Beauty and the Best

Silver Lining

“You are beautiful but you are empty.”

These were the words used by the Little Prince to describe the roses here on Earth—the roses whose petals and thorns were exactly the same as those of his solitary flower, who stirred his emotions and inspired his life on Asteroid B-612. Yet, the similarity of the roses and the flower ends just at the physical features. The thousands of roses he had seen on Earth were entirely different from his only one, because those roses never touched somebody’s life.

We, human beings, spend a great deal about beauty. We define it; contemplate about it, set standards on it, appreciate it, and even wish and pray for it.

Beauty has created confusion in our society today. Physically attractive individuals, though so often admired and adored, have to double their efforts to prove their worth beyond their looks. On the other hand, the average-looking persons, or the “plain” ones, have always been judged and discriminated because of their “physical inadequacy.”

The Miss Silliman pageant has embodied the tradition of showcasing beauty. Year after year, Sillimanians, and the rest of Dumaguete, witness the magnificence of the candidates, primarily in the pre-pageant and coronation nights. But to think of the pageant as a mere showcase of beauty is too shallow a thought. There is more to the crown than being “the most beautiful” in the campus.

This year, the seven candidates have defied the standard stereotypes of beauty queens. The organizers have dared to go away from the usual fanfare of beauty pageants. And the theme has evolved into the discussion of the pageant itself as an institution, and of the candidates as human beings, not superficial beauty icons.

Judging from the results and feedbacks in the pre-pageant and coronation nights, and the public’s response so far, Silliman University has succeeded in revolutionizing a beauty pageant.

Miss Silliman 2005 Joyce Zerda of the College of Performing Arts, the runners-up, Matilde Irene Hescock of the School of Communication and Scarlett Hartmann of the College of Arts and Sciences, and the rest of the candidates, have exemplified beauty at its best.

They have spoken. They have performed. They have walked and sashayed through the stage. They have challenged themselves in different activities. They have convinced us, as well as the judges, that they possess a balance of beauty, character, intelligence, and talent.

But the pageant did not end last Friday. The real Miss Silliman pageant begins soon after the coronation night. The actual pageant begins today. The real pageant is the everyday ups and downs of University life.

They may have hurdled through practices, pictorials, big nights, and the Extra Challenge, and skirted scandals and controversies, but the winners, the candidates, and the organizers, now face a new challenge of living up to its theme of A Legacy Beyond Tradition.

In my four-year stay here in the University, I have heard controversies surrounding the Miss Silliman crown. In some instances, the prestige and status of being a Miss Silliman has unleashed the “beast” within the winners and the candidates. Beauty and the beast, I would always say, whenever I hear stories after another.

But this year, the candidates, as Joyce said it, have chosen “to make a difference.” I would like to believe that this year, and the years hereafter, will give us a new perspective on Miss Silliman—that the crown should not awaken the beast, but, should bring out the best in every candidate, even after the pageant night. That, being beautiful would equate to being the best that they can be, in whatever undertaking they wish to pursue.

Matti said it quite well. The crown should not define the person, whoever she may be. Instead, she should define the crown, whatever the odds are.

Organizing an event as big as the Miss Silliman pageant is quite a task. The organizers have done their part well. It is now up to them to make a better, meatier role for Miss Silliman. Perhaps it would help if they look outside the boundaries of the University, and start actualizing our social responsibility. As Sanaz put it, the Miss Silliman should not just be limited to the academic world. 

But the success of the new Miss Silliman does not solely depend on the winners, candidates and organizers, but on all Sillimanians—on how we respond to the changes, on how we view the ladies, and on how we conduct ourselves. If we want to revolutionalize the pageant, which we already have started, we should continue it by being responsive and sensitive to its needs and deficiencies.

The pageant has ended, but the challenge has just begun. It is now time to convert words into actions. It is now time to prove the notion of “empty beauties” wrong. It is now time for inner and outer beauty to shine side by side.

Here’s to beauty and the best. Cheers! 

"Whoever said money can’t buy happiness doesn’t know how or where to go shopping."
 
This quote from Candy
mag is definitely one of my fave kick-*ss statements since high school.
I love it. And I can attest to it. I always had and I always will.
 
Shopping
(which, for me, includes window shopping and bargain hunting!) is
really a therapeutic activity for my unrested brain, my overworked
body, and my distressed soul. Shopping makes me feel good, even better,
sometimes, best. It gives me complete and utmost control of my life,
even if it means countless hours of walking, pulling, fitting, and
deciding whether the item is worth it or not. It makes me feel free. It
is a quick pick-me-up everytime I feel down. It is a perfect way to
celebrate whatever heights I have achieved in life.

Unfortunately though, some people may think of shopping as a shallow thing. Just for the fashionistas.
An expensive hobby for pea-brained girls who knew nothing. Just a waste
of time and effort. And money. I am not a fashionista and I do not plan
to convince anyone who considers me dumb to think otherwise, but here
are some lessons I have learned from my shopping experiences–from the
clothes/accessories I have bought and those I have not. To be safe and
secure of my journalistic future, and to prevent anyone from accusing
me of plagiarism, I would like to say that this was inspired by the
article, If the Shoe Fits. Take it easy, guys and gals, I am just
writing this to support my stand that living is like shopping or that,
life is like a big, colorful mall, or an overloaded boutique!

The Perfect Find
Clothes
or accessories belonging to this category are those that are reasonably
priced and well-fitted or well-suited to myself. I just have to have
the right feel whenever I saw pieces of this kind. It is like my Eureka moment,
when I instantly fall in love with a shirt, blouse, skirt, or a pair of
shoes. And that love grows to a higher extent when I fit them in the
dressing room and I see myself in the mirror–all aglow with the right
fit and the right color. The last requirement is the money I have in my
wallet, or whether the store allows two-day reservations so I still
could withdraw from my allowance, or beg my mom to send additional moolah for my fashion emergency! My latest find is my light blue trench blouse from Marjorie’s, which was only priced at P200.

Lesson
learned: In life, there are just perfect moments that seem to fit well
in our own puzzle boards. Either these are mundane, funny, tear-jerking
or brain-freezing scenes, they are there to remind us that life is
beautiful. Sometimes, the perfect finds can be persons–strangers, best
friends, teachers, and even, the innocent househelp in your boarding
houses.

The Quite So Expensive One
A
night after my arrival from the Land of the Rising Sun, cherry blossoms
and kokeshi dolls, I went shopping with my family and I saw this
Oriental-inspired long blouse from Genevieve Gozum. It was made from
Chinese cotton, hand-embroidered and colored red, which happened to be
my fave color at that time. The only problem was that it was priced
close to half a thousand and my heart sank. It fitted me perfectly
though, so, even if it hurts, I bought it anyway. And I do enjoy
wearing that dressy stuff from time to time.

Lesson learned:
Sometimes we have to make great sacrifices in life to obtain our goals.
There are just experiences that are worth the risk, the tears, the
scary thoughts, or the embarrassing moments. Sometimes we have to
swallow our pride, eat our words, change our minds, and sweat it all
out. But nothing compares the joy and the pride at the end of all our
agonies.

Rusted and Weathered
I have this caramel-colored pair of ballet flats from Centropell. It
was the closest thing I got for myself to replace my cream Mary Janes,
which I had intentionally left in our dormitory in anime land, so as I
would make my own mark there. At that time, ballet flats were not "in"
yet in this good old country of ours, as oppose to now where you can
see ballet flats of all colors, designs and sizes. It was unusual and
unique. We were inseparable since then. I’d wear it with jeans, or with
a skirt, or with my pedal pushers, and even with my denim shorts. I’d
wear it in church, in school, in the malls, and in almost everywhere I
go. I love it from the first time I saw it until now, when the pair is
resting under my bed, its leather peeling and gathering dust.

Lesson
learned: As a friend eloquently said, you’ll never realize the
importance of something unless it is gone. In life, we have to value
and take care the people in our lives because we’ll never know when
they’ll be taken from us. I do not have any plans of discarding that
weathered pair, nor am I contemplating of giving it to charity or
something. I am going to keep it to remind me of the good old days.

The Extra Small Items
Two
years and several months ago, I used to weigh 20 pounds less of my
current weight. Ate Ely Zia, head of the Students’ Aid and Scholarships
Division, bluntly told me that I "scrimped." I did not care what other
people thought of me though, I started buying extra small blouses and
shirts, jeans and skirts. After one semester and a summer term,
however, I started pigging out with my friends and I ended up
ballooning to my size now. But for a long while I was hoping to fit
back into these clothes again, thanks to the false promises of diets.
Right now, these extra small clothes still hang in my closet, waiting
for me to "scrimp" again. Unfortunately, I am happy and content of my
body now so the first thing I would do when I go home is pack them for
my twelve and ten-year-old cousins.

Lesson learned: Like what
JLo’s character said in Monster In Law, dresses should be made to fit
our bodies, not our bodies being made to fit our dresses. Life,
similarly, has its own dressing up moments when we are forced to think
or act the way the society expects us to, or when we try to fit our
selves into the stereotypes society has made for us. Using the words of
the Miss Silliman candidate, our personalities should not be defined by
other people; we should define who we are.

The Barely Used Piece
It
was the December of 2003 and everybody in the School of Communication
was supposed to wear something semi-formal for the Christmas party. I
rushed to Marjorie’s (again!
don’t you think they should pay for advertorials here?hehe!), and found
this Chinese-inspired dark-brown sleeveless blouse in stretchable
cloth. It was nice and classy; I swear I was a hundred percent sure it
looked good against my dark-brown skin. But it was too dressy, too
sexy, too big for my bust area, etc.. I should, however, say I looked
good when I wore it hours after at the party but the thing is, I only
could wear that one on special occassions, on certain conditions.

Lesson
learned: Don’t force yourself into something that is not definitely
you. Don’t try too hard to get everything expensive-looking (for
things) and classy (for persons) because these may be dangerous to your
mind and soul.

The One That Got Away
It
was the perfect shade of green I have been looking for, it would have
gone well with my light green wedge sandals. It had the right amount of
embroidery. It was Bohemian-inspired, the kind of tops I have long
wanted in my closet. I reserved it for two days, but at the back of my
mind, little voices of doubts were whispering. It was not soo me. I
would not have the guts to wear it in school. I have just bought my
trench blouse then. At that time, Bohemian was not yet the keyword in
the Dumaguete fashion scene, should have I bought it, I would be among
the first Boho trendsetter here.

Lesson learned: There are just
times in our lives when we feel soo insecure of our selves, soo
inadequate, soo incomplete, that we think we are not worthy of the
privileges and opportunites before us. How many times have we ever said
this line: I am not good, I don’ t deserve this? Many. And through
these many times, we have wasted many chances. When in doubt, just do
it.

These are just my thoughts, folks. Do not judge me as a
person, just read what I have written. And if time comes you need to
de-stress yourself, just go shopping.

He may not have won but Raul Roco was my president.

Quoting Rep. Rolando Andaya Jr., he is the best president our country never had.

He was the man in my dreams; the knight in shining armour that would have saved the Philippines. His strong and unwavering principles ignited hope in my soul. His platform of hope rekindled the spirit of clean and orderly system in this usually dirty politics in our country.

Joker Arroyo said it best: He sought to combine his idealism with politics, a difficult combination, compromise being the hallmark of politics. He was uncompromising in his resistance to separate the two. That was his virtue as a true leader, his failing as a politician.

When he was the Secretary of Education under Arroyo’s administration, he was not scared to curb and expose the corruption of his own employees. He had a clean intention to correct what was wrong (and what is still wrong until now!), without the fear of being the "antagonist." This clean intention, however, was the main reason that toppled his post. Everybody who were involved in that nitty-gritty business hated him and painted him as the "bad one."

I could still remember the 2004 Presidential elections, the first elections my sister and I were to participate in. We were desperately campaigning for our man, Raul Roco. We believe in his Agenda of HOPE. We admire him for all the useful bills he had authored in Congress.

For our Broadcasting class, my friend and I made a radio documentary on Roco’s Anti Violence Against Women and Children Act (Anti-VAWC). In my Opinion writing class, I analyzed and lauded his platform of HOPE.

For me, and the rest of my family, he was the man who was going to save and pull our country from the pits. We knew that his motive in entering politics was not fueled by some sort of personal interests and agenda. The bills that he authored in Congress were geared towards the total development of our country, not just some show of politicking and gimmick.

It was a desperate campaign afterall. Most of my friends were rooting for GMA, saying that Roco will not win because he only had a few supporters. What poor logic those idiots have, my dad used to tell us. The main reason we should vote for him is to increase his chances. People were turning to GMA’s camp because they did not want an actor to run the country. My mom, a school teacher who admired Roco, would always tell us to stand firm. We should not settle for mediocrity, we should not settle for a liar like GMA, she would always say. If we want the best, we should vote for the best.

The whole summer was spent campaigning for Roco, me in my Yahoogroups affiliations, and my sister, in her powerful cellular phone, texting as many friends as she can. We would rejoice at people who would text us that they were also doing the same.

But I knew it was a desperate competition. Roco lack the machinery and the money. And then, the prostate cancer issue broke out. At one point, out of too much exasperation and desperation, I broke down to tears. I told my sister that, if I were a millionaire, I would support our presidential bet. I even attempted to make my own campaign materials, made from my art materials. Yup, that was how I badly wanted Roco to win.

Today, I am now left with fond memories of my man– Raul Roco in his signature Hawaiian shirt, waving, standing firm. The man with a principle. The man with a clear vision. Last August 5, he succumbed to cancer.

I am mourning the death of a man who meant a lot in my life. I am mourning the death of a man who could have been today’s President. I am mourning the death of my President. Good men die, but their names don’t.

My only consolation is this quote from Raul Roco from the Philippine Daily Inquirer: "There are two things to remember: I will not die on you and I will continue fighting. And if I die, I will continue fighting with your help. The Philippines needs a choice. We will be there," he said, adding:

"Tell it to the wind, I’m not quitting."

woke up late.
’tis raining hard. monday.
a rainy monday morning. empty streets.
empty stomach. emptiness eating me inside.

woke up on time.
creed blaring in my head. tuesday.
midterm exam tuesday. tons to study.
tons to memorize. two million thoughts in my mind.

danced the night away.
iced tea flowing. wednesday.
reggae nights wednesday. madness ’til midnight.
chatting ’til sunrise. me and my friends outside.

walked alone.
shadows rushing through. thursday.
bloopers thursday. tragic comedies.
painfully hilarious moments. killing me gently.

cried my heart out.
alone and miserable in my room. friday.
old blues friday. heartaches and pains.
feeling incomplete. desperation in my veins.

woke up early.
birds whispering in my sleep. saturday.
a beautiful saturday. no classes.
no assignments. just me and my messy bed.

travelled far.
cloudy but not rainy. sunday.
flea market sunday. bazaars and bargains.
unbelievable discounts. an old treasure turned new.

a lot like life.
something like life.

I woke up to the text message of my teacher demanding the articles we were supposed to send to her, which we already have sent last Friday. I was so mad that, through gritted teeth, i cursed her in six languages!

I’m tired of being the good girl everybody thinks I am. I am tired of being Ms.Goody Two Shoes, sugar and spice and everything nice. I am tired of being the poor girl, the automaton, the perpetual martyr, the friend who complains of nothing, the seatmate that shares her answer, the groupmate that does all the groupwork.

Give me a break.

Let me be a bitch once in a while. Let me whine and complain in this life. Let me swear, let me curse, let me be mean, cruel and nasty, because this is the real me! Let me shout, let me be numb and insensitive because really, right at this moment, I don’t give a freakin’ damn, not a bit of care, to what happens in the world. I don’t care about politics, about the environment, about entertainment, about women and children, human rights abuse and all because I am so damn tired of all of these! If people die, so be it.

I am tired of everybody who treats me like an automaton! I am tired of my teacher who thinks that I am Wonderwoman! I am tired of my org’s president who texted me, instructing me to go to Hibbard Hall and represent our org in an essay writing contest, thirty minutes before the contest time! Haler!

I am sick of all my friends who always get amazed at my nasty comments or at my lovelife whinings. Hala, masuko diay pud ka chabs? Naa diay pod kay heartbreaks? Hello! Mokaon ko, ma-amazed ka? I am human, I also have emotional feelings, I have a heart that feels. I get angry, I cry, I laugh, oh God how I love to laugh! I have temper tantrums so puh-leeze stop those amazed reactions because those are just normal feelings normal persons do. Even if I am not normal, I am still entitled to those, ain’t I?

I am tired of my boardmates’ deafening rendition of Nina’s Love Moves every early mornings and late at nights. Yeah, I know, love moves in mysterious ways, fine. Just don’t overdo it. Because really, I could not care less. So puhleeze, stop that music because I used to love it but now I’m hating it!

I am sick and tired but I don’t want to cry. Oh how I hate to cry. I’ve cried too much. I’ve cried my heart out. I’ve cried all the tears in my system. I don’t want to cry anymore.

I just want to bitch. And complain. And whine. Until it hurts too much I can bitch no more.

If my life was a big-screen thriller, it would be a hilariously tragic comedy.

Though it is filled and bursting with perfect moments–the small, simple, and oftentimes profound and emotional ones that I treasure so much, also piling up are the perfectly imperfect ones–those funny, amusing, temper-raising or sometimes baffling scenes, where I am caught between laughing or hitting myself, deeply mortified or embarrassed and seriously hating the world.

And these imperfect moments, or bloopers, as they are called, seem to take place when I least expect them. Or at least, as my latest assumption suggests, these events go with the weather, when the rainy chill seems to freeze my mind and prevents it from working properly. Or maybe, imperfect moments have something to do with the stars, so I better check my horoscope everyday. Whatever.

Take these:
I was just lounging around the KH lobby with my friends when my EL teacher last semester approached and talked to me. We started with the usual greetings and pleasantries and drifted towards the more complicated world of literature and writing. He asked about my article in Portal 05, I said I was not sure about it yet. Then, as if he had planned it all along, he asked about the "two million thoughts" that I have written in one of my compositions for his class and which, he asked me last summer, would be included in Sands and Corals. Yeah, what about that, I asked him. He then proceeded to tell me about this sci-fi tv program that I never heard, a prelude, he said, to a very simple but crucial question: Why two million? Why two million? I wondered aloud. It was just a coincidence, it just popped out in my mind. To this he replied, I want to psychoanalyze you! He then left me, saying something like there really is a psychological reason behind it and I should think it over.

I never thought he was serious about it but a few days after, I met him again along the aisle of the Science Complex. Hi sir, I called. He paused and looked at me. To break the awkward silence, I told him I have not found the answer yet. Just out of the blue, he told me, like a concerned friend would tell another friend who is hooked into drugs, "You need to have yourself psychoanalyzed." I wanted to laugh hard and tell him to get over it but the look on his face told me that he was indeed serious. Haha! So am I now Winona Ryder trying hard to make sense in this world? I don’t know whether I should laugh or be worried about it. In my dear lingo, I would have wanted to tell straight to his face: So mao na ni, Girl Interrupted ang concept! Now, I am left here wondering whether I should be worried or not.

One weekend ago, I would have gone home to my dear old Bohol to witness the famed Sandugo, only to find out the trip was already fully-booked. And then last weekend, I had to wait five more agonizing hours to get to Bohol since the trip schedules have changed, starting that day. Perfect, wasn’t it? The ticketing girl sweetly told me that they already have two schedules, one early in the morning which I had just missed, and the other, at three in the afternoon, which meant I had to get stuck in Dumaguete again! I could have sworn, bitched and cursed in five different languages but then again, I just laughed at myself! Now, that said, you are really thinking that I badly need a shrink!Oh well…

The next blooper is perhaps the wildest, the craziest and the funniest one so far. The setting was the famous Coco Amigos, perfectly accentuated with the chilly sea breeze from the Rizal Boulevard, and the spicy aroma of my favorite Mexican tacos. The unwilling audience was my friend, Anci, and I was pretty sure I freaked him out. The scene? Me incidentally chewing and swallowing a slice of red bell pepper or chili, desperately trying to ease the "soooo hot and spicy" effects by taking large gulps of iced tea. It was sooo hot I couldn’t help but cry. It hurt sooo much I laughed while crying. Really, I am pretty sure you’re calling a pschologist now.

I don’t have any idea how I looked but I have this squeezy feeling I looked really funny. Comical. I could have bagged the Best Actress Award for laughing while crying,or, if somebody was keen enough to take a video of that, uh, blooper, I am a hundred percent sure it will land in America’s funniest videos. Only that it did not happen in the US.  

I don’t want to jinx my own life but I think there are more of these bloopers coming up, especially now that the pressure of midterm exams is slowly eating me up, and the chill of the rainy days freezes my logic. I am just keeping my fingers crossed that whatever freakingly funny or embarrassing or mortifying happens to me, it will not include anything like me falling in the stairs of Guy Hall. This is the worst nightmare of my college life.