Two Million Thoughts

(Note: Originally entitled, What Could Have Been, the Weekly Sillimanian, August 10, 2005)

Think

Ma. Zusabel R. Digaum

Silver Lining

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

–Raul S. Roco

He may have been “the best president this country never had.” No doubt about it.

Former Senator Raul Roco, champion of women’s rights and causes, father of Central Bank, and an “honorary woman,” left many Filipinos speculating what could have beens and what could have nots if he were elected president of our dear old Philippines in the now-controversial 2004 elections.

He succumbed to heart failure due to complications of cancer Friday last week.

Messages have started flooding in, with many politicians describing his greatness and enumerating all the great deeds he had done. But one fact remains unchanged: our country has lost one of her great men. As the Philippine Daily Inquirer straightforwardly put it, “eulogies are wasted on the dead.”

Roco may not have been our president but he had served our country more satisfactorily than most of our so-called government leaders and traditional politicians have. He may not have reached full stardom status in Philippine politics but he had shown the greatest heights of true service and leadership. His electoral campaign may have lost its luster when his prostate cancer recurred, but he had offered us a platform of hope. He may be dead now but his death has left two choices: to continue plunging down and bask in hopelessness; or to start rising up and make ourselves our own hope, just as he had lived his life.

Somebody told me that we will never learn to appreciate the importance of certain persons and things in life unless they are gone. She found it ironic that most of us have only realized the greatness of Roco, now that he has departed. Maybe, she suggested her assumption, we deserve the leaders we have and the sorry state we are in because we were either too idiotic or too scared to make a difference. Roco was too good for us.

I share her sentiments. I could still remember the presidential elections of 2004, the first electoral process my sister and I were to participate in. Although there were a handful of people who were in favor of Raul Roco then, they were outnumbered by those who favored the other two leading presidential contenders. Later on, we learned that most of our friends and acquaintances had changed their presidential bets, to save, according to them, our country from the hands of an actor inexperienced in the affairs of the state. Upon learning this, my parents imparted us one of the best advices in our lives: stand firm, do not settle for mediocrity. If we want the best for our country, they said, we have to vote the best candidate. They were then referring to Raul Roco as the best candidate, and GMA as the mediocre one.

In that election, I learned one thing common in our culture: compromise. Whether at home, work, or in school, in the Senate or in Congress, and in the voting precincts, most of us are too scared to stand by the truth, to make our own position. We go with the flow. We like to think what the majority thinks. Either we’re too scared or too stupid to use our brains.

But Raul Roco chose to make a difference. He was not scared. He was not stupid. He did not compromise his principles to advance his position in the government or make a shortcut route to the presidency. His voice did not falter nor waver in any issue he decides to tackle.

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.

Conrado de Quiros described him this way: He was a decent politician in an occupation grown more indecent over the years, he was a principled lawyer in a country grown more lawless over the years, he was an honorable man in a world where honor sold more cheaply than DVDs in Quiapo.

Today, I am now left with fond memories of my man—Raul Roco, in his signature Hawaiian shirt, waving and standing firm—the man whose strong principles ignited hope in the youth; the man whose strong vision rekindled the spirit of honesty in the world of cheating politicians.

Too bad he is now gone. Too bad he could no longer lead us, when those who have turned deaf to him have now realized the truth of his voice.

But death is not the end of it all. We can forever wallow in what could have beens, what could have nots, and what ifs, and leave this great man’s soul desperate. His death is a painful lesson but we should learn from it.

Never compromise. Never settle for mediocrity. Think wisely. Always hope for the best. Idealism is what our country needs.

Ninoy Aquino said that we are worth dying for. Raul Roco asked for our help, even in his death. Are we going to wait for another great man to die to move us to help ourselves?

Think.

At first, I thought my life was jinxed. But after a few weeks of hibernation, observation, and silence, I have finally come to a sensible conclusion: the Filipino lives are jinxed. We all are jinxed.

I was at the Business and Finance Office just a few minutes ago, to inquire about my standing balance in this good old University of mine, given the fact that final exams are fast approaching and I need myself to get cleared and move out. Fast.

The man before me in the line was around 50 or 60 years old. I could say he was one of those living privileged above-average class, with his stature, clothes, and behaviour. He was talking to the cashier, telling her about his difficulties in life. He is paying the tuition fee of his middle daughter only, thank God, he said, that another relative has promised to pay for his youngest child. And then he complained how pitiful his oldest daughter has become. A magna cum laude in Silliman a few years ago, she was now teaching in a Montessori school, earning high, and processing her papers for the Ateneo Law School (which she got with a full scholarship). But she is now bed-ridden and hospitalized, a P200T bill waiting to be paid, because of a cancer in her thymus gland. She was, according to him, the hope of their family. They were counting on her.

And then I remembered the recent scandal in Philippine politics today: the administration paying P55million (around 1B dollar) to a US firm to help research and fund the Constitutional Change. I wish Gloria Macapagal Arroyo is the one bedridden in the hospital right now, her chance of living zero, and not a bright, young lady whose family’s future depending on her. (And the country’s too, assuming she is one of those idealistic workers we need.) I wish it was her family having to pay a P200T bill in the hospital (the more, the better), and not a middle class man who have been paying his taxes dutifully. There is something really wrong in our political scene. As Conrado de Quiros wrote, "Today, there is only one thing left we are not afraid of. We are not afraid to stoop lower and lower."

We have a president willing to pay millions of pesos to a US firm, while all her Cabinet members are shouting budget deficit. Okay, they said, there were donors willing to pay for the amount. Who are they? What makes them more willing to donate to a useless cause when there are lots of Filipinos dying of hunger everyday?

Springzeal wrote about her friend willing to be a political assassin. At first, I thought it was too exaggerated. But as I think of it now, I would be more than willing to kill Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, Mike Defensor, and all her "political puppies" even with no payment at all.

People are saying that we are better off with a cheating President than exposing the truth and hurting the economy! We have congressmen compromising and killing the impeachment trial, just to save our country. BOooHoo! People living in lies will never succeed.

I’d rather have the truth come out, no matter how expensive the price is. I’d rather suffer in my economic needs, rather than suffer in moral degradation. I’d rather see the Filipinos writhing in pain, than see them artificially happy, only a privileged few basking in their victory.

I’d rather see ourselves suffering the worst, than see what we are in now–suffering the not-so-worse, our future not clear. It would be better if all of us will suffer so we will learn our lessons hard. The truth shall prevail, the truth will set us free.

Unless this happens, we will forever be jinxed.

Actually, the game has begun, she told herself. And I am the master of it.

It has started the day they have tried outsmarting her. It has started the day the world turned its back on her. It has started the day she had lost everything and had vowed to get everything again.

Oh shameless fools, what did you think I was doing? You were all stupid enough to realize I was planning my game the moment you reveled in your victory! Hah! She has played these lines countless times in her head, mocking her foolish "friends," spiting them through gritted teeth. It has been six years but the pain is etched eternally in her mind and soul.

Her cheek was so flushed with anger and she felt a fiery rage rising through her.  Six years. Six years have passed already. But the moment the thought crosses her mind, and the moment the pain fills her heart, she can’t control the pain. Whew, you must have done something very, very wrong to make me feel this way, she whispered, trying to catch a few breaths of air to calm down.

"That was really a brave thing to do," a dusky voice resurfaced, whether from her own mind or not, she was not sure. Or was it her conscience?

I never thought you sound like Bamboo you bitch! She started to smile at herself, feeling the same soon-to-claim-my-victory state again. She coughed, and wondered whether she should see her doctor after work. Her cough has been bugging her for months now but she always dismiss it as something not to worry about. Afterall, she is maintaining a good diet, exercising, and feeling great everyday. But the thought of her own conscience, (Or, was that my inner voice?), having the same husky voice of her favorite rock band singer freaks her out. She vowed to make adjustments in her schedule to make room for a doctor’s appointment.

"This is the story of a girl, who cried a river and drowned the whole world…"

The Girl
It was an ordinary day. Monday. An uneventful Monday morning. Predictable. Routinary. She was lazily playing with her breakfast of poached eggs and garlic toast, cutting, half-chopping the food with her fork, not eating anything.

The waitress arrived with a silver tray, a china pot, saucer, and cup, with the diner’s initials tastefully carved in gold. She set the cup and saucer down, and poured a dark-black liquid. She smiled to her and told her "Bon appetit!"

And she nodded. She heard the words but did not listen. She watched the young girl leave without seeing her. She admired the old china set, examined the cup, touched its  classy surface, not feeling any bit of its delicateness.  She finally took a sip, letting the hot liquid glide through her throat, without tasting it.

She sat up straight and she was suddenly transported back to her real world. Looking incredulously at the liquid she had sipped, she silently whispered, quite unbelievably, her cute, angular face distorted. "Coffee?" Her eyes couldn’t believe what she saw! Her tongue couldn’t take what she has just sipped. She wanted to puke. She wanted to suck off all the coffee she has taken!

She stormed to the cashier’s place, not minding the queue of early office customers glaring at her. "Do you mind checking my orders, pleeaaaassse," she sweetly asked, emphasizing the last word sarcastically. The cashier, a fat lady, stared at her with a blank face.

"Miss, I don’t care if you’re stupid. I just want you to check my orders, because–" she paused dramatically, "obviously, you have given me a cup of coffee, INSTEAD OF MY ORDER OF HOT CHOCOLATE!" With that, she slammed the cup and saucer down, the hot, black liquid spilling all over the cashier’s desk, the shattered china flying all over the place.

The customer standing right next to the desk gasped in awe, and looked at her in disbelief. She raised her eyebrow at her, turned her back, mumbled something, went back to her table, cursed the diner, gathered her things, cursed the diner some more, walked to the front door, swore, and paused, "Have a great day everyone," she announced, rolling her eyes, and mocking a smile.

The rush of cool air from the outside enveloped her. She embraced herself, and rubbed her shoulders. Her hot pink outfit has made her a stand-out in the streets of gray and brown. She was wearing her hot-pink wraparound blouse with butterfly sleeves, her slim-fit faded jeans, and her new hot-pink Naturalizer pumps, which she got for a 50% discount. Completing her outfit and giving a contrast are her bubblegum blue bag and leather wristband.

She didn’t wear a timepiece. She never did. Her only source of time information is her Nokia 6600 cellphone which is tucked securely in her bag.

She was back in a daze again when she boarded the train. It’s amazing how my feet can bring me to where I should go, without my mind telling them where to, she would always tell her friends at work. Her feet do the walking, while she wanders off to her fiery thoughts, to the Bahamas, to heaven, or sometimes, to hell.  Today, she found herself seated in  between two couples, each of them  openly showing their affections to each other. Talk about PDA, she told herself. Then she went  back to her hazy thoughts again.

She has always been entertained with couples doing the PDA thing. Amazed. Astonished. Bewildered. She used to be shocked by the number of couples doing it in public areas, but now she is used to it.

I just couldn’t understand why they do it, she told herself in another one of those monologues she has with her brain. I mean, I can’t understand why the girl can allow things like that to happen. But then, they must be crazy in love with each other, they couldn’t care less what other people say.

And she realized that she should stop. She should stop rationalizing things because there is no point in doing so. She’s always been like that–analyzing and overanalyzing every single thing until her mind and her heart feels numb of doing all the analyzing. Oftentimes, she would find herself debating with friends, and even with herself, on certain things about life, mundane or profound, small or big, ordinary or extraordinary. Sometimes, she would joke about being a computer analyst, instead of being an events coordinator and part-time photographer that she is right now.

There are some political issues in her mind right now. One of them is feminism. Yeah, she is a hardcore feminist and she is so passionate about it. But she is not a member of any feminist group, thank you very much. Her hardcore stand on women’s rights has never stopped her from wearing sexy dresses and loud accessories. In fact, her being a feminist allowed her to discover more of herself, flaunt her assets, and hide her inadequacies. Oh, she does not hate guys. In fact, she likes them. And they adore her. In fact, she changes boyfriend just as she changes her mind. Her battlecry? I am a girl, I am entitled to change my mind. Fight!

It’s not that she is not serious about love. No, she is damn serious about it. But she believes that her true love resides in the wilderness of Africa and the only chance she could meet him is the time when she will finally sign-up in the volunteer literacy program of her friend’s NGO.

But this volunteerism and true love should wait. For months. Maybe. For years? Perhaps. Because she has some other plans in her mind. The game. The game that she designs, where every word of hers is the rule.

She couldn’t wait for the game to begin.

I promised myself I would never ever swear or curse in any language. I promised myself to be rational and logical, even under emotional pressure. I promised to control my emotions, to let my brain be in control of my heart. I promised never to use any centavo from my allowance for my internet pleasure(specifically, blogging). I promised to minimize eating anything sweet to just once a week. I promised not to complain, nor to bitch, nor to whine. I promised to be my good old self again– sugar and spice and everything nice. I promised never to let my emotional outbursts or temper tantrums ruin my day.

Unfortunately, today is the day when all these promises was broken. It is not an emotional outburst or a temper tantrum that ruined my day. It’s the stupid letter A.

I was walking, hungry and exhausted from the JBEST seminar at the Luce Auditorium (where I was able to wear my old and faded Banana Peel* slippers), when I saw this week’s copy of the Weekly Sillimanian. Since my column was to come out, I checked it out, only to find out that the title has been murdered!

I have long wanted to write an article with the title "Beauty and the Best", a thought which came out in one of my Eureka moments of writing,when from just out of nowhere, something nice and witty worthy of publication would find place in my mind. I finally found the perfect moment this week, right after the famed Miss Silliman pageant. I wanted to tell to the Silliman community that being Miss Silliman is not just about physical beauty, but being the best that one can be in whatever she does. More importantly, I wanted to stress that the crown should not unleash the beast in the candidates or the winner but should bring out the best in her. (You will understand more of this if you will read my previous post, the original copy and the unedited version of my column this week.)

But, unfortunately, somebody changed the title, and put an extra letter "a" to the word ‘best’, making it "beast." Yeah, right. Why would I use a fairy tale title in my column when I even told somebody that I don’t like my article to be cliche-ish? What’s the point of saying everything I said there when the title defeats my purpose? How stupid can I get in writing a title as "Beauty and the beast" when I talked about being the best? And the worst of it all, what’s the point of those Eureka moments when everything now is illogical and insensible?

Really, how unlucky can I get? I’m jinxed, alright, in my social and interpersonal life, but I never thought the curse would come in my writing life, a passion I have hold so dear since my 2nd grade!

And this incident had to happen just when I thought I was ready to go to the real world and write. It had to happen when my professor in German 11, who happens to be the adviser of the schoolpaper, praised my column in front of the class yesterday!

I should have listened to Magenta when she said that I am better off without the Weekly Sillimanian. I don’t have to suffer this intolerable agony and embarrassment.

I can only talk to Magenta and to my sister about this because I am pretty sure that most of my so-called friends would just tell me to chill out. It’s just the title, no big deal–this they would surely say. It’s just a letter, they would tell me and would just casually brush aside the topic.

They will never understand how this means to me. They will never understand how a stupid letter can change the whole meaning of a word, a paragraph, a sentence or a composition. They will never grasp the idea that the letter ‘a’ has just ruined my journalistic future, thank you very much. They will never understand that in the world of writing, a simple letter, or a punctuation, can alter the meaning of something, and consequently, can alter the life of the one who wrote it.

I am doomed. And mortified. Tomorrow, I will go to school with a new role–a laughing stock. Everybody will be laughing at me, will be talking behind my back,etc, just for a mistake I never committed.

I have always been meticulous in everything I do, most especially in the articles that I write, to the point of being obsessive-compulsive. I spend countless sleepless nights, I skip meals, I use my extra money, just to check, and double check, and even triple-check, and make sure everything I write is perfect, or close to being one. I sacrifice tutorial sessions, family outings, and my own health to produce a decent article.

And the letter ‘a’ just ruined my writing life.

If only killing is not a crime, I would have killed myself the moment I saw my "murdered" article.