different strokes for a hundred million different folks woefully ill-informed and acquiescent to the dictates of power.

The soon-to-be law is anti-woman because it places squarely upon her shoulders the burden of birth control, with all the attendant physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual side effects. Husbands, fathers and sexual partners are mere spectators in this game of thorns – and the louder they doth proclaim to uphold women’s reproductive wellbeing, the farther they stay away from the encumbrances of responsible parenthood. Who’s the stronger gender, anyway? Women power is not just another motherhood statement. We get stuck with the dirty job, every single effing day.

Thus, bring in the condoms already, lawmakers and business peeps. Teach 10-year-old kids how to use them now so that after a generation or two, the streets are rid of vagrant urchins and garbage scavengers. Shanties and riverbanks settlers would have disappeared from the urban landscape and the aging population is wallowing in meaningless wealth. Contraception, indeed, is the solution to poverty. In a disparate universe, maybe; or in one’s stubborn hallucinations.

RH, RH, RH - How do I love thee not? Let me count the ways...

After endlessly flicking the remote control and intermittently listening to the pros and cons being laid down on the Batasan floor in the midnight hour, it has become clear to me that House Bill 4244 is nothing more than a population control measure wrapped in a plastic packet marked reproductive health. Would controlling the birth of babies guarantee the eradication of poverty in this country? It’s just like asking, would the average ‘macho’ Filipino male choose to undergo vasectomy in order to reduce his spawn and make this a better place to live? Hah.

You, male authors and supporters of this bill, would you agree to remove from women the burden of ‘family planning’, ‘responsible parenthood’ or whatever fancy tag you call it, and have yourselves castrated? That is the surest and most effective way of decreasing births – within and outside of marriage. The line forms to the right, gentlemen. You have two or three kids already? Time to snip it. Your manhood won’t be diminished, promise.

Sure, provide pregnant women the best health care possible – including free vitamins and meds but excluding the unwarranted use of abortifacients – that’s not debatable. But the sad fact remains that women – being ‘cursed’ or ‘gifted’ with the uterus – have to bear the burden of reproduction and of controlling population at the same time. Take the pill and all its side effects, insert those weird-looking wires into their innards – while the husbands sit and look away. It’s time to man up and ‘bear the burden’, Dad. Give Mom a break. Make vasectomy obligatory. Then you’ll have my vote.

Do I want my little nephews and nieces to be taught in school how to make babies even as they themselves are still babies? NO. Children these days are already overexposed as they are to sex and violence in all forms of media, what’s to stop them anymore from ‘experimenting’, i.e. indulging early and contributing a few more to the population explosion?  Sex education is more important for ten-year-old kids than GMRC, catechism and stuff that have long ago disappeared from the primary school curriculum? Come on, Brother DepEd, Doctor DoH. Leave the ill rhetoric to showboating congressmen; they have work to do for their rich benefactors, um, poor constituents…

Do I want my teenaged nephews to carry condoms everywhere because it is the ‘safe’ way to do it? NO. That only encourages them to practice what their elders preach:  just do it. Government distributing contraceptives to teenagers – is it just me or have our morals gone to the murky waters of Pasig River? Would using condoms guarantee that no ‘unwanted’ babies are made? And would giving away those rubber dickies insure that the recipients will use it? In the same token, does the presence of CCTV cameras deter criminals from committing crimes? Incidentally, the grapevine says that the world's biggest manufacturer of condoms will be brought in by the country’s most ubiquitous businessman. It’s all about the money, folks. Reproductive health, so-called, is just a flimsy smokescreen.

Does the Church calling on its faithful to reject the bill constitute meddling in State affairs? The thin line that separates Church and State has never been trod more gingerly here. Did anyone from civil society raise a howl in February 1986 when the late Cardinal Sin called on the people to march to EDSA, and the nuns formed human barricades to prevent the soldiers from firing? I rest my case…and my unproductive ovaries. I may not have personally contributed to the baby boom but I am happy to see my siblings’ and cousins’ children – living, breathing, smiling, thriving creatures of God basking in their place under the heavens. I am happy that their parents didn’t have to be confronted with the dilemma of choice or life, the Great Conscience Debate, as it were, that couples today are being made to face; that they are not products of ‘unwanted’ pregnancies (because their ‘protection’ didn’t work), and they are loved no matter the circumstances.

Most of all, I am happy that my own parents did not practice family planning because – embryo, fetus, germ, seed, fertilized egg or unfertilized  ovum, whatever scientific term they call it, the naysayers be damned –  all six of us have the RIGHT TO BE HERE.

 

I don't need another hero

One lucky punch does not unmake a great champion. One shocking defeat does not diminish his accomplishments. All the blood, guts and gore he has spilled every time he stepped on the ring – he did so carrying on his shoulders the burdens of this country’s little people. (You politicians, who have made ‘para sa bayan’ your perennial campaign slogan, how much body fluids have you excreted in the name of your so-called constituents?) The fame and fortune he has accumulated in return, he got from honest TOIL – why begrudge him the perks that he and his family enjoy? (You with the crab mentality – have you done something honorable for your country lately?)

You’re still the man, PACMAN. No one has come close to you, at this day and age of wanton self-glorification, in defining true Filipino-ness and instilling Filipino pride. But please stay away from the packs of vultures already – they have fed from your palms long enough. And go back to the Rosary – if you still didn’t know it that was the missing link.

RICKY LEE AND THE BUSINESS OF WRITING

WRITING a film script has got to be an arduous task. It entails more than just typing words on a blank sheet of paper, or on a blinking screen, or wherever the mind's eye wanders onto. Sure it begins and ends with a story, but it takes the intricate workings of a creative writer's imagination to breathe realism into every character in every scene, flesh them out and imbue them with believable qualities in a sensible setting, if nothing else than show off a true microcosm of life as we know it.

And there lies the rub. Movies as we know them in these parts are mostly about who is, or are, in it. Celebrity is its own excuse for being, but it only makes one part of a whole, not in itself more important than the others. Does story and substance matter less than celluloid faces and thespian talent, if any? Go figure. See where the lines at the box office go, and weep or rejoice, whichever comes first. Note that today they lament, the local film industry is in the doldrums.

But then, you think of movies like Himala. Moral. Brutal. Salome. Cain at Abel. Alyas Baby Tsina. Karnal. Miss X. Ang Totoong Buhay ni Pacita M. PX. Haplos.Disgrasyada. Sidhi. Deathrow. Private Show. Lagarista. Anak. Rizal. Muru-Ami. Sabel. Aishite Imasu 1941. And you think Ricky Lee. You think of him as the guy who often ran up the stage in countless awards ceremonies on TV receiving trophy after trophy for the work he did in all those movies that have etched an enduring mark in the communal awareness of the Filipino movie-going public.

Ricky Lee has perfected the art of storytelling through motion pictures that one regards him in the same breath as the true masters of cinema, the late great directors Lino Brocka and Ishmael Bernal, having worked with them in most of his award-winning screenplays. He was one of the emerging names in the era considered as (the Second) Golden Age of Philippine Movies, the turbulent ‘70s and early ‘80s. Turbulent in the sense that Martial Law made the Artist restless, restive, agitated because they felt stifled, suppressed, shackled.

Be that as it may, it was the time when films such as Eddie Romero’s Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon?, Banta ng Kahapon and Agila; Mike de Leon’s Itim and Sr. Stella L; Lino Brocka’s Insiang, Maynila Sa Mga Kuko ng Liwanag and Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang; Ishmael Bernal’s Pagdating Sa Dulo and Relasyon; Celso Ad Castillo’s Ang Pinakamagandang Hayop sa Balat ng Lupa; and Peque Gallaga’s Oro, Plata, Mata gave people more than enough reason to troop to the movie houses despite the atmosphere of suppression. Censorship was a sticky issue and activists like Ricky Lee, who was part of the new wave of writers poised to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak, had to do the requisite time in jail before they could give vent to their creative juices.

And vent Ricardo Lee did. Starting as co-writer of the films Dragnet in 1973, Itim in 1976 and the unforgettable Jaguar in 1979, he went on to craft one screenplay after another: from Miss X and Brutal in 1980, to Nasaan Ka Man and Dubai in 2005. The year 1982 was one of his most prolific, having written his most famous work, Himala, as well as Haplos and Relasyon, among others. But it was in the ‘90s that his star shone brightly when he would churn out 10 to 12 film scripts a year from 1990 to 1996, with movies like Andrea, Paano Ba ang Maging Ina?, Gumapang Ka sa Lusak, Anak ng Dagat, Dahil Mahal Kita (The Dolzura Cortez Story), Sibak: Midnight Dancers, Ipaglaban Mo, The Flor Contemplacion Story, Madrasta, Lahar, Pangako ng Kahapon and The Sarah Balabagan Story gaining both commercial success and critical acclaim.

From then on, the name Ricky Lee became synonymous with scriptwriting. Having written virtually a treasure trove of 136 screenplays over the years, he can lay claim to being the dean of Filipino screenwriters, or something more exalted. And as testament to his being the authority figure in his field, he has been conducting free scriptwriting workshops since 1982 at his home to nascent talents who are now valuable fixtures in the entertainment industry. Yes, the writer is also a mentor who gives back and gives fully, with a selflessness that is unmatched in a realm inhabited by charmed denizens not entirely known for altruism.

Notice, however, that 2005 was the last time he wrote a movie (Dubai). Burnout? Not quite. He just shifted his focus to another noble endeavor: writing books. That is, while teaching young network writers the rudiments and complexities of the profession at the same time. The Muses, it seems, have redirected his passion and thrown it full-throttle to a new high ground. Ricky Lee says, amid thousands of books in his personal library, that writing novels is a new thrill for him. And the listener tends to agree, as he doesn’t have anything more to prove, and perhaps no more awards left to receive, as far as film writing is concerned.

But with books, he is going out on a limb to validate his conviction that Filipinos do read, that Filipino novels can be bestsellers and that writers in this country can survive, earn a decent living, by writing books. Apparently, he is being proven right, one way or another. His very first published novel, Para Kay B which came out November 2008 has so far sold 30,000 copies, making it a certified bestseller many times over.

Ricky believes that Para Kay B got snapped up at the bookshelves because the book is, in his own words, “embraceable”, quickly finding its own market niche among students and young professionals. It has a rather youthful audience, its post-modernist style appealing to male and female readers in their late teens to early 30’s, who could relate with the paperback because “it speaks their language, thinks their thoughts and fits their feelings.”

Para Kay B is the first novel written in Taglish, and the author had no misgivings about not following the rules and adhering to literary theories. It was the iconoclast in him at work, and the trendsetter blazing yet new and uncharted trails. He says the book can be described as “choppy” because of the shifting point of view and new characters that keep popping up in every chapter, generating mixed emotions and a fast turnover of the same emotions. Perfect for young audiences whose attention span is short and variable.

The book was conceptualized about three years before it saw print, beginning as a draft that he didn’t show to anyone. However, during the actual writing itself, he asked for inputs from several focus groups brainstorming at his library until the wee hours. He says he listened to all the ideas put on the table but, in the end, kept and protected the integrity of his work. It was all exciting for him, he ponders, and part of his usual “chaotic” creative process, which is pretty much how he writes his scripts.

The next item on his agenda was selling the book. Describing himself both as an artist and a businessman, he formulated a workable marketing plan that entailed, for starters, staging a big launch graced by a horde of his celebrity friends at the Bahay ng Alumni in his Alma Mater, UP. It was a successful affair, to say the least, with more than a thousand guests flocking to the venue and, needless to say, getting themselves a copy or two.

The launch was essential, he says, in order to make a splash and sell Para Kay B. “People will notice a movie but they won’t notice a novel,” he ripostes. He didn’t mind going the extra mile to push the product himself, directing his efforts to the realization of his mantra-like assertion that “If I write a book, I’d want it to be read.” He mentioned matter-of-factly that he has no qualms about doing things that an artist of his caliber would never do, like personally selling concert tickets to promote a book the way he did with Si Tatang at mga Himala ng Ating Panahon some 15 years ago.

Also part of his promotional scheme was going on a blitz of school campuses in strategic places across the country as well as embarking on mall tours with the attendant mini-show, the latter being de rigueur these days in pushing brands and talents. The teacher in Ricky Lee liked the instances when he conducted discussions with students inside classrooms where the book was an assigned reading. “It was one way to get feedback directly and I wanted to hear their thoughts,” he said. The campus tours, however, were aborted due mainly to his busy schedule and he wishes he could do it again when he props up the second novel that is due to be launched soon.

Which brings him to the main thrust of his overall marketing effort. He says he wants to come up with several titles, with the same sizes and catchy covers, and see them all lined up at the bookstore shelves; believing that with more books, the greater the visibility and the easier it would be to sell them. The second and third titles are now in the works and he hopes to finish one of them – a political satire with the folkloric aswang as central character – in the next few months. Orders have already started to pour in and 5,000 pre-sold copies are not a far-fetched notion.

Asked if going international is included in the groundwork, he says it would entail translating Para Kay B to pure English and he doesn't have the time to do that in the immediate future. However, the idea of reaching a much wider audience appeals to him because compared to his work on TV or the movies where the "credits" are shared with the director and other production people, books are strictly personal. "The work is mine alone", he states, and the comments that he gets are intended for him as well.

For the time being, selling Para Kay B outside the Philippines is limited to Filipino communities abroad. Initially, it is consigned at a bookstore in Hong Kong and the same arrangements are also being made for places in Saudi Arabia. The possibilities are endless, the business side of it anyway, and it would be quite a feat if Filipinos all over the globe would embrace, not just books by Ricky Lee but those of other Filipino authors, too.

And even as the eminent playwright is consumed by his passion to write volumes, he earns his keep by conducting workshops and training writers as creative manager of the network giant ABS-CBN. For after all, writing books in this country is still a stab in the dark; a leap of faith that might not get you to the next level, as it were. At best, it only serves to stoke the ego, but if anchored on Ricky Lee's visionary moorings, books written by Filipinos could experience a renaissance of sorts. A classical revival or a surge of new expectations, whichever way the literary winds will blow.

All rights reserved/By Denn A. Meneses/June 2010

PINOY IN THE MIRROR

If you want to make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change.
(Man in the Mirror)

I am a Filipino, born and bred in the Philippines, and I am looking at myself in the mirror. Do I like what I see?

That is a conundrum difficult to ignore lest hypocrisy set in or indifference get in the way of pseudo-nationalism. But there lies the rub, or the ambivalent feelings, if you will. Charles Dickens must have had in mind this fateful country of ours when he wrote the opening paragraph of his famous novel, published in 1859 –

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

Prophetic words, those, and ever so close to the paradoxes of our own befuddling times. Neither here nor there, almost hither but going thither, aiming for the sky but getting stuck in limbo, choosing the straight path but ending up wedged between a rock and a bump-laden place. Are the best of times way past us now? Have the worst of times only just begun? I shudder to think as I ‘poke’ the mirror discombobulating in front of me.











Would Rizal have been proud?

It is nice to say, I am proud to be Filipino – with nationalistic fervor burning inside – but is the feeling of pride deeply embedded in my bones? Without batting an eyelash, would I proclaim myself an inheritor of Rizal’s race to anyone who would ask at risk of being discriminated against? Would I solemnly swear upon the now-ancient fields of Bagumbayan that I am Filipino first, citizen of the world-wannabe far second, and that I won’t leave it for greener bucks when the opportunity beckons?

Twenty-five years ago, the answer would have been quick and simple. The bloodless revolt that threw out an overstaying usurper brought the Filipino people global acclaim and admiration heretofore unthinkable for a country mired too long in subservience and complacency. For the first time in recent memory, pride in our own skin was non-negotiable. We, as a nation, shone like silver and glittered like gold. It was hip to be Filipino, in the eyes of the freedom-loving world – all because we did in three days what took Gandhi eight times as long to accomplish – that is, do the Salt March across India and jumpstart the civil disobedience movement that eventually set his country free.

It was one moment in time that the country basked in reflected glory. Proud Pinoys we were, and deservedly so. Sadly, though, the afterglow did not linger long. Whatever goodwill we earned in a flash of the L-sign (remember Jane Fonda at the Oscars?), dissipated in a blink. Democracy, Philippine-style, was born, and we are now none the better for it. Coup d’état became the catchphrase of the era. ‘Plain housewife’ vs. ‘macho men’ in uniform made like the real-life ‘80s’ incarnation of ‘plants vs. zombies’. Political demagoguery started to rear its ugly head, spawning a new breed of politicians bereft of ideology and full of themselves.

Back in '86, the Filipino stood proud and tall.

Where has pride in our own skin gone, obsessed as we are with whitening the same skin, trying hard to look like bleached imitations of perceived gods and goddesses on glossy magazines and movie screens? The Great Malay must be tossing and turning in his grave for the wanton desecration of his beloved race. ‘Dark’ skin is ugly? Try pretense, or superficiality. Beauty, or what goes out of derma clinics and is fashioned by doctors’ scalpels, has never been more truly skin-deep – Filipina beauty, even more so. Define present-day Filipina beauty, by the way. Even Venus Raj is starting to look, um, different.

Who’s to fault Juan and Juana de la Cruz for doing the diaspora, the brain drain, the e-mail order marriage? Who’s to begrudge the family breadwinner and ordinary wage earner for packing their bags and toiling in strange lands, for risking life and limb to hook up with strangers, armed with just a dream and a prayer? The mighty foreign currency, the prodigious lands of milk and honey, the life of comfort and plenty so far removed from that of near-penury and scarcity – they are too tempting to refuse, too impractical to pass up, too foolhardy to decline in the name of, what…patriotism?

In the process, have we become too worldly and too materialistic for our own good, too covetous of things and fixated with situations that are oftentimes beyond our reach, living way beyond our means and sinking deeper into holes we created for ourselves because we can’t tell when enough is enough? There is nothing wrong with working hard to improve one’s economic status, but amassing money through no dint of honest toil should at least give one the shivers. If you are a ‘lowly’ bureaucrat, and you live in a huge house with a fleet of SUVs, suspicions of unexplained wealth are par for the course. Corruption isn’t the sole domain of whoever sits in Malacanang and their minions. Just go to the nearest gated subdivision in the poorest of provinces and a new mansion-like structure will tell you someone recently received a hefty kickback from some government contract or other. Scruples are a thing of the past; venality is the new ball game. Blame half-Filipino crooner Bruno Mars: I wanna be a billionaire so freaking bad…






Cheating happens.

So now behold the spectacle of brazen officials holier than thou and chronic agitators itching for appointive positions – digging up ghosts of elections past to pin down the most demonized president in Philippine history, as if the Little Lady had done nothing but line her pockets while warding off coup attempts and dealing with turncoats and opportunists. In so doing, they rattle skeletons in other people’s closets, point dirty fingers at ‘cheaters’ but never own up to their own dubious schemes. Who hasn’t machinated their way to election victory in this country, anyway? How many election losers beat their chests and proclaim they didn’t lose but were cheated?

Since they’re already at it, why not dig as far back as ’92 and find out if it was really FVR who won and not Miriam, as the latter had alleged? Then we can put the all-important asterisks, posthumous or not, beside everyone’s names and live smug with the thought that those who lost were cheated and those who won were cheaters. If, by some funny joke or something, there are actually incumbents who will say they never cheated in elections, please come forward, be recognized and make your tribe increase. You are a rare species. But remember, vote buying is a major, major form of cheating and any candidate, down to the lowest barangay kagawad, who doesn’t buy votes must be living in the time of Amaya.

Seriously. We seriously disrespect our leaders by calling them names that will make even the Devil flinch in embarrassment. (Calling your enemies names does not necessarily dishonor them, it only diminishes you and brings you to a level much lower than where you think they are.) But we vote them, and their children’s children, into office anyway. We install those whom we derisively call thieves, crooks, frauds, idiots, dwarfs (intellectual or otherwise), bitches, drunkards, womanizers and what not, into positions of authority. The Filipinos’ penchant for nicknames, when used as a term of endearment, makes us unique like that, but using the same to degrade other people with impunity is nothing but a misplaced sense of self-righteousness. Not much different from the sloganeering and empty oratory that come out of official pronouncements, day in and day out, on the airwaves and in the corridors of power. We do deserve the kind of leaders we get, don’t we, hecklers and all? A reflection of our shared will as a people? Rizal couldn’t have been more right: Tal pueblo, tal gobierno.

It's all about the money, money.

Not too long ago, we convicted a former president of plunder based on evidence, and not on the mere say-so of a few angry birds; the same one ‘magnanimously’ pardoned by his successor after spending a few months in ‘rest house arrest’. Now ‘Jose Velarde’ (not to be confused with ‘Jose Pidal’) acts like a pristine soul and has joined the bandwagon in accusing ‘Pandak’ of the crime he was in fact proven to have committed and of feigning illness to evade prosecution. Déjà vu. By all means, let’s ride the carousel and do it once more, though it doesn’t look like ‘Pandak’ will enjoy the same ‘magnanimity’ given the vindictiveness now prevailing at the Palace by the Pasig. ‘No let-up’, is what they’re saying, as if the country’s future rests solely on putting the former Beelzebub Family behind bars. Never mind if the horse is almost dead, why not let’s all shame and hound the former Beelzebub Family if there’s nothing else we should do, no matter the cost to life and limb (two suicides, so far), until a new Beelzebub Family manifests itself, and the nasty cycle starts all over again.

Media glossing over personalities and highlighting the trivial rather than the substantial doesn’t help paint a pretty picture, either. Giving prominence to showbiz gossip on prime time news in the name of ratings; propagandists masquerading as columnists to advance the cause and self-interest of their not-so-hidden clients, corporate or political; arrogant talking heads and condescending mouthpieces babbling motherhood statements that have seen better days, recycled to fit new egos; providing lame characters a round-the-clock platform (15 minutes are not enough, Andy) to perorate without ceasing and spew forth nothing but hot air and blather – should we blame them for giving us schmuck, or do they give us schmuck because schmuck is what we want?

The tabloid mentality that we have all sank deep into is turning us into a nation of escapists and scapegoats, spectators and spectacles, fishwives and fishy tales. The medium is the message, indeed, and the message has become just an afterthought, delivered in a language that is a hazy mish-mash of interlocking tongues, because it has become increasingly difficult for a good number of the populace to speak and write either in straight English or pure Filipino. Three or four decades ago, we were fluent in English and Spanish plus Tagalog and the local dialects that we spoke as children. Rizal the linguist would have been proud. But we struck off Spanish from the school curriculum for being ‘irrelevant’ and English has now become, er, the lingua franca of rich kids showing off their pedigree and college graduates training to be call center agents.











Politics and showbiz: All form, no substance.

Honesty, self-discipline, sacrifice, hard work and perseverance – there was a time in our grandfathers’ world when such traits embodied the Filipino heart and soul. Mutual respect, gentility, tolerance, decency and honor were virtues that they lived by. What happened since then? What happened to that era not too long ago when we were actually second only to Japan as Asia’s economic power? Gone to the ill winds of change…

But then I look at Manny Pacquiao and my faith in the Filipino is revived. I look at this big little man – all heart and no pretensions, with a palpable naiveté that is at once endearing and not off-putting – who has single-handedly brought Filipino-ness in the global spotlight purely on grit and strength of character; whose rise to fame rested on his sturdy shoulders alone, with scant help from high-profile politics-driven sports officials; who was initially jeered for being ‘just a boxer’ with a thick Visayan accent, but is now greatly admired by great men the world over. Thank heavens for this guy, and other homegrown sportsmen like him, whose fighting spirit literally lifts this country from the pits of hopelessness and oblivion.

I look at the Honest Taxi Driver who goes out of his way to return money and valuables left in his cab, without so much as a handshake and a few minutes’ worth of sound bites to recognize his integrity. I look at the Police Officer who toils under the noonday sun and pouring rain to give some veneer of order in unsafe and chaotic streets, even when he is maligned for the dastardly deeds of a few rotten eggs in his organization.

Mean fists.

I look at the Doctor in the Barrio who climbs mountains and crosses rivers to bring aid to forgotten villagers in remote areas deprived of hospital care, and the Volunteer Nurse who endures exploitative pay just to be able to meet the required ‘hospital experience’. I look at the Underpaid Teacher who deems it not beyond her dignity to instead serve as Domestic Helper on foreign shores, caring for other people’s children and leaving behind her own, so she can earn a little above minimum wage and send dollars home to prop up an economy that has become dependent on the brow of Overseas Filipinos.

I look at Efren Penaflorida and the countless unsung heroes in our midst who, in spite of poverty or because of it, have managed to extricate themselves from the curse of illiteracy and pass on the gift of knowledge to those similarly less privileged, with little or no aid from so-called philanthropists (they came in droves after he was recognized by CNN) and just a wooden pushcart serving as their classroom. I look at the Homeless Kids, considered by some as dregs of society, who turn to sports to make a difference in their lives and do their country proud in the little way they can – plucked by kindred souls out of their miserable plight to kick balls across dirt fields, so that their orphaned existence might acquire new meaning and they can tell the unbelievers with unspoken pride: We’re playing for the country, what about you?

I look at Janela Lelis, the 12-year-old school girl whose singular deed of carrying the Philippine flag to safety at peril of her own life amid rising floodwaters in her hometown, reminds us jaded adults with an awe-inspiring realization that nationalism, be it accidental or unenlightened, is not lost in the young, after all.

Bless the beasts and the children.

Famous or nameless, they make being Filipino much more bearable for bringing to fore the qualities that truly define us as a people: courageous and indomitable when confronted with difficulties, hopeful and resolute in the midst of adversities, cheerful and hospitable almost to a fault, conscientious and trustworthy when the opportunity presents itself, with the word ‘survivor’ written on their forehead because they are nothing less than that.

Patronage politics and apathetic politicians be damned, as well as the noisy minority who rant and rave with no rhyme or reason, every single God-forsaken day. They certainly do not speak for the rest of the law-abiding, tax-paying citizenry who plod through life without the discordant sound and mindless fury coming out of inveterate hecklers, but who love their country nonetheless by choosing to slug it out come hell or high water, in the Motherland, the only way they know how, quietly, painstakingly – without fear and recrimination, with much pride and not much prejudice; subscribing to the tenet that justice should take its normal course, where even the most hardened criminal is entitled to due process in a court of law and everyone else is presumed innocent until proven guilty; adhering to democratic principles and all that holy crap, including the freedom to express oneself and the right of others to express a contrary point of view.

Damaged culture or not, identity crisis or confused state of flux, pseudo-nationalists or true patriots, incompetent government or naïve electorate, this country right or wrong, love it or leave it alone.

All rights reserved/By Denn A. Meneses/September 2011